YAY REQUESTS ARE OPEN
can i please request risotto x doctor reader that works for passione? fem or gn
reader is usually cool and collected, even in very stressful situations, but ends up freaking out, hands shaking, crying when she sees the condition risotto is in after his battle with doppio. in this scenario risotto survives ofc, she manages to save his life, and they have an emotional moment, because they had feelings for each other for the longest time, but due to work and having to stay professional, they both kinda went: nah it's never gonna happen BUT NOW ITS HAPPENING SCREW CANON EVENTS I LOVE THIS MAN SM I NEED HIM ALIVE AND WELL
thanks a bunch maestro ur the goat!!!
✃𓄧꒷꒦🩸 “I’ll Keep You From Sinking (Will You Keep Me Too?)” Risotto Nero x Gen Reader ✃𓄧꒷꒦🩸
ദ്ദി •⩊• ) AAAAAAAA I love rice man so much you have no idea but i want him to be written accurately which is so hard ;-; i looooove men who dont say anything. Also yes I have an “everyone survived” AU for one of my OC stories so I am ALWAYS game for changing the narrative esp when it comes to my favorites, I love love love Risotto
I hope you don’t mind I added a Stand! Please enjoy x
Notes: gore, mentions of violence, medical themes, La Squadra survives because I said so
Stand: Fade Into You
Ability: Can meld together anything it wraps itself around, has tiny thread like tendrils. Strong pieces can be removed from the user at the cost of body parts that will have the same strength as the main body.
Before it comes out, you must retrieve as much shrapnel as you can.
If the flesh seals around a scrap it can cause lifetime complications. Migraines. Mood issues if it’s lodged in the brain. Hands move without a thought behind them, forceps pinching tiny pieces of metal and retracting from flesh that’s bloody, too bloody, where the wounds end and flesh begins starts to blur, he’s absolutely shredded--
He will die if you don’t keep going. You can prevent that.
Right. Right. That’s what you can do. You take a shaky breath, shaking your head and returning your hand to his torso. Listen to the EKG. Slow, steady beeps remind you; he’s alive. He’s still… alive. There’s brain and heart activity, right there. And this is your job. Your damn job.
And he isn’t gone yet.
He can’t be.
Nero’s limp form is stretched on the makeshift silver operating table, your colleague opposite you with their own tools diving into the muscles riddled with bullet holes. Sterile light makes him pale, peaked, eyes closed and an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Blood cakes his hair, staining the white a deep crimson. His brows were finally relaxed. Why was this the first time… Why?
It had been a nightmare getting his clothes off, your hands shaking so badly you nearly nicked him twice as you cut the fabric away. It was difficult to discern any body at all. Fabric melting into flesh. Many fibers of his cotton coat clung to the bullets that you retrieved. That he was even alive….
He won’t be if you can’t fucking stay focused.
You can feel the glances your coworker gives you as you make yourself treat him like any other patient and silently drop tiny bits of metal onto the folding table’s dish. That, and the wandering gaze down to your non dominant hand, where your ring and index fingers were strangely stiff, bending just enough to look human, but not clenching very well on the long swab you use to daub the blood out of the way.
She really shouldn’t have been in today. Priscilla had walked in when you were already thirty minutes into picking apart the goddamn Assassination team captain and, without a word, gloved up, masked up, and started tearing through the shabby cabinet you called your medical supplies stash for forceps, cotton, and a scalpel.
Beep. Beep.
His breathing is quiet, fogging the mask just slightly at his lips. Eyes twitch under the lids, a movement that makes your heart squeeze-- surely he couldn’t feel anything, right? Silently you apologize to him. Sweat beads your brow as you wrench a twisted piece of metal from the muscle fibers, wincing. Gods. Whatever he wanted as a meal after this, you’d pay for it.
You’d pay for anything he wanted, after this. He just… he just had to make it to after this.
Minute silver beads wiggle weakly in the blood droplets. You can barely make out a little black face with a woeful expression, focusing on you. You hold the eye contact. Just for a moment.
-
“Do they have their own emotions?”
The man raised a brow. On your gloved hand, in the small drop of blood, a few silvery figures wiggled and almost hummed with energy, leaning towards their user like they were literally magnetized to him— or like they were sheep to a shepherd.
Briefly, you imagined Risotto holding a shepherd’s staff, Metallica clinging to it.
You smiled faintly. Cute. What a cute Stand, whose devastation potential had ended many a life.
Fade Into You leaned over your shoulder, skin like a spool of multicolor thread, with its gaze on the tiny drops of metal.
The man’s red irises followed the Stand carefully. The sling cradled his right arm in front of him, a shabby thing that was really supposed to be thrown out of the hospital it was stolen from. Though he didn’t whine or shout like some did, it could be jarring to have your broken arm so quickly stuck back together, like it was glueing a plate back together, and it was nice to not have to drag out the bottle of whiskey. The most emotion you’d gotten out of him was gritted teeth.
You answered your own question. “I suppose that might be a lot to handle. Some Stands already have enough personality with one brain. Er…” Would that be correct? You wondered. Well, close enough. Boss wasn’t paying you to heal Stands. “Sure, lets call it a brain.”
“Conscioussness?” He asked. You shrugged.
“That’s probably a better word.”
He inclined his head, as if considering you. Then, he slid off the bed.
Good god he was tall. Well, probably not that tall, but the others who made it to your table weren’t nearly as imposing— even without being particularly broad, you think, noting a slight bit of swelling where the humerus had snapped.
He’d better ice that. Pretty impressive that someone managed such a brutal hit on him. Thankfully he was honest about it being a bad break. His Stand could cover a lot of the team’s superficial injuries, but you filled the gaps. Bones, concussions, diseases that seemed to go beyond a hangover or a cold.
Damn man was devilishly handsome, too... Too often you’d found your mind wandering to him and how he and his men were doing while sipping tea in the morning before your first client of the day; likely some new kid who didn’t understand that a Stand didn’t mean they were invincible, especially if they had no combat sense in the damn first place. Dark sclera, grey lashes and pale hair, often clad in black that clung to his lean muscle. Olive skin that was cool to the touch, even in the summer.
And you couldn’t get a damn bead on him to save your life. Case in point: he completely avoided your question, and his eyes were still completely glued to your Stand. You tilted your head at him.
“Were you curious about something?” You asked.
“Your Stand. It can’t penetrate the skin.”
For who he was, it made sense. Couldn’t help the little bit of disappointment you felt; You shook your head. “When wrapped up like that, it can land a dull punch, but it isn’t sharp,” you explained.
“Mm.” He looked at his sling again.
“You can take that off after a few days. You just ought to let your arm rest for a moment, ice it plenty, and you’ll be right as rain,” you reassured him, and tossed the slightly bloody cotton and paper covering the tray into the trash bin in the corner. “It was very clean. No fragments to pick out. Sometimes car doors can shatter bones, and I don’t like fishing for the pieces.”
Still quiet. His gaze roamed over your hands, and instinctively, your fists clenched.
“Did you have any other concerns at this time? Everyone doing okay?” You strove to keep your voice casual.
Risotto nodded.
“Illuso’s allergy season is coming up, right? Keeping Formaggio away from too much alcohol?”
His eyes flickered. Slowly, he nodded again, eyes narrowing, more curious than irritated. You smiled.
“It’s my job to know, Risotto. Please don’t read into it.”
“You see lots of patients, don’t you? It would be rather impressive if you memorized all of them,” he retaliated, without any malice.
“Well…” You hesitated, before continuing. “If I’m right, I’ve worked with your group for the longest period.”
“Is that so?”
You nodded, and slipped off the used gloves to toss as well. “I’ve bounced around quite a bit, but I’ve been assigned here particularly long. Your group has the most members in the area, and due to the variety of chronic health issues, I’ve seen them a bit.”
He didn’t reply to that. But his brow twitched, and Metallica wiggled towards him. You watched the Stand leap in a weirdly liquid-smooth way onto their user, melting into the skin. That was interesting. So his Stand could casually raise from his body like that and reabsorb? Could he do that to others?
Even with your position, though, you felt you’d pried enough. It was weirdly rude to demand details like that-- like asking about his sex life, even though technically that would have bearing--
Shut up. Move on. And definitely don’t show how the blood warmed your face.
“Not just here. Outside,” you remarked, leaning against the wall. It was cold; the office was in a stone walled basement, secure, hidden under a pawn business that the gang also ran and only accessible by a secret entrance you, Priscilla, and the local members knew. Occasionally merchandise that was ultimately worthless could get handed off to you and other doctors, items left in antique drawers and suitcases. You’d found a few things to hang in your apartment, to listen to-- nothing of help for the clinic.
Exaggerated term for the space, really.
It got dank and muggy in the summer unless you brought in the standing fan, and could be downright freezing in the winter without the portable heater. Over and over you’d hinted at a better location— one that, you know, didn’t potentially expose sick patients to conditions that would worsen their state. At any complaint, however, you were met with cold, tense faces. It was clear.
Don’t bitch about it, unless you really want a reason to complain.
“Picking up groceries and the like. Might have seen Formaggio at a few bars, and that’s why I say so.” You hesitated; maybe it wasn’t your place, but— “Actually… a little more than usual, over the past year or change,” you said.
His expression tightened. You raised your hands in surrender.
“I’m not implying anything. Only doing my due diligence-- if I was there to see him, you can guess what I was also doing.”
Realistically you had already run out of your chances to get any information from him. Asking him directly seemed, ironically, the worst option, given how well it had gone the last few times.
But… you couldn’t help it. It felt like a veil had settled over your favorite patients, something you couldn’t get through. Your hand hovered around his arm; Fade Into You’s was settled on your wrist.
You smiled. “I hope saying it as a colleague, too, is not a bad thing.”
Silence. He stood there, not saying a word, merely looking over you again. Perhaps you said too much. Who could blame you for trying to fill the space, though?
As you opened your mouth— without an idea, really, of how to continue this— he declined his head.
“I appreciate… your concern,” he said. His voice still possessed that emotionless rigidity, and yet how quietly he said it made it feel strangely intimate. Enough to warm your face. Your lips snapped shut.
“But you might not see us much longer.”
“What?”
Your eyes widened on him. But his mind was clearly somewhere else, while he strode towards the door. As you reached out, in the corner of your vision, you caught onto something thin and brightly hued.
Fade Into You’s strand trembled in the air, behind his shoulder. He stopped with his hand on the knob.
Shit. What could you say? “Much longer”-- what did that mean? Were they going on a suicide mission? What could the Boss… he…
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Damn the Boss. Stingy fuck who couldn’t care less for the condition of his men, like plastic toy soldiers-- how many had gone on your table too late? How many had come back from missions that were far more dangerous than what had been told to them? How many mothers and fathers had you seen… walking in the street, weeping for their son, wondering how, why would someone kill their boy?
And… had the Boss given some similar sentence to them?
“Don’t do anything I can’t bring you back from. That’s not a lot, but--”
“You shouldn’t ask me to make promises in my line of work,” Risotto interrupted.
You raised a brow at him. He looked back at you, impassive, yet you couldn’t help the twinge in your chest.
Damn it all.
“I’m not putting your name on a body bag. Or any of your men’s.” your fist clenched. “At least wait until I have a real shop. Somewhere I don’t feel bad about you dying in.”
His eyes flickered. For a moment, your chest lightened. Had you gotten through to him?
But you couldn’t get a word out, before he replied again, even quieter than before.
“If I had it my way, that is how I’d see the end too.”
Blood rushed to your ears, your head. The end? No, no. You’d kill the Boss yourself. At this rate, even with your meager ability, you would torture him to the brink if he… he couldn’t…
Not them. Please.
“In the meantime, then--”
Your gaze snapped to your Stand. As if you had planned all along, you exhaled, and placed the clean cotton on the thing into your mouth to bite, taking one more deep inhale. This would be the worst.
His brow furrowed.
“W--”
Then, Fade Into You rapidly unraveled the thread of its--and your-- index and ring fingers.
With a hissing screech you ground your teeth into the clean fiber of the bandage as the flesh and bone disappeared, turning to shimmering rainbow thread. Shit. God damn, maybe you’d have to stop complaining about how big of babies the guys who came in without fingers were. Breathe. Breathe. Shock would keep you from feeling too much, you needed to ride it.
You inhaled deeply through your nose and relaxed your jaw. The cloth fell out. Risotto didn’t say anything for a second, before exhaling the word, awestruck.
“You…”
“Don’t.” you commanded. If he commented, you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about the pain, and you needed to cauterize the wounds soon. Chest heaving, you silently demanded Fade Into You to unravel the thread of its lost fingers further, until it was two long strands that it snapped apart into smaller pieces.
One, two, three… nine. That covered everyone. Each one floated in front of the black-clad man whose face had finally shifted just a bit: shock widening his eyes almost imperceptibly.
Your hand scrabbled for the rest of the clean bandage on the table, and pressed it to your bleeding stumps.
Get it together.
Swallowing, you met his eyes calmly.
“Keep a strand with you and tell each of them to do it too. Consider it an on-site quick fix. Or something to keep you from death, just on the brink. Bones, muscles, blood vessels, skin. Keep your intent clear, and you should be able to prevent life-threatening injury.”
Risotto eyed each one, then, plucked each one out of the air and clasped them. It tightened just a hair more than it probably needed to.
“I can tell something serious is on your mind. I don’t need you to tell me about it. But I would prefer you come back alive from it.” Blood started to seep through the cloth around your hand, wet, the smell of copper drifting towards your nostrils. Fade Into You couldn’t fix your own wounds, and you were now painfully aware of it. “So go do it.”
He observed you, the iridescent strands of your Stand twitching in his fist.
Then, suddenly, the flow of blood down your hand stopped-- rather, the pulsing seemed to stop, the pain down to a dull throb. Curious, you blinked and pulled back the cloth.
From the little stumps you had ripped your finger down to, grew mechanical, stiff little fingers that looked just the same as real ones, save the gears and hinges.
How the…
Impressed, your ears growing hot, you admired them. You couldn’t manipulate them at all, but they bent and held their shape when you moved them with your other hand. Absorbed in them, you barely heard the door open.
“Save the self sacrifice.”
-
The scent of antiseptic and metal. Cold, sterile air. The lingering of your Stand: you’d felt it the second that Formaggio had shown up with the half dead body, dropping your coffee cup and practically heaving the body off of him without another thought.
Fade Into You was looped around his brain, lungs and heart, its power just enough to keep the organs from tearing with any more movement and repair some of the little tears. It did exactly what you told him… what you said…
Clink. Clink. You set a few more scraps in the dish. Down to his shins, which were really superficial… almost done. Almost
Your eyes begin to blur. How long had you been here? It would be as long as you needed. You were a professional, damn it.
But how many times… your shoulders shake. How many times in the last week had you said that…?
Over, and over. The dread had sunken in that you were right all along: that the Boss was done with them now.
Formaggio. Illuso. Prosciutto. Pesci. Melone. Ghiaccio.
All coming back to you, like you had recalled your Stand, in varying states of injury. Melone’s tongue had been cut off to end the spread of some kind of poison. Ghiaccio’s throat was completely stabbed through. Illuso half dissolved, Formaggio shredded, Prosciutto missing an arm, and Pesci… You didn’t sleep for thirty six hours, hands cramping by the end of it, while Prosciutto sat in the corner, eyes locked on the pieces of his junior that had only just managed to link together at the important parts. It seemed Risotto had given him three pieces of the Stand-- where had Sorbet and Gelato…?
“The boss,” Prosciutto rasped, accepting the cup of coffee you gave him right before slumping against the wall, heaving deep breaths and trying to steady yourself. “Did… they tell you?”
Nodding, you rubbed your temple. God, if you could have a cigarette, or something to relax, you would, but there wasn’t time.
“It’s not… smart to stay at the same hotel as them. I’ll find another one…”
“I can do it. Focus on your own task.” his voice went strangely soft. “Maybe… rest.”
“At this rate, I won’t… I need to be ready. Melone and Ghiaccio… don’t tell me…”
Your muscles trembled with exhaustion as you sat down. Eyes fluttering shut, you pinched your thigh to keep yourself awake. You had to hear what he was saying.
“They’ll handle it. If not, Risotto.”
That was a shot of adrenaline. Your eyes shot open as you looked at the blond man: upper torso bare and wrapped in bandages. Strands of Fade Into You slowly wove into the stump of his arm slowly, melting into flesh bit by bit. His gaze was still firmly focused on the body of his partner on the table; Pesci’s chest rising and falling steadily, as your Stand held its hands over him and threads of it steadily sewed between the pieces of his body.
“What?”
“He’s meeting them in Sardinia.” He said it through gritted teeth.
If it were possible, your heart froze over.
“Ris…Risotto is going after them…?” Your voice cracked.
His eye roamed to you. Tired, wary, and yet, determined. “He will do it. We have to believe he will.”
Believe? What would believing… What could it do against an entire team? Against the Boss? Even though you had seen the power of his Stand, it couldn’t… you…
Nausea, hysteria, the damn fatigue-- it all threatened to bend you in half and upend what meager food you’d been able to make yourself consume while you worked on the entire team. You swallowed it. Careful. You had to be careful. Your mind raced.
“Fade Into You…”
The Stand made a soft shhk noise, like snapping fabric. It faded away, retracting back into you, leaving threads of itself still building up Pesci’s lost flesh. Your head tilted back.
“Wake me in two hours, please… if you need to lay down, there’s the patient bed in the back, more coffee, water, a little… some leftovers, I think, in the fridge. Only let Priscilla in. Say there’s a contagious disease outbreak if anyone else comes to the door.”
“Understood.”
As you started to slip into unconsciousness, you heard the blond man’s breath crack when he tried to take a deep breath.
“Use your Stand, now.”
Finally. Finally. Your body feels like it’ll fall apart, shaking, exhausted, and it can’t do that now. You’re that close to the finish line.
Carefully, you drop the forceps on the dish and Fade Into You instantly starts to slide its thin threads down Risotto’s body: Despite how bad the wounds looked, ultimately, they could be brought back together. Even the ones in his head, because of the thread you gave to him. They would be-- and this close, you didn’t need to chop off any more fingers. Priscilla sighs.
“You… you’re really something else,” she murmurs, shaking her head. Her Stand was far more specialized, better for diseases-- you didn’t see it nearly as much as yours. And even now, its shimmery purple form didn’t appear behind her.
“You should leave.”
“Huh?” her brow furrows. With one hand she gestures up and down towards you, saying, “I should leave?”
“Listen,” you command, putting as much energy into it as you have remaining. She blinks.
“Thank you for helping. For being a good colleague too. Don’t read into this too much, but I need you to pretend you only stuck to treating the other squads this last week, that you haven’t seen the Assassination team since… fuck, I think it was… It was Risotto’s broken arm.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. Your voice shakes as you continue.
“There was an infectious disease in my ward. I’m quarantining at my house until I’m sure it’s safe.”
“Y/N…” The tremble in Priscilla’s voice begins to match yours, her eyes widening and hands pulling back from Risotto’s torso.
A rattling breath leaves his chest. Both of your gazes snap to it before you force yourself to look back at her.
“I want you to be safe. So to do that, please forget everything we’ve just done. Okay?”
There’s a pause. She steps back from the table, slow, and pulls off her gloves. She nods.
“I’m… going home for the day. There’s no more patients.”
You nod. Her eyes shine.
“You… be careful, okay? There’s a lot of contagions around here… one of those… lowlife newbies brought it in…”
You nod again. She backs towards the door without another word, still glancing towards the still form on the table. Her last look at you is desperate, worried: Are you really doing this?
Your eyes lock onto your Stand. It stays steady, over the top of his torso, slipping between his flesh. It would work. It would.
The coffeemaker beeps with another pot. You stride over to it for another cup.
“Keep this with us?”
“...don’t mean…”
“They already consider you a pathetic enemy.”
Why… why was there still pain…?
“....died with honor.”
So clearly, he had heard that. But then, what should have followed was the passage into the dark: death. And where he deserved after.
Hell shouldn’t have clean cotton sheets. It shouldn’t smell like coffee, maybe metal, but not bergamot or lavender. You shouldn’t be wrapped in bandages.
And there absolutely should not be the sound of someone snoring.
Risotto’s eyes shoot open.
The room is airy and personal: posters, framed photographs are hung with the hope of covering just enough stains on the wallpaper, but he can barely catch the corners that aren’t covered. Floor length sage green curtains let in plenty of light even without the large ceiling lamp. Soft music plays from a boombox in the corner. Clothes, coffee cups, notebooks are scattered around the bed. It’s not his, and not a hospital one’s either, thin, and covered in cutely patterned sheets. And next to it:
His heart skips.
The soft flesh of your cheek bunches against your arms, folded, on top of his shin. Behind you he sees a bloody labcoat. But you’re dressed in casual, clean clothes, the weight of spring attire. Hair disheveled, the space below your eyes carved out and shadowed, how soundly you laid on top of him speaking to your exhaustion.
He’d seen it, just… not on you.
“Is Ghiaccio’s rib acting up?”
“You ever try the local honey? Bully Illuso into trying it so he doesn’t suffer as much in the spring.”
“Would you ever try it? I mean, it’s good for the iron levels.”
His heart thuds. That was a miracle. He felt himself start to die, there was no way that he… he couldn’t have made it back to you. It was more than he deserved. To see you again….
Presence like an anchor. The moment he couldn’t do something, you could.
The first time he met you, bringing a pissed off Illuso in for a check up when he hadn’t stopped sneezing for three damn days; you looked at each of them plainly, and told him to go to an allergist and not waste your time.
Then, Melone’s broken wrist.
Formaggio’s flu.
Rarely had he needed to go. But at any instance, there you were: calm, composed, sweet as could be-- how could you have gotten brought into all of this? He’d never gotten to ask.
And now, you were entangled far worse than he would have ever wished. Sleeping on his leg like a cat in a sun spot.
Every muscle of his is sore. No blood on any of his bandages, but there’s ice packs half-melted looped in with them around the muscles-- there’s one that slips down his head, as he winces. Damn.
“Mm…” you stir on his leg. He seizes.
One eye cracks open, and rolls over to him. Then it widens.
“Y-you’re awake….”
You sit up a little harshly. But the sting of your muscles is negligible, hell, you could probably get shot in the thigh and not feel it, the pure emotion that floods you the second you see him sit up could make you cry, laugh, or throw up. And, somehow, you swallow it all. With a trembling hand you reach up towards his jaw.
“Risotto…”
“Alive… tell me.” Voice pleading. The most terrified you’ve heard it. “How many of them.”
“All of them,” you reply firmly. As firm as it could be, given the circumstances. But gods, you’re tired and he knows it.
His fist shakes on the blanket.
“I shouldn’t—“
“Don’t say it. Don’t waste my work.”
The man’s eyes meet yours. As they do, you let yourself do it— and place your hand on his cheek.
He stiffens for a second. The skin is cool, smooth, save for the patches Fade Into You scarred over. Your eyes well up.
“Did… did you do what you sought to do?”
“Not at all.”
And with that, his shoulders crumple, and he slumps forward. Panicking, you loop your arms around him and use your weight to gently press him back-- shit, this wasn’t good for his muscles, he was getting too stressed too quickly.
“Lay back down, it’s okay—“
“I need to leave.”
“We both do.”
Still beautiful, how is he still beautiful like this? Were you a bad person for still thinking that right now, even when he was in recovery? Hair crumpled, whitish pink scarring across his cheeks. Lips heart shaped, pressed together in thought. Red eyes on you like a sniper dot.
“And don’t you dare feel guilty. I chose this. All your men did too.” Your voice tapers towards the end. Take a deep breath. Don’t let it show. Don’t… you can’t keep the tears away when you say, “I’d rather lose all my fingers than have you die on my watch. Okay?”
Risotto eyes you for a moment before cupping your cheek, his hand surprisingly soft, a finger brushing away a stray teardrop.
“I’ll do everything so you don’t have to.”
With that, it’s as though the bubble has burst. You’re careful, but still, you collapse, laying your head on his chest, taking gasping, desperate breaths to try to quell the trembling of your body. Crying, clutching to him, listening intently to that heartbeat that you had protected. Alive. He was alive.
His hand rests on the back of your neck. Gentle pressure, careful, full of all the emotion he couldn’t say.
Outside, a songbird cries with you.
