#i have such a hard time making pesci a yandere because he just looks too insecure for that

[princelylove]

Creep yanderes that just won't. stop. messaging you.

They just don't let up. Message after message after message of utter nonsense- it used to make sense. In the beginning, it was just double texting. Texts asking what you're doing, if you want to play a game with them, when's the next time you two can do something together, hey look an instagram reel or tiktok about some running joke you have together, or a funny tweet.

When you keep rejecting them, maybe even non intentionally, they start to get more passive aggressive. Why don't you ever want to talk to them anymore? Why are you acting this way? Did they do something, are you mad at them?

It's kind of insane how the same person can send a bunch of heart emojis and a "I fucking hate you you're a stupid whore" message in the same day. It's pure delusion. Your lack of a response allows them to project whatever thoughts they want to- if they're insecure, you obviously hate them and they're not enough and you should just block them already. If they tend to project, you're such a dumb whore that can't get somebody's dick out of your mouth for five seconds to answer them. It depends on the individual.

This concept reminds me of Pesci, Pesci, Pesci. He's worse than Ghiaccio. At least Ghiaccio has a sense of pride and boundaries- Pesci is about thiiis close from snapping on the daily and flat out killing his darling in a moment of passion.

He gets insecure fast. Well, "getting" insecure suggests that he was ever secure. Pesci is constantly comparing himself to the people he's closest to- Prosciutto, mainly. He misses the point of Prosciutto's philosophy entirely because he's fixated on what Prosciutto is to him instead of what he actually is.

Pesci is very pathetic. No matter what he does, he'll never be Prosciutto. He's just not the same kind of man. Not the type man to not fret about getting a text back, not the type of man to love his own reflection and check himself out every time he passes something shiny, not the type of man to just do what he wants and worry about consequences later, or never.

He's not really a texter- he's more of a an 'in your face, exhibiting worrying behaviors' type of nice guy. He psychs himself up to actually show up at your apartment but worries all the way up the stairs. Pesci is in a constant state of distress until he manages to shift his mindset. It's like a switch. A switch that's hard to break out of once he's in.

A mindset that doesn't mind breaking your front door, because mafiosi take what they want.

Not to mention someone like Hazamada. It's too obvious to be enjoyable, isn't it? He fantasizes about raping his classmate but he's too much of a pussy to do it, he gets into heated arguments about his favorite idols and anime in canon (if I'm remembering correctly, I don't pay attention to short 'men' often). He has the set up for this specific type of creep. It's a shame he's such a coward about it. And everything else.

Not on the phone, though. Or online in general. The beauty of going on anon, you can send whatever you want and never have to see the consequences for it. Not man enough to flat out tell you he's interested, not man enough to confront you about your "other" boyfriends, he's not even man enough to defend his own interests under his own name. None of his accounts have anything personal tied to it, he'll even use an alternate email to sign up.

He'll just keep buying burner phones to text you when he needs to get something off of his chest. Your outfit looked great today. He knows it's a uniform, but the way you wear it is adorable. He hates your friends. They're ditzy bimbos that are ruining you by association. Why don't you watch anything he likes? Your interests are trash, you should check out peak for once.

Josuke is a serial text spammer, but he doesn't quite fall into the 'nice guy' territory. He doesn't blame you for anything, but he does not respect your do not disturb, so it's yes and no.

It's debatable. Josuke doesn't say things that could be taken as insults, he'd never go for you personally when he's pissed off, but he's known to be a little passive aggressive in person. His texts are seemingly innocent enough- memes, tiktoks, asking what you're doing later, telling you he misses you, sending you something he thinks you'd like, picture of what he's doing, picture of something that was deep in his camera roll that he 'forgot' to send you a while ago. He hits your interrupt do not disturb button as a joke.

Heeey, it's super serious. It deserves to interrupt your whatever-you're-doing. Look, it's a fat baby animal. What are you doing, again? Why's your location off? You okay?

[berylcups]

Hi I read ur yandere illuso work and it was so good!!

Could you possibly write yandere formaggio x quiet reserved reader?

Yandere Files: Formaggio x Reserved Quiet Reader

Hello there ! I’m glad you enjoyed it!

Yandere Formaggio x Quiet/Shy Reader coming right up! Hope you enjoy because I’m a blushing mess lol 😳

Y/N has been with La Squadra for a few months now. Everyone seems to get along as well as their quirks will allow. Y/N though, doesn’t seem to be opening up to anyone.

They were at the cafe again. They were scoping out another target for the boss.

“What’s Y/Ns date of birth? Also their blood type?” Melone asked as looked up from his laptop for once.

“Why the hell do you wanna know that? Don’t you dare tell me you’re gonna use them as a surrogate!” Prosciutto scolded him.

“No…I mean we know very little about them. It’s important to have their date of birth, and blood type in case they were in need of any medical attention.” Melone defended himself.

“Oh… I guess we would need to know that. All I know is that they’re from _____.” Prosciutto pondered while lighting up a cigarette.

“They’re very sensitive. Maybe their zodiac is cancer?” Pesci speculated.

“Hmm no… that’s too vague. And besides, anyone would get upset if Ghiaccio yells at them for saying a word wrong… I also think I saw them physically recoil when they saw that mother strolling in the park with her twins.” Melone said looking back down at his screen.

“I’m back~! What did I miss???” Formaggio loudly announced as he sat back down.

“Please tell me you washed your hands this time.” Melone side eyed Formaggio.

“Yeah-yeah of course I did. Now what’s going on?” He asked.

“Well, we were talking about Y/N and how little we know about them.” Prosciutto informed him.

“Awww little Y/N is probably just shy . You guys would just scare them!” Formaggio explained. “I’ll tell you what- let me hang around them for a few missions. And I bet I’ll turn them into something that won’t shut the hell up!”

“Fine by me. I’m too busy with mentoring Pesci to help them out.” Prosciutto agreed with the plan.

———-

This cheesy guy will immediately take you under his wing. Especially if you have a “useless” stand. He will teach you his sadistic and creative ways on how to use your stand offensively.

It will take him like only a day for him to get the hots for you. But for him to become obsessed? Maybe give it a month tops. This guy doesn’t ever fall in love but when he does, he does HARD. Want to know why he doesn’t have any exes? They’re in hiding or… you know. But that doesn’t matter anymore because he has you now!🤩

He will stand up for you if Ghiaccio gets crabby on you or if Illuso is being a bully. He’ll wrap an arm around you and hold you while telling them off about what asshole they’re being. They shouldn’t talk to you like that! You’re a foreigner! you didn’t know that Naples is called Napoli!

“Aw sweet heart don’t cry! They don’t mean anything by it! He just has a stick up his ass! Come on sugar muffin, dry those tears and give me a smile. See? That’s my Y/N!”

He’s not very subtle with his attraction. He’ll be staring down at your chest, ass, crotch… anything! Like, my eyes are up here sir. 👀

He get you to open up a little more by telling jokes or doing something stupid just to get you to smile. He’s addicted to that smile 😍

Anything he gets from his missions he gives to you like little trophies. Car keys, miniature cars, tiny bottles, tiny furniture, etc. He likes to give you the most random of objects!

Anyone outside of the squad who’s bothering you like a bad ex, current partner, toxic family members, or anyone he sees as a threat— he’s gonna do his special magic trick and make them disappear. Your happiness is his priority. Well 2nd priority- he wants you in his possession first, but he hopes you want him too and that will all work out perfectly then!

When you’re home alone doing things like undressing or taking a shower, he’s gonna be there watching. Every single time. He needs the image of your body burned into his mind so he has something to jerk off to. And who’s to say he isn’t doing that while watching you?

On missions he’ll get a hotel for the 2 of you. It may not be the nicest but still well managed and clean. He definitely makes sure it’s a 1 bed room. He knows you have trouble sleeping anywhere that isn’t your own bed so he made sure to get you some sleeping pills to help you out! Isn’t that nice?

Once you’re fully knocked out and in a blissful dreamless sleep is when he finally strikes. He pulls your shirt up freeing your chest and your sleep shorts down exposing your pretty cunt.

“Oh sweetie baby… you should never hide these from me~”

He’s gonna eat your pussy out like a man who’s been starved for DAYS. He gonna tongue fuck you and then make sure to pay special attention to your aching clit and suck on it hard. The moaning in your sleep is just going to egg him on.

“Damn angel you taste so good! I could spend the rest of my life down here between your legs!”

He’d pull his aching cock out his pants and line it up with your sopping wet cunt and take you to pound town. He was too lost in the pleasure to care if you wake up.

You eventually wake up half way through and see him on top of . “Fo-Formaggio?! What are you doing?!” You stuttered in confusion and shock. You always liked him and wanted to get closer with him but you never expected it to escalate into this!

“I’m so sorry sweetheart but I can’t help it anymore! I love you so fucking much! Just take it ! Take everything I give you angel doll! God you’re so perfect!”

He’ll throw you into a full mating press and will keep babbling the same pet names and praises and won’t stop till the both of you cum.

“Take it all sugar! You look so pretty taking my cock like this, now take my load! I love you I love you I love you! 💕 “

Now that you’re pleasantly full, you can hope to see more of that in the future. Probably———every night. At least. The guy is super fucking horny lmao good luck with that 🍀

[maruzzewrites]

The vanity one seems like it could work on Pesci best. I was thinking of this with an angst twist where the reader is getting revenge by feigning heartbreak and bosses ol yandere around cuz they feel bad

Content warnings: manipulation (but reader is the one doing it), obsessive behavior, slight gore and violence.

When you were first assigned a job withthe hitmen team, you tried to be civil about it. You were cordial, you followedorders and ignored the comments of dimwitted assassins who would simply try toget under your skin with every mean necessary. Jokes, teasing, taunts,critiques, you take it all in stride with the knowledge that this task was temporaryand you would soon enough go back to your own team and forget about these menwho tried to hard to hide the obvious fascination with someone who wasn’t adegenerated criminal of their own group.

The only one you could sort of tolerate withouttoo much strain on your nerves was the hitman who appeared to be new to thejob. He introduced himself as Pesci, making you raise an eyebrow at the oddchoice of a codename, but you didn’t think too much of it considering this teamhad a penchant for picking names related to food. Soon enough, you woulddiscover why he was named after fishes, though: his Stand had the appearance offishing rod, oddly lethal for such an innocuous form. It was interesting tosee, when you had the occasion.

And you had plenty of opportunities toobserve it, as you were assigned to Pesci and his teammate, an older guy nicknamedProsciutto, with a snotty attitude that didn’t compliment the foul mouth hehad. You preferred to stick around the one who didn’t get angry when you didn’tdo something his way, and you got used to being near Pesci to the point you weren’tthat surprised once he found the bravery to confess to you with the most timidattempt you had ever seen. You didn’t feel guilty when you confirmed to him youweren’t interested, but you felt a certain heaviness in your chest when heaverted his eyes and walked away without another word.

You assumed he would be insistent, hewould nag you and bring you down into a spiral of guilty tripping, maybesending Prosciutto your way to intimidate you into a relationship; but thatnever came, he stayed quiet and shy, flinching away from your touch and at yourwords as soon as you approached him. In a way, you felt bad about rejecting hisfeelings, but you wouldn’t risk your position in the ranks of Passione simplyto start a tentative relationship with a man you barely knew – you didn’t evenaddress him with his actual name, Pesci was simply an alias for privacy.

Yet, your collaboration with the hitmenteam continued, stretching for a long period of time. You were a simpleinformant, tasked to retrieve data for these men’s mission thanks to a Standmade for this exact job. It was easy enough to stay behind and sit around withthe men assigned to you in order to protect you from outside attacks, but afterthe whole confession fiasco things got tense and you were only hoping the jobcould be completed with ease, fast enough to forget about your involvement withthe group.

However, you should have known that beingin the hands of a man who was so distracted by his own awkward thoughts aboutrejection wouldn’t be a good element during a dangerous mission. Especiallywhen you represented the weak link, yet a fundamental resource, during thewhole ordeal. When Prosciutto back was turned, only Pesci left to take care ofyour safety, you were ambushed by someone who was obviously tasked toinfiltrate the team from the back, sneaking their way forward to reach thefront line. And you were sure you’d die in that exact instant, if it wasn’t forthe fact the assassin stepped in front of you and whipped out his Stand.

With a quick movement of his arms, themuscles twitching and flexing in a demonstration of his strength, the hook ofthe rod penetrated under the skin of the opponent. Their heart was hurriedlyfound, if it bursting out of the foe’s chest was any indication. It landed witha sick, wet sound right at Pesci’s feet, and you could see him recoil withdisgust at the sight, despite being the reason of such a gruesome show. Youstayed still, amazed somehow; Pesci looked and acted like a weakling most ofthe time, but seeing his true potential in action was such a treat, such afeat, you couldn’t help but imagine all the scenarios and possibilities.

“Pesci,” before you could stop yourself,you called out to him, making him wince from the shock of being yanked from hisreverie. He whipped his head towards you with a look of anxiety painted on hisfeatures, as if he was bracing himself for harsh words that never came. Yet thetension never left his shoulders as he darted his eyes from your face to theground with growing unease as the silence stretched out. You grinned beforespeaking again, “That was amazing!”

He seemed actually surprised by yourreaction, a small smile blossoming on his lips as he averted his eyes again andlet some moments go by before suggesting to move because of the possibility ofother enemies being nearby. Later, you found out what his concern was for: Prosciuttoberated and reprimanded him for a long time as soon as he was back with them,about his distraction, about the sloppy job at killing, about the lack of cleaninghe left behind before changing spot. But it was okay, it allowed you to lavishhim in more compliments, more praise, as his opinion of you increased aftersuch an unforgiving lecture.

After that, and once you returned to youown team, you requested Pesci’s assistance often. If you were to go on amission who needed hitmen, you always asked for his company; you were oftengranted it because his own group thought that the simpler, less fatal missionyou were sent to could give him the experience he needed to grow more. And youcouldn’t be happier to work with such a malleable man, ready to be molded insomething useful to you and only you. Feeding into his bubbling crush was easy,the poor soul never really experienced the touch of someone in that way, even lesssomeone he actually liked. A pat on his shoulder, a hand on his back, yourfingers intertwined as you two made your way around the city to collectinformation; he relished in every little attention you offered him, and youwere actually pleased he was so infatuated with you that he never questionedthe lack of return in this odd relationship you had.

Eventually, his collaboration went beyondthe jobs given to you by your leaders, and he found himself following youaround for personal, private missions that needed his assistance and hisprecision. He was hesitant at first, but when you made him enter your home andlet him wander around without supervision, he seemed to get more comfortable.When you noticed that a few of your things disappeared, you were annoyed atfirst, but soon recognized the opportunity presented; leaving your stuff aroundevery time he was at your house, each visit something more intimate and dear, wasthe perfect plan to make that craze grow to level that would allow you to stinghim along further.

When you sat down on the sofa and left themugs of hot chocolate on the table so that he could enjoy it at his pace, youpretended not to notice the old brush or the unused accessories pocking out ofhis jacket, continuing to explain what you wanted him to do. He was so eager tohelp you, as if you made a promise never really spoken out loud, as if he wasn’taware of the fact you never told him there was a prize at the end of the road.But he was improving, his confidence was still faltering, but the sight ofblood didn’t make his legs give out or his pitch raise to unusual heights.

When you asked him to murder someone whohe, apparently, knew too was the only time his resolution to follow your words wasweakened. His hesitation made you exasperated, unable to think of a solution asthe person you wanted dead was charging against you in an attempt to survive. Youcalled Pesci, you begged him to take action if he didn’t want to see you deador die himself. His fingers trembled slightly against his Stand, but you shotyour arms up to grip his hand in yours, as a last resort. You regretted thatdecision as the sudden movement and the stress of the situation made him losefocus long enough for the opponent to get to you, pushing you to the ground andattacking Pesci, as he was the only one with his Stand out.

The assassin, shrieking, hit the other onthe head with his bare hand, a strong blow that had the foe stumbling back justbend at the pain. Pesci shot you a quick glance, just to see you on the ground;you didn’t know if he was mad or worried, but you saw the quick movement of hisarm to hook the other’s body and drag them across the floor. You weren’t sure whathe wanted to do, but soon enough he disappeared somewhere you couldn’t see andhe left you alone to nurse your aching back.

The next time you met him, afterrequesting his partnership for a mission, he didn’t look you in the eyes. Youstayed silent, just glancing at the bandage on his arm where you supposed hewas wounded during the confrontation. The two of you remained quiet as youstarted on your assignment, but you intended on keeping this convenient bond going.You left him alone for most of the mission, averting your eyes and doing yourbest at appearing dejected. You noticed him peeking over his shoulder at you,from time to time, and you were pretending to do the same, at times meeting hisown gaze with awkward silence before he got too flustered to keep the contact.

At the end of the task you were give, whenPesci was stalling for just a few seconds to glace at you, you seized themoment and grasped his hand with a softness you didn’t use before. He flinched,flabbergasted, but didn’t say anything until you took the opportunity to speakyourself, “I’m sorry,” your tone was so sweet, so sickening, that if you weren’taware of your own intentions you would believe your own charade. Pesci lookednervous, but you pressed on, “But I’m so glad you would risk your life for me.”

There was a flash, a swift smile on hisface, before it was replaced with a look full of regret and uncertainty. Youwere sure his mentor – that guy Prosciutto, he spoke so much about him – lecturedhis ears off about caution and about how you were no good, how you’d get himkilled, how you were simply using him, and all the conflict was now painted on Pesci’sface. And you thought he should listen to his mentor, he surely had moreconsideration for him well-being than you had these past few months, but youforced the pang of guilt deep down your being as you waited for his answer.

It wasn’t a vocal reply, but his hesitancein letting go of your hand, the way he sighed, and the quick peek at his own fingerswith that tiny smile while he thought you weren’t looking; it all made you allunderstand not everything was lost. You smirked a bit at the prospect; ofcourse, he wouldn’t rush to trust you fully again so suddenly, but the attachmentwasn’t completely gone.

Maybe you should escalate his rewards,just to nudge him on the right path.

[industriallyinsecure]

Do you still take requests? 👉👈 If so, would you like writing headcanons for a darling that doesn't understand the situation and is too trusting for their own good? Like, they got knocked out on the street by their yandere but when they wake up they believe that they just fainted on the street and the yandere is not their kidnapper but their "savior" looking after them while they were out cold?

I do still take requests! Unless it’s stated otherwise somewhere like the top of my blog or in the master list section, requests are always open!

Formaggio doesn't really know what to expect, but you wrapping his knuckles up and fretting over him like a hen was certainly not it. There’s a certain cheekiness to him, but nothing too overt. It’s hard for him to keep it a secret, so if you asked what happened he won’t hesitate to regale you with an exaggerated version of what happened. He really hopes you won’t ask, though. It’s hard for him to think on his feet when he actually needs to, but he always comes up with a witty deflection that keeps your mind off of it. Tries to use his wiles to keep you around for as long as possible until he is forced to shrink you and keep you tucked away in his underwear drawer.

It takes Illuso every ounce of self control he has to not burst out laughing. Instead he quickly puts on a concerned façade and acts like this was just a random act of kindness. He insists that you stay with him until he’s sure you won’t go blacking out again. You don’t exactly have a choice in the matter regardless because Illuso can schmooze anyone into getting what he wants. He forces friendship on you and, hey, why not just stay over here for a while? You live so close and he’s obviously just looking out for you. Soon enough, you have a very toxic attention whore of a ‘friend’ that insists on controlling every aspect of your life. But, he was looking out for you, right? He saved you that day. He must only want what’s best for you.

Pesci doesn’t really know what to do. It was a moment of panic. He calls Prosciutto and is crying over the phone until his big brother finds him and helps him deal with it. Soon, you’re whisked away to a hotel room while Prosciutto looks for nearby apartments that Pesci could afford. He can’t bring himself to settle in next to you while you sleep, the guilt is overwhelming. When you wake up, he’s overjoyed that he didn’t accidentally kill you and that you seem to like him as well! More accurately, you were thankful that he saved you from being killed or worse, but to Pesci anything positive meant that you obviously reciprocate his feelings. Like Illuso, a toxic co-dependent relationship forms and soon you find yourself at the mercy of his constant self deprecation and gaslighting.

This was worse than Prosciutto thought. Part of the reason he took you was because he didn’t trust you to not get taken advantage of. Better him than someone who had nefarious intentions (ahem), right? He handles the situation well for the most part and frequently has to stop himself from taking you by the shoulders and shaking you so hard your brain rattles around in your skull. The way you shyly snuggle into his shoulder and thank him profusely tugs at his heart and confirms that this was the right choice. He’d enjoy this gentle domesticity in the moment and deal with your tears later if he needed to. It would be easy to subtly age you and bring you back into his arms if you felt well enough to leave, chastising you about taking better care of yourself until you were ready to go home. It’s sort of munchausen by proxy, but he’s not delusional enough to believe there’s something legitimately wrong. He knows it’s artificial, but he does play it up when he sits by your bedside and gently dabs a cool cloth on your face.

Melone treats it like a Misery situation. ‘It’s storming so hard outside and you’re pretty roughed up. All the power lines are down and the hospitals are full. I’ll take care of you’. In reality, he used a throwaway Junior he made just for this occasion to break your leg and incapacitate you. He’s not stupid enough to reveal that he’s your stalker, though. He prefers the part of the Good Samaritan that took you in and is taking care of you. He’ll milk the situation for as long as possible until it turns into an actual Misery situation where he has to break your legs again to bring you back. When you wake up the second time, he’s much more comfortable being lovey dovey and smothering you with love and attention. The first time was a trial run, but now that he tested the waters, he’s more comfortable snuggling close and watching movies with you while you recover, and he might even rub your feet if they’re sore from disuse. If you end up falling for your caretaker, Melone will be overjoyed!

Ghiaccio is afraid you’ve caught on to his ruse and prepares to incapacitate you again. In his time in Passione, he’s learned that no one is what they seem. But you’re oddly compliant when he tells you that you can’t leave just yet. Not that you could find your way back to Firenze, he brought you to the Alps for a reason. Yeah, it was a shitty little place next to a sheep farm and it was cold as all hell (not that he personally minded), but with the low temperatures it would be easy to catch you. He concocts a lie about how he was visiting the city and he couldn’t just leave you there. And you believe him. He then tells you it would be a while before you could go back because the roads were iced over and he couldn’t get his car to start. And you believed him again. As long as you’d blindly believe his words, he could keep you snug and safely nestled away in a little Alpine village until you eventually return his love. You’re obligated to, after all he’s done.

Risotto is always in combat mode, never once letting his guard down. When he slips his arms around your waist to reciprocate your hug, he’s actually just preparing to overpower you and crush you under his weight. He does enjoy the warmth of your body snug against him and the way you nuzzle into his neck. It makes his heart ache when he realizes you weren’t the slightest bit scared of him, and only makes his obsession worse. He knows very well that part of the reason he’s the way he is (meaning yandere) is because of the social disconnect in his childhood because of how he looks. But all he sees is gratitude in your eyes, and it fills his cold, thought to be long dead heart with a giddiness befitting of a child. He can’t help it when Metallica springs into action when you leave, but he’s quick to catch you before you fall, tutting and informing you that your foot must've been hurt when you fell the first time. No worries, he’ll keep it wrapped up and keep you at his dingy little apartment that he may or may not have bought for the purpose of keeping you tucked away.

Sorbet and Gelato take advantage of the situation. Gelato tries to exaggerate what happened and make it seem like they saved you from an onslaught of mafiosi, but Sorbet reigns him in without giving too much away or letting you know that it’s a fabricated story. Gelato uses any opportunity to invade your personal space and cuddle up close to you under the guise of taking care of you. Sorbet is always more subdued in his affections, preferring to just check on you and take your temperature once in a while. But if you finally ask to go home, they’ll let you go. They always enjoy a game of cat and mouse.

[mouisorange]

☰ yandere alphabet 

〔Pesci〕

〔 Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get? 〕

Pesci is a nervous wreck when it comes to actually interacting with his darling. He would love to hold his darling and generally give them affection, but he tends to freak out when darling is upset: so as long as they’re unwilling, he’s not going to be physically giving any affection. Though, he will try and buy them things he knows they like. This is both to show his affection and to offer peace offerings in hopes that darling might like him better. 

〔 Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling? 〕

While Pesci is timid, and would rather comfort his darling or otherwise deal with it in a less than direct way, he’s more than willing to do what he has to in order to keep his darling with him. Even more so if his darling directly asks him to do something. He seems to have low self-esteem and would want to gain approval from his darling, similarly to how he acts around Prosciutto at times. It’s likely that he’d be willing to get messier than he normally would if he thought it would please darling in some way.

〔 Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them? 〕

Pesci wouldn’t mock his darling, though he can’t help but get a bit frustrated after a while. He tries to give them space and gain their trust again, but it’s a bit difficult to just leave them all alone. Both because he doesn’t enjoy it when they’re sad (and being alone means they have to be at least a little sad, right??) and because he got so used to seeing them that he craves being near them. Photos and stuff he ‘borrowed’ a while back, don’t really give him the same feelings after interacting with the real deal. He’ll bring them food they like, overall everything he does feels like he’s trying to convince a stray to come into his house.

〔 Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will? 〕

He’ll force them to eat, and generally try to make them take care of themselves if he feels like they seriously need it. Though he feels extremely guilty, so darling becoming upset with him over him trying to make them do anything might be enough to make him leave them alone for a bit. Pesci will eventually suck it up after some venting to Prosciutto and do what he thinks he needs to do. He also really wants to cuddle and hold them so Pesci will likely sleep in the same bed as them even if they really don’t want him to.

〔 Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling? 〕

Pesci is pretty vulnerable! He won’t open up until he thinks darling has accepted him or their situation enough to not be upset by him. He’s vulnerable enough to be manipulated by darling if they know how to, since he adores them greatly and wants them to love him as much as he loves them. He isn’t stupid though, if darling tries to manipulate him and he figures it out, they won’t be able to do it again without him questioning their behavior.

〔 Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back? 〕

He’d kinda understand, though at the same time he’s upset that they’re upset and even more so because they’re fighting him. Pesci assumed (though he hoped that maybe they’d be happy, despite knowing better) that they’d give him the cold shoulder, but they’re upset enough to fight him? It’ll make him question if he should’ve just tried harder to make darling fall for him the normal way. He’ll regret it somewhat but he knows he has to suck it up and keep going, they’ll leave him if he lets them go back to how it used to be! 

〔 Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape? 〕

Pesci definitely does not view anything about this as a game. He wants a relationship with his darling, and doesn’t enjoy watching them try to escape him. He doesn’t really understand why they’d want to get away him, he gets that he’s not the best looking or anything but he doesn’t treat them badly! Watching his darling try so hard to run from him hurts and makes him pretty upset overall. 

〔 Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them? 〕

It’s honestly a tie between him kidnapping them and his seemingly random meltdowns! He did plan out his whole kidnapping thing, but his nerves ended up getting in the way of doing it right. Pesci really did want to do it without upsetting his darling (ironic since they’ll be upset anyways) but... yknow mistakes happen is all. As for his meltdowns, it’s really the only time darling might get hurt with him freaking out and all. A mixture of all his guilt and anxiety around his darling just eventually snaps into a puddle of crying and breaking things. After a meltdown is really the only time he’ll forcefully give his darling affection, later on in the relationship he might even try and get them to return the affection via guilt-tripping.

〔 Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling? 〕

Pesci’s let romance movies influence his idea of love just a bit, he really wants them to fall for him as much as he’s fallen for them! He enjoys the idea of sweeping them off their feet more than he’d be willing to ever admit to anyone (though he may indirectly tell Prosciutto when asking for advice). Overall, he’d like a typical quiet, domestic life with darling where he gets to come home to them and relax after work.

〔 Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope? 〕

He absolutely gets jealous, as he’s already insecure and knows that there are a lot better guys than him. He might lash out at the “rival” (or friend, or honestly even people off the street every now and again) but it depends on just how friendly or handsy they’re getting with darling. If darling’s reciprocating the ‘affection’ at all he’s going to have a nervous breakdown.

〔 Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling? 〕

Pesci’s pretty nervous! And by ‘pretty’ I mean he’ll be stuttering over his words, especially during the first couple interactions with darling. Try to avoid giving him affection for a while, he might legitimately blow a fuse if darling tries to hold his hand or compliment him. Honestly, eye-contact or even the knowledge that they’re looking at him for the first time makes his heart go haywire. Don’t worry though, he’ll get over it as the conversations get longer! Especially if Prosciutto sees him acting like that and says anything about it.

〔 Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling? 〕

He’ll try and be friendly and get them to like him when actually interacting with them, though he’s a pretty intense stalker at times! Pesci will eventually start learning more about darling’s hobbies and interests in hopes that it’ll bring them closer. Darling will probably end up approaching him first without knowing it because of his nerves, unless Prosciutto pushes Pesci to do something. He’ll try and be the kind of person that he thinks darling would want in an attempt to go about it in a ‘sweet’ or ‘romantic’ way, but will probably end up kidnapping them out of fear that someone better than him will take them away.

〔 Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else? 〕

Not necessarily! Sure, darling doesn’t need to know that he’s a gangster, but he still acts nervous around them like he does around his team (though to a higher extent). He’ll definitely try to play up whatever traits he thinks darling likes about him, but otherwise? Really the only thing he doesn’t bare on his sleeve is the fact that he’s a part of Passione’s hitman team, for obvious reasons. 

〔 Naughty: How would they punish their darling? 〕

While he really doesn’t like to punish and would do a lot to avoid having to, most of his punishments involve isolation; maybe removing some of their senses or movement. For example, tying them up, blind-folding them, and putting them in a closet for a day or something. Pesci will probably end up asking Prosciutto what he should do and attempting whatever he says. Though if it involves physically hurting darling then he’s either going to be really light with it or attempt it, only to backpedal the second darling yelps. 

〔 Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling? 〕

He’ll probably end up taking most of them away by accident, as he runs based on reaction (for the most part) when it comes to his darling. Pesci does want darling to like him, so if they’re begging to get out of their room or for him to get them out of any ties, then he’ll probably end up giving in a bit (as long as it’s not a punishment). Not completely though, logic like “oh if they want out, then it’s too tight right? I’ll loosen it a bit!” or bringing them into another part of the house still tied up. He’ll be way more willing to do whatever darling wants if he thinks they’ve accepted the relationship. Though, he’ll try to be cautious but honestly he’s kinda delusional and might get swept away by emotions if darling is giving him the affection he’s so desperate for. 

〔 Patience: How patient are they with their darling? 〕

He’s very patient! Or he tries to be at the very least. If they’re actively trying to piss him off in some way, he’ll probably end up snapping a lot faster than he would if he thought they were just frustrated or upset. Pesci tries to put himself in their shoes often in order to better understand darling so that he doesn’t mess anything up. He’d rather be slow and steady than blow up over something he might not understand (since he knows he’s not as smart as others, like Prosciutto for example) and then have to go back to fix that before moving forward. 

〔 Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on? 〕

Pesci would not be able to handle his darling’s death, and would need a lot of pushing from his team in order to even remotely try and pick himself back up. He would struggle to cope. As for if they escaped, he would not stop looking for them and trying to get them back unless he had definite proof that they were dead. Otherwise? Darling might get away from him for a while, but he’ll eventually find them. 

〔 Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go? 〕

While he would never let his darling go (unless Prosciutto or another team member forced him to, though I can’t really see many situations where that would be necessary + he wouldn’t really let go mentally), Pesci would feel very guilty about abducting them. Darling could probably guilt-trip him into doing a few things honestly. 

〔 Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)? 〕

Darling is probably someone kind, or made him feel understood in some way. Pesci is usually pushed off to the side by most people, so when darling does something to make him feel important or the like, he’s hooked and wants to get to know them better/get closer to them. 

〔 Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves? 〕

He doesn’t like it at all! It makes Pesci feel even worse about kidnapping them and he’ll try to do/get them things that he thinks will make them feel better. He’ll generally do what they want him to do as long as they aren’t leaving or doing something dangerous. Though if they’re firm on him staying away, he will but he’ll also sneak in when they’re asleep to get his dose of darling.

〔 Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere? 〕

He’s much more easily manipulated than the classic yandere! Pesci is a bit delusional and thinks that he’ll be able to have a normal relationship with darling one day (even after kidnapping them), so he’s willing to bend over backwards for darling. 

〔 Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape? 〕

His meek nature as well as his guilt! As mentioned in previous sections, Pesci feels guilty over how upset his darling and will do pretty much anything short of letting them leave in hopes that darling will return his feelings. Darling could pretty easily trick Pesci into thinking they’ve accepted the relationship, wait until his guard is down. They won’t be able to do the same thing twice though. 

〔 Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling? 〕

Not intentionally, or at least, not very much. The worst he’d ever really physically hurt them is during a meltdown and them getting caught in him throwing things or destroying furniture. He’d try and make up for it later as he didn’t intentionally try to harm them. One of the only other times Pesci would really physically hurt them is if he goes to Prosciutto for advice, and attempt to slap or backhand them only to backpedal if he actually does it.  They’ll probably end up with bruising or something after an escape attempt, but he prefers mental or indirect punishments. 

〔 Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over? 〕

Pesci doesn’t necessarily worship darling but he holds them in very high regard and thinks their options/thoughts are important. Darling heavily influences him and his thoughts, similarly to how Pesci respects Prosciutto and values his options. As explained earlier, Pesci is willing to go very far to win darling over, especially if he thinks darling already likes him (even just as a friend: friends become lovers all the time, right?). He’s patient and determined, especially with Prosciutto encouraging him. 

〔 Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap? 〕

It depends on how friendly they are to other people compared to himself, or if he thinks he’s ‘losing’. Generally it’ll be anywhere from one month to about six months. 

〔 Zenith: Would they ever break their darling? 〕

Not intentionally! He probably wouldn’t accidentally do it either honestly, as he’s not overly violent and is attentive to darling’s needs. He’s delusional and thinks that darling will eventually love him back (or at least hopes so). If he knew about the possibility of darling breaking, he would try to avoid it. 

﹝☼﹞

[nanasparadise]

Please~ yandere la squadra with a darling that heals them after a battle? Angel 👼 anon but Christmas inspired~

Hi anon! I hope you had a beautiful Christmas! <3 I know I’m super late (T-T), but I hope you still enjoy the headcannons! Where I live, it’s still freezing cold, so the Christmas spirit still lingers a bit in the air.

!!!!! TW: mentions of blood and wounds, implied stalking, implied NSFW, toxic relationship, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY !!!!!

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

Yan! La Squadra x gender-neutral Stand user reader who heals them during a battle (Christmas edition)

Yan! Risotto

Risotto hates to go to you for help: he likes to appear strong in front of you.

But the battle has been tough and his wounds are quite deep.

You rush immediately to the hitman, inspecting the severity of the wounds.

With your Stand, you’re able to heal him pretty fast and effectively.

Risotto keeps staring at you throughout the whole healing process, red eyes boring intensely into yours.

It does make you quite uncomfortable.

But you push that thought away and instead sigh: why did Risotto have to get into trouble on Christmas?

After you’ve patched him up, you try to look out for the other hitmen in case they need your help as well.

But the silver-haired man puts his calloused hands on your wrists under a tight grip and keeps fixating you.

You are surprised by his action, but he simply states that he needs you in this moment and that you shouldn’t worry about the others.

For Risotto, this admittance of weakness bothers the Italian. But he’d rather like you only for himself. The capo can’t help the feeling of jealousy and possessiveness rising up in him like bile whenever he sees you with the other team members – or anyone that isn’t him, for a fact.

You want to escape his grasp, but something in his gaze – something dangerous that you shouldn’t unleash – makes you remain by his side.

The capo bores again his intense eyes into yours. You feel as though he pierces right through your soul. For you, the quiet feels unbearable. On the other hand, for Risotto, this moment of calmness feels like bliss, like the perfect Christmas present, as he’s got everything he needs right next to him now.

“Good God, Risotto!” “It’s fine, it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Risotto, could you please let me go? I need to look after the others.” “They’re fine. I need you more by my side.”

Yan! Illuso

Illuso comes back with blood covering his clothes. He weakly breaks down on the nearest chair, too exhausted from the battle and the wounds.

You immediately notice the deep cut on his torso. Rapidly, you hurry to his side.

Illuso’s face is adorned with his typical smug smile as you approach him, despite his injury and severe blood loss.

Swiftly, his wounds are healed with your Stand. During the process, the hitman goes on confidently about how he beat the enemy to a bloody pulp. Though you quickly notice his boasting is just to distract himself from the pain.

After you’ve helped him with his injuries, you’re about to see the other hitmen, but Illuso quickly stops you.

The Italian shoots you again one of his self-assured grins and asks you to come sit next to him. With a sigh, you do as he told you.

Illuso mentions how you shouldn’t waste your time with the other members of the team, especially not on Christmas. After all, he could give you a much better time and already has a gift for you…

After all, Illuso knows exactly what you want for presents. He took his time observing you through your mirror to find out everything he needs to know about you.

You feel highly uncomfortable by his comment. So you decide to stand up and leave.

But before you could truly escape the situation, Illuso takes your arm with an iron grip. He discreetly nods at the mirror in the room.

You understand immediately the underlying threat. Not wanting to be dragged into the mirror world, you simply swallow the lump in your throat and sit down again. Internally, you curse your Stand, knowing that it is practically useless in a fight…

Illuso smiles at your compliance, a dark spark glimmering in his red eyes.

The brunette babbles about how he’s gonna make this Christmas perfect for you.

“Of course he was no match for Man in the Mirror. You should have seen how I disfigured his face.” “Sure, Illuso…”

“Why don’t you stay a bit? These men don’t deserve your attention. I can make this Christmas so much better for you, tesoro.”

Yan! Formaggio

Unlike the other members of the team, Formaggio comes with a crooked grin and cracking jokes when he perceives your form. Even though his bloody and bullet-ridden body was nothing to make fun of, you thought.

The Italian groans from time to time when you heal him,  but he secretly also relishes the fact that you touch him so freely.

He keeps on talking about how he can’t wait for the holidays to be over so that the football season can start again. You simply roll your eyes and smile mindlessly at his comment.

Though the young man must admit that he likes the thought of you curled up in your arms while watching a cheesy holiday film.

You nervously chuckle, hoping this was just another one of his jokes.

But the green eyes that stare intensely back at you do make it hard to believe so.

You utter an apology, saying you should see the other hitmen, but your movement is halted by Formaggio’s hand on your upper arm.

The Italian flashes you another grin, though it appears much more sinister this time.

He suggest to stay, having already found the perfect film to watch for you two. You are well aware of the fact that it’s a threat, recognising the menacing edge in his voice.

You aren’t sure how to react: should you risk it and leave or should you just stay?

In the end, much to Formaggio’s satisfaction, you decide to remain with him. After all, this couldn’t be so bad. You two are friends, this doesn’t lead to something more, right?

Meanwhile, the hitman already plans the next intimate moments between you, not taking in account whether you want this or not.

“Well, look at that Y/N, I do give my name much honour with these holes in my body!” “Please Formaggio, don’t joke about that! You could have died.”

“C’mon babe, it’s just a nice evening between us! It’s Christmas, share the spirit, be kind and stay with me.”

Yan! Prosciutto

If it wasn’t for the trail of blood, you wouldn’t have noticed that Prosciutto is injured.

As usual, the blond hides his pain by putting on a perfect stoic face.

You heal him with your Stand, Prosciutto being silent during the treatment. You are shocked to see that his wounds are so deep.

After the process, you ask him about the battle. The assassin quickly gives you all the important information about the enemy, though he reassures you that they are dead now.

Prosciutto has a hard time keeping his professional façade up around you: he can’t help but feel touched by your sincere worry.

Wanting to share the information with the rest of La Squadra, you intend to leave the room. Though Prosciutto’s voice cutting through the air, that leaves no room for disobedience, stops you from doing so.

The Italian confidently asks you out for dinner, wanting to indulge you with his favourite Christmas recipe.

You raise an eyebrow at that invitation, shooting a questioning look at your colleague.

Prosciutto is fully aware of his out of character action, but you made him react untypically more often then you knew: when he kept thinking about you instead of concentrating on his mission, when he kept photos of you in his room, when he imagined your lips on his…

You politely decline his kind offer, pretending you don’t want to bother him. But it’s more the fact that your gut feeling says that something is wrong about the hitman’s sombre gaze.

Prosciutto clicks his tongue at your reaction. He simply takes ungently your hand and drags you out of the room.

You try as best to fight against him, but your resistance turns out to be futile.

The blond is visibly annoyed by your fighting. With The Grateful Dead, he ages your soft hand, leaving it all wrinkled.

You stare at your hand in distraught. You’re smart enough to see the threat behind his action. So you let him drag you out, too scared to act up again.

“Prosciutto, are you alright? You never say when you’re hurt.” “Showing weakness would put a bad example, now wouldn’t it?”

“Why must you always be so stubborn? I just want to take you out for dinner, it’s not too much asked for.”

Yan! Pesci

Pesci groans when he enters the room. He hates to see you worried because of him, but the battle left him in an excruciating pain.

You patch the hitman up as fast as you can, using your Stand efficiently.

During the healing process, the Italian’s dark eyes glisten with something you recognise as affection. You feel uncomfortable under his stare and don’t know how to react. You simply shove it off as him being an emotional friend and man in general.

Though his following words make it clear that he thinks of you more than just a colleague or friend.

Pesci gathers up all his courage. Shyly, he asks you if you would like to spend the remainder of the evening by his side. You could maybe bake some Christmas biscuits, if you like!

Immediately, pity blooms in your chest. You don’t want to hurt his feelings, knowing that he already suffers enough under the sneers of your teammates.

Still, you decline his offer. After all, you don’t want to falsely lead him on… To make it alright, you offer him to do something together with the team instead.

Already being emotional, Pesci’s eyes start to water. He insists spending time with you alone, nearly begging you.

The Italian goes on then about how he can never spend time with you alone… He just wants to participate for once and not being able to watch you doing activities with other people.

Majorly distressed by what he’s just told you, you don’t hesitate a second to leave the room, all sympathy for him gone.

The assassin doesn’t follow you, lucky for you.

Again, Pesci is all by himself, without your presence. It’s going to be a lonely Christmas for him.

“Thank you so much for healing me, Y/N! You’re really like an angel.” “Oh stop it, you’re exaggerating…”

“Please, I’m begging you to stay! It’s going to be fun, I promise! I just want you all for myself, just for once.”

Yan! Melone

It’s untypical for Melone to actively engage in a battle. So when he comes back from the mission, being wounded severely, you are more than surprised.

Even though you tend to avoid the rather lecherous man for his inappropriate comments towards you, you don’t hesitate to heal him. After all, he’s still your teammate.

Seeing you so willingly tending his injuries seems like an open invitation for the assassin to continue his usual dirty talk with you (which of course it isn’t).

He bathes into your warm touch on his cool, naked skin, caused by the cold temperature outside.

You wrinkle your nose at his rather disgusting remarks, threatening him to just let him bleed out the next time, to which the Italian only laughs.

After you’ve fully healed him, you intend to immediately rush out of the room, desperate to create some space between you and Melone.

Your escape appears to be fruitless though as a gloved hand grips tightly on your upper arm. The hitman has surprisingly lots of strength for his slim build.

With eyes of a predator, Melone lets his gaze wander over your body, lust and darkness swirling in his blue eyes.

You are unaware of how much he has longed for a moment with you. He’s grown tired of you avoiding him. You’re his perfect match: the compatible birth charts, the messages from the tarot cards, all of it let to you being his. Or so it should be, in his mind.

You are repulsed by him and do your best to get off from his grasp on you.

Melone doesn’t mind your resistance, perceiving it only as an encouragement for his advances.

He rambles about how he’s got some fun Christmas games prepared for you. Though you definitely don’t want anything about the nature of these supposed games…

With one final push, you finally manage to get out of his hold, a scowl adorning your face. Throwing a rude comment at him, you eventually leave Melone and his creepy tendencies.

The Italian watches you storming off, a smirk on his face. He doesn’t worry about this incidence. He will get you afterwards, he’s made sure off it.

“You should touch me more often like that, amore.” “You’re disgusting Melone, next time I’ll leave you out to die.”

“I’ve got some special games for you prepared. And if you behave well, I make sure to give you a gift.” You get sick to your stomach at his words.

Yan! Ghiaccio

Ghiaccio seethes with anger as he stumbles through the door. Why did he have to get attacked this bad by the enemy? Though he’s more than proud to have annihilated them.

As you see the man clutching his wounded side enter, you make your way to him to heal him, earning a scornful look by the prideful Italian.

What you don’t know is that his ego is only that big because he wants, like Risotto, appear strong in front of you.

During the healing process, a string of insults escape the assassin’s mouth. You roll your eyes at the dramatic behaviour.

Ghiaccio has a hard time to express his affection for you. At first, he has been annoyed by you infiltrating his mind, but now he has grown tender to it. He wishes he could be more soft with you, but having his feelings under control has never been his strong suit. Though he wants to try it today, because what day could be better than Christmas?

You grow uncomfortable by the hitman’s intense gaze. Tentatively, you ask him if everything’s alright.

Ghiaccio snaps out of his thoughts. Impulsively, he just blurts out if you wanna spend Christmas with him.

He keeps on going, saying that he usually hates the cheesiness that comes with the holiday, but he would like to make it a nice experience for you, with him by your side…

You interrupt his rambling by saying that you already spend the holidays with your family off-base.

Hearing your answer, the assassin’s hot anger returns. He’s making an effort for you, could you not see that? Why would you decline his offer then?

You are about to leave him as suddenly ice hits your feet and legs and you are frozen to the floor, giving you no choice as to remain in the room.

Ghiaccio didn’t mean to use White Album on you, but he can’t help it if you act so stubborn and ungrateful. Now you would spend Christmas with him for sure.

“This little son of a-“ “Ghiaccio please, calm down.”

“Spend Christmas with me. I know, I hate this corny shit, but with you, it will be more bearable.”

[shineonyoucrazyyandere]

Yandere Pesci with a s/o who likes to go on walks and spend time with him but can't due to a chronic illness? (Need me some pesci love ;-;/ )

Pesci is loved on this account, no ifs, ands or buts. He really deserves more poor guy. He’s a nervous boi sometimes.

Anywho it might not be exactly what you wanted, I kind of went my own way with it a little bit. Plus I always imagine Prosciutto helps with the more intense yan stuff, like don’t lose your target, get their location down, kidnap them if need be, charm them if you can, etc. etc. Overall Pesci is a more down to earth yandere, can’t say that for the rest of La Squadra (as they tend to pressure him to be a bit more intense and forward).

  Being an utterly nervous wreck had its disadvantages, especially for an assassin like Pesci was supposed to be. It certainly didn’t help when it came to falling hard for someone. He was like a lost puppy of sorts, clingy and shaking not wanting to lose something that made his heart flutter.

 Prosciutto caught on very quickly to his deep crush, and of course he wanted to instill wisdom just like he had in his line of work.

 “Tell me how long have you had a thing for them?” The blond inquired 

“J-just a few months now” 

““I see so that’s where some of your paycheck went, gifts...” he muttered more as an astute observance rather than something directed towards the man he looked over in assassinations.  “Have you approached them?” Prosciutto pried further 

 He shook his head at this question, and there was a soft tsk from his teammate’s lips. Though the man’s blue eyes quickly hastened to a somewhat more serious demeanor. His bro was always pretty quick witted when putting two and two together when it came to habits of other people. His own staying out late to sneak a peak at your home and drop of gifts was likely already on his more seasoned companion’s mind.  “You’re passionate about whoever this person is and hiding around a corner won’t do you any good, you need to be bold in your pursuit” His hands were now lying on Pesci’s own shoulders.

  “I’m certain you wouldn’t want another man or woman wedging themselves in between you and them correct?” He added on

 “Yeah, I’d uh hate that” Pesci nodded along, that was certainly true he’d be massively jealous of the stranger who approached such a sweet person like you. 

 “Well then, try and get them to yourself directly, without following them around all day”  the blond told him. “If you have to just delve into their vulnerabilities”

 “Otherwise more drastic measures might have to be taken”

   All of that Pesci remembered clear as day, be clear and concise. He just had to attempt to approach you and garner your attention. Of course he didn’t expect it to go down like it had. The area he had bumped into you at the time was pretty inconspicuous and somewhere you seemed to go to when you could.    You just dropped an item that you had purchased from a nearby shop. Of course he was all to eager to pick it up. Cause who knows what kind of person would’ve taken something you bought and would’ve handed it off for a quick grab of cash.

  “Oh you found this? Thank you!” You had given him a genuine smile 

He could barely contain the nervous joy that lied beneath his chest. Even more so he could only stutter out a your welcome.

  Apparently that had amused you to his surprise, usually people would scoff at his appearance and maybe make a snide remark behind his back. He knew he had fallen for the right person, this must be it.

  “Here, it’s the least I could give for you genuinely looking out for me” You had dug out some bills from your bag and were now holding it out towards the man.

 He anxiously took the money from you, as if waiting for an impending negative reaction. He innately knew for some reason you wouldn’t do such a thing but it was something just instilled in him honestly. Though for powering through his hesitance he felt good finally getting to see you face to face.

  Eventually he found himself strategizing of how to bump into you that wasn’t suspicious in nature. Keeping his composure probably helped too but Pesci couldn’t help but melt with every little kind smile you sent his way. You probably caught on to him seeing you often on a few of the same streets. But the way he was going about seeing you would hopefully be impressive to Prosciutto.

  “I don’t get out much honestly due to my condition” You told him one day

“So I don’t get to chat much with others, so it’s nice seeing someone come right to me for once”    He stared at you with fascination and adoration, maybe he wasn’t reading you right but it felt like there was some loneliness laced in your tone. Without hesitation he listened to every word that escaped your lips. You had friends sure but they lived some distance away, and you understood they couldn’t visit often because of that. Of course Pesci took this as a personal advantage, to his admittedly selfish desires.

   “And then I’m left gifts, mainly snacks of all things from who knows where...and I’m not sure whether to eat them or throw them out” You shrug with uncertainty.

  ““Most people...would uhm...say throw it out anyway right?” Pesci piped up nervously

“I suppose so...but I can tell they’re not resealed or anything....so I kind of feel bad” You sigh. “Call it naive or stupid even, but some of those I can’t help but keep around since a few of those treats are my favorites”

  He stared at you with deep interest, you actually liked what he bought you. Of course he er...eavesdropped and may have snuck into your apartment at one point. “Well uh if you don’t trust those, I could always buy you some” He meekly suggested. “Mmm...maybe some other time on another little walk of ours” You smiled 

“For now your company is all I really need”

[wri0thesley]

sweetness - yandere!risotto x reader

WARNINGS: sfw. yandere warning - stalking, obsessive behaviour, gaslighting. brief mentions of abuse (reader’s father is implied to be violent towards them). blood and violence. a lot of food descriptions. reader is gender neutral! 10.3k. 

Risotto finds himself in a rainstorm one busy evening and ducks into your place of employ for a brief reprieve. Your father’s sweet shop. Risotto is the kind of man who is used to having people be scared of him - nobody ever has the courage to treat him like an ordinary human being. Nobody has ever treated him like someone normal. Not until you. He leaves with a bag full of gifts for the rest of La Squadra, the memory of you smiling, and a crush that grows into an obsession. 

It’s a coincidence that Risotto Nero ever saw you in the first place - an assortment of the misfortunes that Risotto has come to accept as commonplace in his life. He had long ago accepted that the Nero family was not one for whom luck ran in the blood - a family who did not particularly care for him, the death of his cousin when he was fourteen, ending up in an organised crime syndicate with a gun in his hand and a list of names in his pocket. 

It’s a coincidence he’s glad of. 

That, at least, is not something he ever really thinks. Things that happen to him are either annoyances or acceptable; he goes home to a quiet, empty house and he grunts when he sees his neighbours but he does not offer anything more than that. He is perfectly civil to his associates in La Squadra di Esecuzione; they, he knows, think of his stoicism and his silence as strength. They look to him like a leader, because he has had to prove himself such. When he had been given control of his team at twenty one and met Sorbet and Gelato, already over a decade older than him, he had known he had to prove himself. 

If he has left some of his humanity behind, what does it matter? Humanity is not an important trait for a killer. Better for him to clog their veins with needles and razor blades instead of worrying about the family they may or may not be leaving behind. 

The day his life changed forever, he was on his way back to his mercifully quiet apartment after a day spent giving out orders to his teammates. It had not been a kind day; the pay the hitmen get, for what they are expected to do, is laughable. Risotto is keeping his roof over his head, but it is not without effort on his part - and his subordinates are still not always quite so lucky. The newest recruit, Ghiaccio, had been practically scarlet in the face when he’d been given his share--

Risotto pauses, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a persistent ache in his temples. Ghiaccio is good at what he does - or he would not be a member of Risotto’s team - but Risotto is always left with a headache after speaking to him. The day is already on a southward spiral. The cold nips at his bare skin, the sky grey and cloudy, the pavements crowded with businessmen and women attempting to get home in the rush of the end of the day. Some of them glance twice at Risotto, leaving him a wide berth on the walkway - one or two of them even cross the street to avoid coming too close to him. 

His height and his dark eyes and his strange way of dressing put people off - but so does that way he carries himself. That dark, brooding knowledge that seems to follow him - a whisper that says; this man is involved in unpleasant business. And on the streets of Italy, that unpleasant business generally means only one thing. 

He feels the cold splash of water droplets on his skin before he realises that it’s begun to rain. He is not usually one who minds the rain - in the right circumstances, he finds walking alone in the rain quite peaceful - but these are not the right circumstances. The pavements are already growing slick as the rain gets heavier, and the people crowding all around him are searching for umbrellas, thrusting them up into the sky--

Risotto is taller than most men, and umbrellas are hardly the most social of accessories. Awkward points bite into his shoulders as people rush by him, their sights blinkered by the canvas above them, no longer concerned by what Risotto might be now that he’s not in their direct field of vision. As yet another umbrella - this one patterned with rainbows - connects with his chin, he’s forced to stop for a moment, his eyes scanning the street beside him to see if there’s somewhere that’s still open he might take shelter in. 

Ah. There. A softly lit pale blue shopfront, a hand-lettered sign flipped to “open!” in its window. Risotto grasps the handle and steps in (stooping a little when he realises how low the doorway is), a bell chiming out across the little room to announce that the shop has just received a customer. 

He takes a moment to breathe as he catalogues his surroundings. 

It is always a good idea for an assassin to know where he is. The moment his gaze flickers around the room, he’s able to put a name to the shop he ducked into for some solace from the rain and the barrage of umbrellas; this is Dolcezza, a little sweet shop that has been on this street for three years. By all accounts, it keeps a steady enough clientele, but it hardly brings in a large amount of money - which Risotto assumes is the only reason that the owner, an older man, has not been badgered or hounded about the protection fees he most certainly is not paying. 

It’s a nice place, Risotto thinks grudgingly, looking around. The walls are lined with jars of brightly coloured candies and sweet treats - a glass case at the front of the shop features some more specialised treats out in the open. Fudges and special chocolates and neatly packaged boxes of sweet assortments. There’s an open doorway, beside the cash register, where Risotto can see a large table and some silver specialised equipment and a figure in gloves and an apron bent over, clearly hard at work on the confections. A cash register sits on top of the wooden portion of the glass cabinet, and Risotto’s gaze falls upon that bit of technology, his eyes also meet the girl behind the cash register’s own wide stare. 

He is perfectly used to the flash of fear that he sees in her eyes. He sees it constantly in people on the street and sometimes when he is dragged into restaurants with other members of his team and when he goes out to buy his weekly shopping (he does this once a week, at the same store, and buys the same things). It’s to do with the set of his mouth and the ink and blood colour of his eyes - the girl behind the counter falters. She is pretty enough, he supposes, with dark hair and dark eyes and wearing a neat pinstriped dress that he supposes is a uniform of sorts. He doesn't really care about that. What he cares about is how she watches him warily, like a cat about to run if he gets too close or startles with sudden movements--

And he has spent his entire life with people being afraid of him, and sometimes the best way to cope with the knowledge you are feared is to take control of the room. He takes one slow, deliberate step towards the counter - and, like he knew she would, she jumps. 

“I-I’m s-so sorry, one moment!” She says in a babble, her voice running into one long continuous noise, and she scrambles through the large, open doorway and out of Risotto’s sight. He’s impressed that she managed to say anything, actually - still, how predictable. The smirk curves his full mouth before he can stop it, and he finishes walking towards the cash register, looking around the little place and amusing himself by imagining what kind of sweets he’d take for the rest of La Squadra. 

With any luck, the rain will have stopped before the worker has even had the courage to peek around the corner to see if he’s still there.

Sweet tobacco for Prosciutto, perhaps. The blue and white shark sweets that look like they have the most horrific texture for Pesci. Balls of bubble gum for Melone, who will pop them next to Ghiaccio’s ears to annoy the new recruit. Illuso . . . well, Risotto has never quite managed to get the measure of Illuso, who listens more than he speaks and regurgitates the gossip of other people instead of his own. Perhaps one of the small fudge assortments, to be safe. Gelato has a sweet tooth, and Sorbet indulges Gelato in everything - he’d take a bag of the heart-shaped marshmallows for those two. Apropos on account of them being lovers, which they have never bothered to hide--

He hears a raised voice from the other room, and then a figure stomps out - most certainly not the figure of the girl who had not been able to stomach his presence through her fear. And Risotto . . . well, at first, he does not know that he’s looking at his reason for living. His reward for all of the hardships he has endured. That comes later. 

All he knows is that when you look into his eyes, there isn’t a whit of fear reflected in yours, and he feels comforted and known and not like a monster for the first time in a long while. 

~

Elisa comes tearing into the back room, where you’re industriously cutting the fudge into perfect cubes, and looks like she’s seen a ghost. You sigh, raising yourself up - your father had hired Elisa after one of your last workers had gone on maternity leave, and you’d soon realised she was easily flustered and prone to making a drama out of things. You suppose that you’ll have to stay a little later tonight to make sure that the fudge is all finished - you don’t trust Elisa to do it, and at any rate, she’s not paid to do things like that.

“What’s wrong?” You ask her, keeping your temper. Shouting does nothing good, you’ve learnt. Your father might use a raised voice to get what he wants, but that just makes you even less likely to jump straight to righteous anger. “I heard a customer come in, but I didn’t hear one leave.”

She gasps a few times, her big brown eyes wide, until she hisses out;

“I can’t serve him!”

Him? You wonder if perhaps it might be an ex-boyfriend or an awkward crush, but Elisa looks far too rattled for it to be something that simple. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask, keeping your voice even. You and her are about the same age, but you know from the few friends you’ve managed to make in your life that people have a tendency to see you as the sensible one. The parental figure in any given situation. The one who keeps the rest of them calm. “Do you need me to go out and serve them?”

“No!” The response is instantaneous. She looks terrified. You wonder if this man has threatened her with a knife or something - this reaction seems over the top, even for someone like Elisa. “You can’t!”

“Elisa,” you say softly, pulling off the gloves that you were wearing for hygiene. “I’m sure he’s perfectly fine and civil. I’ll go speak to him.”

“I think he’s part of the Mafia! Of Passione!” Her words spill out all at once. 

You look at her, your forehead creasing in confusion.

“Elisa,” you say, very slowly and carefully. “What business would a mobster have in a sweet shop? Do you think he’s here to assassinate the lemon drops? Slit the throats of our barley twists?”

“You’ll see!” She insists. She’s trembling. “You shouldn’t go out there!”

You sigh softly, and you go out to see what all of the fuss is about. 

You understand when the man, stood by the cash register, his hands casually in his pockets, turns to look at you. You understand that perhaps Elisa was a little justified in being afraid of him; he stands well over six foot, his clothes . . . unusual, a scarred and muscled torso very prominently on display. His hair is pale and plastered to his forehead by the rain - but most striking of all are his eyes. Blood red irises and inky dark sclera, boring into your own gaze as you look up at his face (he’s handsome, you realise, and try and curtain the thought) and make sure that none of the brief flash of fear you do feel shows in your expression. 

Because even if he looks scary doesn’t mean he is. You know not to judge a book by its cover! And this man, you suppose, spends a lot of time being judged for his stature and his eyes and all of the things he can’t help, and you refuse to be a part of the problem. Part of you, too, wholeheartedly believes that a gangster would have no business in your father’s humble little sweet shop. 

You’d known when you’d rented this storefront that it was in an area controlled by Passione; when you’d spoken to your father, he’d assured you there was nothing to worry about - so you assume your father pays the protection dues he’s supposed to. There’s no reason for any member of Passione to step foot in here unless they were hankering for something to satisfy their sweet tooth! 

And if they are here to buy, they are a customer and not a gangster, and you intend to treat them simply as the former. Who are you to judge how one earns their bread?

“Get caught in the downpour?” You ask, cheerfully, taking your place behind the counter. “It looked pretty bad out there! I’m glad to be inside!”

You keep eye contact with him. You notice that he seems surprised, and you chalk it up to the fact that people probably don’t look into his eyes - you suppose they are a little unnerving, but the more you look at them the more ordinary they seem. Your smile does not fade a whit. 

“O-oh,” he says, and his voice is very deep and pleasant. You watch as the faintest dark flush creeps up his cheeks. “Yes. I dodged in to avoid the rain.”

You look at the clock on the wall.

“Oh dear,” you say, meaning it. You’re sympathetic; getting caught in an unexpected rain shower is bad at the worst of times, but this man appears to be in head to toe leather, and leather is never comfortable when damp. “And at this time, too! The roads are always so horribly busy with everyone getting home from work! I’m sorry you got caught up in that, Signore.”

He pauses before speaking, as if he’s really mulling over his words.

“I kept getting hit with umbrellas,” he grunts out, eventually. 

“Well, we never have too many customers around this time anyway,” you say, smiling. “I don’t mind at all if you ducked in for some reprieve from the showers! You’re welcome to stay and look around until it goes - it’s not very big, but my father and I make all of the sweets ourselves and we’re very proud of it!” You smile, and then, you wink at him. It feels like he needs a kindness, after Elisa ran out of here practically screaming. “If you want a sample of anything, just ask!”

He blinks at you, as if he can’t quite believe that you haven’t turned tail and run - and the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I think I frightened the other girl,” he says, eventually - he does not sound exactly ashamed of it, but he does sound sorry. “I’m sorry if I caused any problems for you.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you say, lightly. “Elisa’s new here. She’s still getting to grips with everything, and I think she just got a little overwhelmed by--”

You hesitate. How do you tell this man that his very presence is intimidating? 

A smile breaks his mouth. 

“Yes,” he says. “I tend to have that effect.”

~

There is a smudge of flour - or some other powdery white substance used in baking, he knows it is not the powdery white substance he is most familiar with, at least - across the bridge of your nose, and keeping his eyes off it is proving to be a challenge. He wants to stare at your face for hours. He wants to memorise the shape of your eyes and your lips, covet the colour of your eyes - remember what it feels like to be looked at like a man and nothing more.

He’s not often lost for words, but in front of you, he finds himself faltering. It’s been so long since he has had a conversation that is just simply a conversation - even at the supermarket, the cashier looks up and looks down and scans his items without drawing attention to themselves, too fearful of whatever Risotto might do (even in the well-lit aisles of a public place, apparently) to do much else. You, though - you are before him, smile on your face, eyes directed at him, open warmth and sunniness diffusing everything you do. 

He didn’t intend to buy anything. He does not have much of a sweet tooth. He prefers the sour or the salty when it comes to consumables - but somehow, looking at your friendly open face, he cannot bring himself to leave empty-handed. Even though you had openly said you didn’t mind if he’d only come in to shelter from the rain (which he had done, after all), he does not want to disappoint you. There’s nobody else in the shop. How many customers have you had all day? 

If he buys something, and says he liked it . . . if he does that, that’s an excuse to come back in and see you again, isn’t it? 

It’s not that Risotto has a crush, he thinks - though now that he mentions it, he notices how pleasant he finds your colouring, how your curves and lines fill out your own uniform (pinstripes and aprons) so well, how he likes the way your hair is pulled out of your face - but rather that he wants, just for a few moments, to feel like he is being looked at as another person on the street. Before today, it had been a long time since he’d been allowed to feel normal. 

And if the price of feeling ordinary is a few bags of sweets and a lighter wallet, is that so high a price to pay?

And he could always buy things for his teammates!

He might not be planning on enjoying any delicacies himself, but if one of his teammates enjoys the treats . . . he smiles to himself at the sheer genius of his plan. 

“May I have some bags made up?” He asks you. “I’m afraid there are a few things I want, I’d rather keep them separate--”

“Of course, Sir!” You say, immediately brightening - even more! He didn’t think it was possible for that glow you had to get any brighter, but he’s proven wrong. “Are you buying some gifts, perhaps?”

“Yes,” he says, watching you reach behind the counter and put on a pair of thin plastic gloves. “Some gifts for my colleagues, we’ve just done rather well on a project.” He can’t stop watching your hands. He wonders how small they would look if he were to put his own beside them. If he were to take ahold of you.

(He does not say that the “project” he refers to is the murder of an influential government official whose demise had been reported this morning as due to a combination of old age and a rare blood disorder nobody had realised he’s had, one that caused a horrible iron deficiency. It’s much better that you don’t know that.)

“Oh!” You say, the smile not leaving your face, your eyes not leaving his. “I’m really happy for you! You must be a considerate boss, to want to buy everyone else presents! How many are you buying for? We have a couple of gift boxes and selections that might fit the bill, if you want to bring in a treat to share--”

“No,” Risotto says quickly, imagining the chaos that might break out if he were to provide a box for his teammates to pick and choose how they pleased. Ghiaccio would certainly accuse someone of having more than their fair share, and Prosciutto would berate Pesci for eating too many, and Gelato would definitely actually eat too many-- “I’ll get them all individual gifts, if you don’t mind.”

Your smile is infectious. Risotto isn’t certain when the last time the curve of his lips held this long. 

“That’s more than fine. I’ll make sure they’re all very nicely presented, don’t you worry about that! How many individual bags would you like?”

He pauses, counting in his head, partly not wanting you to move too far away from him and partly hypnotised by the tilt of your head and the colour of your eyes and the way your attention is focused solely on him. He’s used to not being seen - that’s his job description, after all. But you make being noticed seem . . .pleasant. Like it’s not something to be avoided at all costs. 

He’s grateful for the little game he played with himself earlier, assigning all of the sweets to members of his team. It means he doesn’t embarrass himself tripping over words and sounding unsure about what he wants, making you feel as though he’s incompetent - he watches as you take scoops out of the big impractical jars and pour them into sweet little striped paper bags, reaching behind you to pull out lengths of ribbon and cut them so they curl beautifully, neat little cards with the name of your shop attached to the shimmering tails--

You move so quickly and neatly and Risotto is duly impressed. He’d find this kind of work horribly dull; you seem to be having a good time, enjoying yourself as you tug on a ribbon that isn’t quite even and straighten the tag of Prosciutto’s sweet tobacco. He feels . . . warm, somehow, that you’re taking such care over the little bags of sweets, though he knows they can hardly be the most expensive things you sell. Risotto cannot afford the most expensive things you sell, he thinks, looking at the price of some of the chocolate assortments in satin boxes behind the glass. 

“There!” You say, stepping back and enjoying the neat sight of all eight bags of Risotto’s choice lined up on the counter. Risotto has to admit they look very neat and pretty - whilst he knows Ghiaccio will probably just tear into his bag of pretty pale blue peppermints, he hopes that Prosciutto or Illuso or someone will appreciate the work put into presentation. He knows he is - or perhaps he’s just admiring the one doing the presentation. Aren’t they the same thing, in the end? 

You tell him the total and Risotto fumbles for his wallet. It’s been a while since he paid for anything in cold hard cash - he has a fake bank card for things like groceries under a false name, but somehow he wants to ensure things here are more . . . personal. He hands over the money and his breath catches as your fingers brush his--

Did you feel that spark of electricity? That brief zip of excitement? 

“Which of them are for you?” You ask him, as if nothing has happened, waiting for your register to print his receipt. You’re thankful for your father’s insistence on pricing things in whole numbers - you’ve never had much of a brain for mathematics, and you’d felt somehow . . . discomfited by the way Risotto’s fingers had felt when they brushed your own. You’re glad to avoid touching him too much. 

“Oh.” He looks at you. “None of them are.”

You look at him, profiling him - and then, smiling, you tap your nose. You reach to one of the jars closest to you, filled with dark pinwheels the colour of this man’s scleras - you take a handful of them and pop them into one of the bags your father usually leaves for Halloween-time, black and white striped. 

“No charge,” you say, tying it with a neat little black bow. “I think you’ll like the licorice! You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys too much sweetness.” You drop it into the bag with the rest of Risotto’s purchases. “You should always allow yourself to indulge! You deserve a reward just as much as the rest of your team do!”

“I-- thank you, Signorina--”

You wave away his thanks, your cheeks pink, and Risotto decides right then and there he’s going to have to come back here, if only to see your face flush that colour once more. He knows you’re going to haunt his daydreams for days. That someone like you has existed so close to him for so long and he has been unaware. . .

“I hope you and your colleagues enjoy them!” You chirp. You point to the windows. “The rain’s stopped too! I was very glad to meet you, I hope I’ll see you again sometime--”

And you step away from him, turning your body towards the doorway, and Risotto is leaving before he shames himself by grabbing your shoulder and asking you to stay longer and just talk to him for a while. As he opens the door and the bell rings across the shop, he hears your voice:

“Elisa! He was perfectly nice, you were just being silly--”

Nice. 

He hasn’t heard that word ascribed to him in a long time. 

~ 

When Risotto hands Formaggio the prettily packaged parcel of sweets shaped like little cat faces, his subordinate looks up at him with wide eyes, as if trying to gauge whether or not Risotto is being serious about it. For one thing, gifts are not really a done thing among the members of La Squadra - for another, if Formaggio were to be handed confectionary, he would not have expected to be handed it by Risotto. Pesci, perhaps. Gelato, maybe - though he would hesitate eating anything given to him by Gelato. Illuso, maybe, if it were something elegant and not something twee--

But Risotto’s eyes are very focused and serious, so Formaggio takes the bag and drops out a confused thanks, and wonders if this is his capo’s way of poisoning him. He’s always imagined that Risotto would be sneakier than this, but maybe it’s one of those mafia honour things and he’s supposed to just eat it so that Risotto doesn’t kill him in a more painful way? Formaggio screws up his face looking down at it, and then watches as, across the room, Risotto stops Prosciutto. 

He picks out another bag of candy. Formaggio’s cat candy is tied with an orange bow; Prosciutto’s candy - Formaggio doesn’t know how to describe it, but it looks kind of like pale, sugary tobacco - is tied with a yellow one. Prosciutto looks down at it, and then back up at Risotto, and gives a halting thanks. 

A few hours later, Formaggio has ascertained that every member of La Squadra has been given a not-quite-identical bag. 

When Formaggio hesitantly puts forward that perhaps Risotto is going to kill them, Ghiaccio barks out angrily that their Capo would never do anything so stupid--

“I recognise this shop, anyway,” says Illuso, who is chewing a piece of fudge as he talks. Okay, maybe they’re not actually poisoned, then. “It’s down one of the main streets. Quaint little confectioner’s. Only been there a few years but seems to do okay business. I don’t know who owns it, but as far as I know it’s nobody who Passione or Risotto might have in their back pocket.”

Formaggio looks at the bag again, and, sighing, reaches in. His fingers close around one of the brightly coloured sweets, surprised by how hard it feels - he’d expected some kind of gummy sweet. Throwing it into his mouth, the hard candy immediately tastes sweet and warm and pleasant all at once. 

He crunches the sugar between his teeth loudly, because that is the kind of man that Formaggio is. Sorbet, across the table from Formaggio, wrinkles his nose and dutifully feeds Gelato another fluffy pink heart-shaped marshmallow. 

“Well?” Ghiaccio demands. “Are you going to die?”

Formaggio considers for a moment. Sweet strawberry aftertaste lingers between his teeth. None of the rest of his teammates who have professed they’ve already eaten some of their ‘gifts’ appear to have dropped dead where they stand yet. 

“Nah,” he says, eventually. “Don’t think I’m gonna kick the bucket any time soon. These are real good, by the way.”

“Mm,” says Melone, who pops another brightly coloured gumball into his mouth. Formaggio has heard the bubbles popping for most of the night - as Melone does it, a vein in Ghiaccio’s forehead visibly twitches. The blue haired man already looks like he’s teetering on the edge of collapse - Formaggio supposes he did not enjoy the use of the phrase ‘kick the bucket’. Ghiaccio can be a real uptight asshole. “We should ask Risotto to be rewarded like this every time a hit goes well. Really makes us feel like a team, don’t you think? I’ll give you one of mine if you’ll let me try one of yours.”

Formaggio laughs, flicking one of his cat candies across the table and catching Melone’s tossed gumball with grace, sweeping a low bow. There’s a brief hubbub on the table as Formaggio walks away, probably about who’s being allowed to try some of whose candy, and Formaggio is smirking at the chaos he’s caused as he goes to find Risotto. 

He really wouldn’t mind some more of these, actually. 

He slips it into conversation with Risotto a few days later, expecting to be rebuffed immediately - the whole thing was already so out of character for their quiet, impassable leader - but he’s surprised when Risotto doesn’t tell him to be grateful for what he has. If Formaggio didn’t know Risotto so well, he’d say that the veil that fell over Risotto’s gaze was almost . . . fond. Longing. 

After a moment, Risotto speaks. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The statement is vague, without making any promises - and yet Risotto’s tone sends a shiver down Formaggio’s spine. Formaggio himself has never been the kind of man who makes a plan and sticks to it - if Formaggio gets what he wants, it’s usually because of pure luck. But when Risotto speaks, even to say something so up in the air . . .

Formaggio gets the impression he’ll definitely be getting more of the prettily decorated bags from the confectioner’s down the main street. 

And for some reason, that certainty leaves him feeling unsettled. 

~

Risotto is a careful man. He goes into the store that you work at once or twice a week; though he quickly memorises your schedule, he makes sure to pop in every so often when you’re not working. Once, he is served by Elisa, who looks at him with wide eyes and shaking fingers and jumps when the bell rings and another customer walks in. She’s clearly been told by you that Risotto is no threat, and yet she cannot shake that human nature: fear that which you do not think you could outrun or outsmart. Risotto does not smile at her. 

Likewise, he does not smile at the older man who is working one Tuesday morning when he enters the candy-scented room to buy himself some more of the licorice. You had been right; he wasn’t a sweet kind of man, but he found himself enjoying the licorice you’d picked out for him immensely. He likes the salt and the chew of the black cables - sometimes, biting into them feels like stress relief. 

This man, he assumes, is your father. He does not treat Risotto badly by any means, but Risotto sees the way that your father looks at him distrustfully and sees that he gets much less licorice in the bag than when you (or even Elisa) weigh out the contents. 

It’s a pity, he thinks, you had to have a man like that for a father. 

When he does get to see you, it feels like all of his troubles are lifted at once. 

He had become used to the feeling of carrying all of his burdens around his heart like iron chains. He had accepted that was his lot in his life; he had accepted he was going to feel like he was drowning until he was murdered in a back alley after becoming too cocky with his stand. He hadn’t realised how bad that feeling had gotten until you’d smiled and winked and given him free candy out of the good of your heart and not because you were afraid of him, smudge on your nose and all. 

He supposes, surrounded by other men who kill for money, he had not realised that some people were just inherently good. 

Well. Perhaps not some people. In his experience, you are the exception that proves the rule. 

And that you are reduced to being a confectioner in your father’s business and working behind a cash register, doing mindless things like measuring out grams and tying ribbons makes him ache in the middle of his chest. Someone like you deserves the world. Risotto does not dislike himself - but he does not like himself either. His body is simply the prison that he lives in. Other people whisper behind their hands about what Risotto might do with a face and a body like that, what blood might stain his past, what he might do if he were given an inch of leeway and they were to take their gaze from him for just a moment--

But you do not do that. You smile at him and always put an extra scoop of the sweets into whatever he orders (Prosciutto does not like the sweet tobacco; he asks for one of the beautifully decorated boxes of candy cigarettes, and you put three into his paper bag, telling him nobody ever really buys them anyway). You ask him banal questions about his day like he’s an ordinary man. 

Once, angry about the man’s conduct on their last ‘project’,  he lets slip Melone’s name. He curses himself in the back of his brain, hating that he’s made himself vulnerable - but when, a few weeks later, you ask about whether Melone has calmed down any yet, any fear he had about you misusing the new information floats away like dust on the wind - you are simply a wonderful person who remembers things that you are told. Who cares about his life, though nobody else ever has. 

Risotto sees little things about you. Every day, he learns something new. He learns that you have no particular interest in sweet-making, but your father did not trust easily (this comes as no surprise to Risotto, even with his limited interactions with the man). He learns that you still live at home. You mention that you walk through one of the shittier neighbourhoods to get there, and that is enough for Risotto to draw a brief sketch in his mind of where you might reside--

He learns other things, too. He’s not surprised by your gentle kindnesses, but they still hit him full force in the chest whenever he gets to see one. 

It is not just him you give extra portions to, after all. Small children who come in and laboriously count out their money onto the glass, the tap-tap-tap echoing in Risotto’s brain, are rewarded with you exclaiming about how good they are with numbers and a few extra scoops of whatever sweet thing they’re hankering over. A few times, when you and he have been chatting, you’ve slipped him one of the licorice pinwheels from the jar whilst you chewed on your own delicacy of choice. 

(“Almost nobody ever buys the licorice!” You tell him, laughing. “You’re doing me a favour by eating some, really!”)

Once, a little girl comes in, sniffling. It transpires she has lost her mother in the hubbub of a busy Friday evening, and you talk to her softly and gently and fetch a chair from out of the backroom for her to sit on. You amuse her by telling her about a time you got separated from your father when you were a small child, and you give her one of the brightly coloured lollipops decorated with rainbow swirls from your display cabinet. 

When her mother eventually flies into the shop in a tizzy, she is grateful to you - and more, she’s grateful to Risotto, her eyes not once straying to his peculiar clothes or his strange eyes. To him, she is just one of the two people in this little confectioners who helped keep the light of her life safe, and her eyes are full of happy tears when she gives him a quick hug--

He doesn’t remember the last time somebody hugged him. 

Just another example of your bright sunshine rubbing off on him. When somebody is by you, he thinks, they cease to be just themselves - they are lent some of your warmth and sweetness and are made all the better for it. A little voice in the back of his brain, gnawing viciously at the knot in his chest that forms whenever you smile at him, whispers that nobody else deserves this. You are too good for this world. You must be protected and kept safe and guided away from the evils of the universe--

You give a little boy and his even younger sister who come in to browse - and admit shyly, sadness in their eyes, that they have no money, and just enjoy the colours and the smells and being surrounded by delicious things so they can imagine how they might taste - a bag made up of two sweets from every jar in the shop. 

“Don’t you lose money?” He can’t resist asking you, after the children have exchanged wide eyed looks as if they cannot believe their fortune and ran out of the door, babbling impassioned thanks. “Giving things out for free like that?”

You meet Risotto’s eyes - and in them, you see that worry that the extra sweets and the free things you slip into this man’s orders have been a burden on you - and you shake your head. 

“You never lose money on kindness,” you tell him, and Risotto remembers that for days afterwards. No.The world doesn’t deserve you. Somebody is going to take advantage of you. That voice - the one he has never been good at ignoring, the one that leads him to splattering brains on the pavement with a handgun before he turned twenty - whispers that the only place you will be safe is with him. Risotto believes it. 

He believes it even more when one night he has dropped in to buy Formaggio some of his cat candy, and you and your father are arguing in hushed whispers in the back room. You see him, and go to greet him and ask him what he wants tonight--

And your father reaches out, hands encircling your wrist, dragging you to face him too close and hissing something that, if Risotto were not intimately acquainted with listening to conversations he is not supposed to, he would have missed. 

“You’re going to bankrupt us--”

“It’s just a few sweets--”

“They’re my sweets. You’re fucking lucky you have a job at all, you ungrateful little--”

Risotto steps forward, and your father - like the coward he is - falls silent. He looks up at the imposing six foot something man with muscles the size of his head and cannot think of anything to say. Risotto’s voice is low, like the rumbling purr of a motorcycle engine when he speaks;

“Is there a problem here?” 

Your father blinks up, and you look at Risotto like he has saved you from a very dark fate - and Risotto cannot help but love that look of relief and adoration on your face. 

“No problem,” your father mumbles, and scurries away back into the other room, tail tucked firmly between his legs. 

Risotto turns his gaze on you. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, sensing that you’re about to cry or do something worse. He looks at the way you cradle your wrist protectively in one gloved hand and wonders if it’s the first time your father has ever laid his hands on you - for your father’s sake, Risotto hopes it is. He cannot describe what he would do to anyone who would hurt you more than this. 

He wants to take you away then, as you right yourself and wipe at your eyes and summon a smile for him - ever the sunny one, even when your world is raining. He envies and loves that about you. But he cannot. Not yet. 

He must plan slowly. He must earn your trust. Risotto does not rush into things. 

~

Risotto has his responsibilities. He longs to be able to devote every moment of every day to you; he wants to watch you wake up and see sunlight dapple your beautiful face, wants to see you sleep-tousled and soft in the morning. He wants to walk beside you on your way to work. He wants to cook you dinner. He wants to hold you in his arms and never let go. He wants to lock you up so that soft prettiness you have and that sweet sunshine can only be gazed upon by him and people he thinks deserves you. He wants to chain you up and keep you safe so that you might never have to interact with people who do not deserve you ever again. 

But he can’t. Not yet. 

For now, he tries to keep his longing sated by dropping into the sweet shop whenever he can. He prefers early mornings and late evenings - when you are more likely to be alone, and the shop is most likely to be quiet. He’s walked you home from your shift once, when you’d sighed that it was raining and you hadn’t brought an umbrella--

(“I owe you for the first time,” Risotto had grunted - and you, who have come to be fond of this over-protective huge man in the way one is fond of an awkward older brother, allow it. You know about your basic stranger safety - but Risotto has been so loyal in the past few months, and he’d stopped your father from shouting, and he’s never been weird or creepy towards you. You can’t help but think the man is just lonely - so you accept the proposal, although you don’t let him walk you any further than the top of your street.)

Sometimes, he lets Metallica out, and he blends into the walls behind him, and he watches you go home. He follows you and watches you go into your shitty little house that you’d tried so hard to keep a secret from him - he thinks you must be ashamed of it. The front door looks as though it’s been kicked in once or twice. The flower garden out front has gone wild. The windows are grimy, and one is smashed. The sweet shop cannot be doing so well, then. 

It’s alright, he thinks to himself. When you and he have your future together, he’ll make sure the house is perfect. You will not have to worry about vandals or criminals. You won’t walk down a street to get home that is lined with used needles and empty bottles. 

He finds out, coincidentally, it is not the first time your father has laid hands on you, and he aches for justice. That anyone would have the nerve to hurt you! That anyone could try and dull that sparkle or rain on that sunshine! 

Risotto knows he is not a good man - but he knows you are good, good, gooder than any person has a right to be. If you are his, perhaps some of your goodness will rub off on him - and if it does not, at least he will be able to ensure that you never lose it. 

It’s enraging. 

And though he promised himself he would wait . . . well. Patient men who can control themselves do not end up the capo of La Squadra. They do not end up in Passione’s employ. They do not develop stands that are suited for nothing so much as death--

And he thinks about how your father does not pay Passione’s protection fees. He thinks about how your father clearly thinks he is too good for that - thinks he is too good for you, though Risotto knows that is the opposite of the truth. His stomach and his brain and his bloodlust roar with anger, for the world to be set to rights, for your father to pay for his transgressions. 

And Risotto Nero, capo of La Squadra di Esecuzione, fool who has fallen irrevocably in love - he sets the cogs turning, and his plan in motion. 

~

It’s early Tuesday morning and you’re opening the shop today. Your father stayed late last night - when you’d woken up, he was still not in, and you assume he’s spent all night working. He does, sometimes, when he’s concocting some new flavour or messing around with some new way of doing things when the old ways have sufficed perfectly well for hundreds of years. 

You do not share your father’s passion for the art of confectionery. You’re only working this job because he hadn’t been able to find anyone else he trusted with the machines and the shop - though you do not want to spend the rest of your life here, he always guilt trips you when you mention moving away, and you’ve accepted you’re going to be stuck here for eternity. Your feet are dragging on the ground, putting off the inexorable boredom of working something you do not care about, when you hear a voice behind you. 

“You’re late today.”

It’s faintly amused - low and deep, and you turn and see Risotto. 

(You’d laughed at his name and he’d laughed too at your reaction. It’s one of the few times you’ve heard him laugh, and you wish he did it more. He always seems so serious. You feel awfully sorry for him.)

“Just putting off the daily grind,” you tell him, slowing down so he can fall into step beside you. You trust Risotto, insomuch as one can trust a customer. “Are you stopping by for something?”

“Ah,” Risotto says. “Melone has ran out of those cinnamon candies shaped like women’s mouths.”

You nod. Melone is one of Risotto’s colleagues; one of the ones he mentions a lot. You think that Melone is a ladies man, a flirt, and someone who evidently does not take his job half as seriously as Risotto himself. 

“Well,” you say, smiling still. It’s nice to talk to him. “You’re welcome to come in and wait whilst I get the shop ready, as long as you promise not to nab any of our licorice whilst my father is watching! He never came home last night, so I can only assume he’s been at the table in the back like a mad scientist.”

Risotto holds up his hand - you can’t help but notice how big they are. Sometimes, little flashes like that remind you of why Elisa was scared of him. He hasn’t eased up on showing off the skin or the black leather or the intense eyes - still, you know not to judge a book by its cover. You’re glad that you hadn’t, when it came to Risotto. You look forward to him coming in. He feels like a friend. 

“On my honour,” he says, and you laugh - and then, abruptly, the laugh dies in your throat. 

The glass door is smashed. Your neatly written sign lays on the floor, “Closed” side up. Your lip wobbles as you look down, and Risotto breathes in sharply as he sees what’s given you pause. 

“Be careful,” he intones, lowly. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“My dad--”

You step up into the building, eyes flying around the room. The jars of candies are in disarray. The bonbons are on the floor, where they must have rolled when their jar came crashing down - all around you are shards of both glass and of brightly coloured hard sugars. 

The devastation of the main floor of the shop is not what worries you, though. 

Not even the cash register, emptied onto the floor, the drawer a little way away from the body of the thing with what is clearly absolutely no money in it, makes you worry as much as the red substance that is smeared across the tiles beneath you. 

“Oh, dio mio--” you whisper, your heart beating double time in your chest. 

You turn to see that Risotto has followed you into the shop, his eyes taking in the scene around him, his shoulders hunched. He sees you looking. 

“Do you want me to wait outside?” He asks, and you feel a pang in your chest. “I’ll stay, if you need me--”

If whoever did this is still here, you think, you might find yourself glad of the offer. You nod at him, trying to force past the lump in your throat to produce anything that comes close to being intelligible. 

“Please,” you whisper, and Risotto nods and comes to stand behind you. Together, you two advance past the chaos of the shop, through the scattered sweets and the glass jars and the ribbons and bags that have been disturbed during whatever tussle took place here. You two creep through the doorway - and when you see it, your breath catches in your throat and you think for a moment you’re going to scream. 

Your father is on the floor. His chest is moving, but its faint - your eyes are drawn to the blood around his head, haloing him like he’s an angel. You have often disliked your father, hated him even - but seeing him like this still makes you feel like bile is rising in your throat. 

“Wh-who would do this?” You whisper, your hands shaking. Risotto moves slowly and carefully, inching past you (you don’t notice how warm his body is or how hard it is in your grief, though Risotto notices how soft you feel against him). He picks something up from the big wooden-and-metal table you use for rolling out hot sugar and cutting fudges and all of those things. 

(You won’t be using it for those for a while, you think. It’s horribly unsanitary now! The very thought makes manic laughter bubble to your lips, though when it comes out it just sounds like great gulps of air). 

“Passione,” Risotto says, his voice flat. He hands you whatever it is he’s holding; with shaking hands, you take the matte black calling card. There is no name on it; just a fancy design, etched in the cardstock so that you can only see it when you tip it to the light. “This is . . . their symbol.”

You know about Passione. Of course you know about Passione!

“B-but--”

“I can only assume he didn’t pay protection fees,” Risotto says. You’re grateful for the monotone way he’s speaking to you, the slow enunciation - you’re not sure if you could take emotion right now. Not when your heart is beating so frightened against your ribcage. Not when you can’t breathe. Not . . . not now. 

“I--”

“Do you need me to call someone?” 

Risotto’s voice sounds very far away. 

He repeats your name. 

“There must be someone,” he says.

Someone. 

Your father’s unconscious body. 

An ambulance, perhaps. 

But if it’s Passione related. . .

You speak, and just like Risotto’s voice, your own sounds very far away. 

“My fiancé,” you manage to say. “He’ll know what to do.”

Oh. 

You don’t know that saying this is a mistake. 

You don’t know that Risotto’s heart feels like it’s turning upside down. 

You don’t know what’s about to happen.

Poor you. 

If only you had.

~ 

Risotto has followed you and watched you and dreamt about you, tossing and turning in his sheets, wishing you were there to hold onto. He has seen your home, seen your family, seen you walk to and from work and talked to you more than he’s ever talked to anybody he wasn’t supposed to either work with or kill. And he’s never come across even the slightest mention of a fiancé. You’ve never implied that there was anyone in your life! 

His heart is vibrating. His throat is dry. His fingers twitch idly. You look up at him, eyes wide, lip trembling--

There’s a cut on your hand. You must have brushed against one of the cracked or broken jars. Risotto’s eyes fixate on the bead of dark red--

Nobody but you has ever seen him as anything but a monster. 

Nobody has ever seen past the dark storm clouds in his heart - nobody has ever even tried! You’d walked into his life, all sweetness and sweet foods and laughter and treating and touching him like he was just another human, no thoughts as to whether he was involved in shady business or whether he’d ever been at the other end of a gun. He’d seen your smiles and your laughter and the light in your eyes and thought he was getting somewhere!

Something in him snaps. 

If you’ve never mentioned a fiancé before, perhaps it’s not something you want. Perhaps it’s someone you’ve felt indebted to, like working for your father - oh, Risotto can see that easily. You’re such a bleeding heart. Too gentle and too kind for your own good, never the kind to want to upset someone. 

If that’s it, he thinks, he’s doing you a favour - and he thinks of his car, parked one block away. He thinks of the tinted windows. He thinks of his house, on the outskirts of the city. 

Doing you a favour. Taking you away from all of this. Keeping your light safe and bright and making sure nothing ever dims it. 

He crooks a finger, and you blink, woozy on your feet suddenly. The little faces of his Metallica peek out from the cut on your hand, and he imagines them in your bloodstream even now. He imagines them melding together, taking the iron flowing through you (even your blood is pretty, he thinks, as you make a distressed noise and reach out for him and he steps towards you) - and he visualises the iron disk blocking your windpipe. Your hands clutch uselessly at your throat, eyes widening and closing, a horrific noise falling from your lips--

(Oh, he’s glad he’ll only have to hear that once. You should never be in pain.)

And your eyes flutter closed, your body falling heavy into Risotto’s arms. 

Risotto is more than strong enough to carry you out of the door. A passerby sees him and you - Risotto calls out to her, and she ducks her head, not wanting to attract attention. Risotto is used to that. Risotto is used to being hurried past. Risotto has never considered it a right for people to treat him as they treat other human beings. 

“I’m going to the hospital,” he calls out, even though the woman clearly does not want to know. “Passed out.”

She hurries past, and Risotto carries your body to his car. It’s still early in the morning. Nobody but that lady is around to watch the man take your body and bundle it into the back seat. 

He eases the disk away, but continues to pull iron from your bloodstream. Better for you to be dizzy and unconscious and unaware whilst he takes you away. He doesn’t want you pounding on the doors of his car and attracting attention - or worse, realising where you two are going well enough to find your way back. 

Somebody else will deal with the mess in Dolcezza. You - beautiful, wonderful, lovely you - will never have to worry about cleaning up after your father again. 

He drives. He thinks about how safe you will be in his home. He thinks about coming home to you after a hard mission - he thinks about how your hands will feel on his shoulders, how your smile will warm his cold heart. He thinks about the brush of your lips on his - he wonders if you taste as sweet as the things you make. He thinks about your skin hot against his whilst he’s asleep, your head on his chest. 

Risotto has never entertained thoughts of a domestic life before - he’s never thought he’d ever find anyone to share it with. He’s been thrown his fair share of admiring looks, of course, but he’s seen the darkest parts of the world. Most people disgust him. 

But not you. 

You stir, groaning, and Risotto uses Metallica to draw more iron from you until your breathing evens out. 

Nearly home, he thinks - he feels almost giddy when the thought flickers in his brain. He has always thought of it as his house. It has never been a home - but with you there, in his bed, in his arms, in the kitchen or the living room or anywhere at all . . . with you there, it is certainly a home. 

One of his neighbours is out, a hosepipe in his hands. Risotto takes a moment to remember his name. Clemente. He is old and infirm - even now, he stoops, watering his garden. 

Risotto does not need to think twice. He parks his car neatly and goes to the back door, opening it to scoop you out - and Clemente looks at the man he has lived next to but never spoken to because he is too afraid, and puts the pieces together. 

Before he can scream, there are razor-blades in his throat and knives in his wrists and needles in the vital arteries pumping blood to his heart. Risotto is strong enough to drag the body to his door with one hand and support you with his other arm. 

It is not exactly a spur of the moment decision, really. Risotto thinks as he locks the door to his house behind him and carries you up the stairs, leaving the still gasping but far too weakened to move Clemente in the hallway to bleed out. 

It makes sense, Risotto tells himself, that you might be afraid at first. You do not know Risotto Nero that well. You have only ever known your life with your father. You are leaving behind all of those other people who ate at your time and basked in the glow of you that they did not deserve. He expects an acclimatisation period. 

And with fear, he knows, comes a desire to escape. He is not so selfish as to think you will not try. Risotto is a smart man. He drops you on the bed carefully, making sure your head is cushioned by soft pillows. He goes down the stairs to fetch Clemente - with the man’s body, he is far less careful, his fetching a drag. 

Clemente’s blood bubbles from his mouth, but that is unimportant. Risotto will dispose of the corpse later. 

The iron in Clemente’s body does well for forming the shutters over the window - it blocks out the natural light, but Risotto has lamps - and the light of your smile and your laugh and your voice will be enough for him. In time, perhaps you’ll win the light back. But for now, the windows are too much of a risk. 

He uses more iron to make the caged bars that come down outside and inside of the door - inside first, and a key. There is just enough left in Clemente to make the outside cage - and then Risotto is left with a shrivelled corpse. He’ll deal with that at a different time, by cover of night - he knows all of the best places in the city for such things. He has used them plenty of times. If worst comes to worst, he will take the corpse in his car to the rest of his gang and ask Illuso to toss him in a river in the mirror world. It will hardly be the first time the other man has dealt with clean-up detail. 

Iron shutters. Two locks. The bars too strong and thick to bend. 

Yes. 

He knows this will be the best for you. 

You will be away from the life that you never wanted. You will be with him - you’ll love him, Risotto is sure of it. 

No. 

You already love him! For if you do not love him, how could you bear to look into his eyes? Why would you laugh like a silvery bell when he tries to tell a joke? Why would you trail your fingers across his hand just so when you hand him his goods and his change? Why would you talk to him and not run from the blackness and the evil and the rot inside him? 

You must love him. You’ll realise you love him. 

His teammates will miss the sweets, of course. Risotto will miss his licorice. 

But that’s a small price to pay for the sweetness of your body and your mind and you, every day to come home to for the rest of your life. 

Click. Clank. Click. Clank. Click. Clank. 

He is alone in the room with you, the doors secured, no light creeping in through the iron shutters on the windows. He approaches the bed - and brave now that you and he are finally alone, he leans down and smoothes a kiss over your forehead. He lets the iron drain slowly back into your body. 

Any minute now, you will come back around. 

Any minute now, Risotto will be able to introduce you to your new life. Show you your new room. Whisper to you about the future he has already built in his head for the two of you - a rose-tinted future he’d never have been able to even imagine had you not smiled at him and given him those free licorice pinwheels. Had you not had sparkling eyes and a smudge on your nose and the sweetest laugh he had ever heard--

Oh. 

He can hardly wait. 

[industriallyinsecure]

Wanna write about yandere la squadra having their first kiss with their darling? Would it happen before captivity or after? Would they force it or want it to be of their darlings own "free" will/initiated by darling?

Oooooh!! I really liked this one ;)

TW: non con touching and kissing

Formaggio is very touchy feely to you already. Not to the extent of Melone’s constant need to be touching you, but still pretty bad. He likes to have an arm around your shoulders or waist so he can hug you close when he gets jealous. He doesn’t care if you don’t want him, just that he gets what he wants. Probably forced a kiss on you if he gets jealous (aka Illuso makes a smartass comment). If you struggle you’re shrunken and placed in the palm of his hand where he can love all over you and kiss your little face.

Illuso already believes he’s god’s gift to mankind, so be prepared to have kisses forced on you while you stay with him. With Illuso, it’s almost instant captivity. He first thinks it’s a stand that has made him so infatuated with you, but when he discovers that’s not the case, well, he can’t exactly have you running around screaming Bloody Mary (bc he lives in a mirror (; ). He’s a bit stunned that you don’t think he’s gorgeous and keep denying attraction, though. Ultimately kisses you to stop your screaming, but he gets a bit too into it.

Pesci is a hopeless romantic at heart. He’s seen too many rom coms which have given him a warped view of how love is supposed to work, but he really, really wants the kiss to be reciprocated. Prosciutto says that he needs to just make his move already, but things like this take time, don’t they? When he finally did work up the courage to tell you, he ended up bottling it and just went straight for the kiss instead. If you like it? Great! His infatuation is fueled more and he’s very giddy about it. You don’t (because you never should let someone force themselves on you and don’t need to be kind to them if they do)? Oh dear, that’s a problem. He either gaslights, gatekeeps, and (girl)bosses you into feeling bad, or freaks out and knocks you out on accident. Either way he’s happy to be spending more time with you!!

Prosciutto doesn’t force you into anything. His love language is in little gestures, not in physical actions. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to hold you close and brush his nose against yours and look deep into your eyes. It’s the closest to a kiss you’ll get from him unless you do it yourself. At a certain point he might get fed up and bring you into a hot, steamy make out session after a particularly difficult day away from you. Composes himself and apologizes if you didn’t like it. If you do, be prepared to be yanked by your collar into kisses more often. Prosciutto likes to pretend he’s composed, but really he’s just as depraved as the others

Melone makes things move very quickly in the relationship, so don’t expect to not be receiving every type of kiss besides on the lips. While he understands things might be moving too fast and he is insatiable (aka horny), he still wants to wait for the perfect moment for your first kiss. Absolutely freaks out if you kiss him first, but in a good way(?).But otherwise, he wants it to be special. Maybe after a very romantic date where you spent time staring into each other’s eyes and left the food to cool. Once the first kiss happens, expect to be pestered all the time about kisses, but mostly having them stolen from you.

Ghiaccio Oh dear. Poor ice rat. Poor sweet baby. He really doesn’t know what to do. One thing led to another and now you’re stuck inside his apartment, door frozen over. Things had gotten too heated between you two. Butting heads all the time really does a number on someone who is so utterly and completely in love. Especially when said person doesn’t know how to cope with feelings besides pride, anger, and superiority. Probably the most sensitive you’ll ever see him. He’s wearing a hole into the floor as he anxiously paces and picks at his nails. You almost feel bad, but when you stood to comfort him, he squawked at you. When you swallowed what little pride you had left and smacked your lips over his, it was a little bit underwhelming. He sort of…stood there. His face was tightened up and there was no movement on his end. Overall a very uncomfortable experience that you both chose to forget about.

Risotto definitely wants it to be on your terms, either in or out of captivity. He’s already very intimidating and almost overbearing, so he knows why you shy away when he gets close. Once you give him that first kiss, be it on the lips or just the tip of his nose, it’s all over. You’ve opened the gates for this emotionally starved Scicilian devil to devour you whole. Meaning he’ll pepper your face in little tiny kisses or kiss your forehead, not that he’ll start making out with you at a moment's notice. While his kisses seem platonic, it’s just his way of coping with the fact he has a very big weakness, you.

Gelato is the first one to initiate a kiss. With Sorbet’s intimidating stare boring into you, it’s not like you were in a position to refuse. Before, they’d sandwich you on either side and kiss you on the cheeks. Gelato had always been the more enthusiastic one in the relationship, so it made sense for him to be the one who was bold enough to kiss you first. Either that, or Sorbet just had no interest. He was very hard to read. If you pull away or hit him, you’re immediately put in a chokehold, Sorbet’s arm crushing your windpipe as Gelato cupped your face and spat insults at you for misbehaving.

[wri0thesley]

god nat I just thought about yandere prosciutto controlling every aspect of my life and micromanaging me and hot damn 🔥👌🏻👌🏻💦💦

oh my god anon that’s . . . that’s my kink . . .

hhhhhhh

1.5k. non-con/dub-con/yandere warning. not sfw. afab reader, fem pronouns

other warnings: abuse, smoking, spanking/whipping, gunplay, slurs, exhibitionism (only hinted at), public play (again only hinted at). micromanagement. toys. orgasm denial. photographs. this prosciutto is just a fucking . . . a fuckin asshole lbr

"The black set, I think," Prosciutto says, his voice soft and low but still sending a shiver down your spine. You hadn't realised how close he was to you. You hear the slow intake of breath and scent tobacco on the air and know he's smoking - of course, you know better than to chide him for making your clothes smell like smoke. All of you smells like his smoke, now. "Don't you agree?"

"I-if that's what you want me to wear," you whisper, softly, and Prosciutto makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. A fingertip trails down your spine, along bare skin, ghosting the back strap of the black lace negligee you're wearing (another of Prosciutto's choices). You don't get the luxury of deciding what you want to wear for yourself any more.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Take that off, then. Get dressed."

Your hands are trembling as you pull of the diaphonous material, and they do not cease in their shaking even as you pull out the lacy black set of lingerie Prosciutto had picked out for you. You bend over to step into the underwear and one of his hands take a generous handful of your ass, squeezing it so hard you fear he'll leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints all over you - but you do not dare make a noise.

He crosses the room, slowly, taking a seat in the reading chair by the bed. You know better, too, than to stay facing away from him - you'd made that mistake once, and decided that it was better not to do it again as you'd soothed the thin red lines of his belt with antibacterial wipes and bandages.

You clip your stockings to garters, adjusting the backseams just so - he'll take out his anger if they're not perfect on you, and you don't know what he wants to do with you today. If you go out with him, and embarrass him by stumbling in high heels or having crooked seams or messing your lipstick up even a little bit . . . it's better not to think of it.

The bra is clipped behind you, and you stand for a moment in front of him, aware that his gaze is roving all over you hungrily. You know Prosciutto likes you naked - but you can't help but feel he likes you even more when you're dressed up and he can have his fun peeling layer after layer of your clothes and lingerie of. Or when he asks you to strip for him, slowly, the threat of what he might do if you were to disobey or displease him hanging heavy in the air.

"W-what else would you like me to wear today, Signore?" You ask him, and you're rewarded with a crooked smile. Full lips quirking at the corners. You'd thought that smile was so handsome, once - it had made butterflies catch in your throat. Now, you still think him handsome - but you suppose even monsters are beautiful, sometimes.

"I think perhaps you stay in that today, dolcezza," he says, after a moment. "I have business to attend to, and I'd like you . . . waiting and ready when I come home."

"Of course," you say, snapping to attention as he stands. He turns away from you for a moment to rifle in the drawers, and then he's approaching you holding something in his hands that makes your face turn hot. You recognise the toy he's holding - the slight curve, the remote control he's even now slipping into the pocket of his suit jacket. "I--I always am."

"That's because you're my good girl," Prosciutto breathes, coming to stand before you. He's gentle as he trails the tip of the toy down - between the valley of your breasts, your navel, past your mound of venus. He teases it against the lips of your sex through the sheer briefs for a moment, sliding it slowly between the valley through the fabric - and then, he chuckles lowly and pulls it away. "Mouth open."

You're obedient. You open your mouth and let him slide the toy within the heat of it, between your lips.

"Get it nice and wet," he says, only the slightest edge of lust to his words. "You'll want it that way." You hollow your cheeks, looking up at him with wide eyes - a sneer curls the corner of his mouth and he hisses, nought to a hundred in moments and poison in his words; "Your fucking tongue, troia. Don't hold out on me."

A mean thrust has the toy bobbing against the back of your throat and you almost gag around it. Prosciutto pulls it out, drool covering it, his eyes narrowed as he looks at you.

"Be better next time," he says, a snarl barely restrained - and you nod feverishly, hoping that he won't do anything more than spit poison at you. "That's what I thought."

He slides his fingers into the waistband of the underwear, pulling it out enough si that he has space to slide the toy inside it - and then, inside you. The head of the toy nudges your clit and your thighs tremble, but you don't let yourself so much as squeak - your face is flushing, but Prosciutto hasn't given you permission for more than that. You find yourself biting down on your lip as the tip breaches your entrance, sliding inside of you slowly, dragging against your inner walls. You're already wet - your body is conditioned to hear Prosciutto's dulcet tones and see his lidded eyes and know to be ready for him.

"You always take them so well," he coos, no warmth at all in his voice. "You're always so good when it comes to doing this for me. Still," he flicks a finger against your chin in a mocking echo of a fond gesture. "I suppose a slut's always ready to be filled up."

"A-are you going to leave it on all day?" You ask, softly, hoping you won't be punished for speaking out of turn. Prosciutto cocks his head. He simply says;

"Perhaps."

"A-and . . ." You swallow. "Is there anything you want me to do . . . wh-whilst you're out?"

"Hmm," he says. A slow smile is spreading across his face at your deference, though - you know that he'll have plenty of ideas. He's not the kind of man who lets you be idle. Prosciutto always has a list of chores, a list of rules, a list of things you can and cannot do whilst he's gone - and when he is there, the orders are sharper, and you are even more afraid of fucking up lest Prosciutto take it as a personal insult to himself. "Of course I do, dolcezza."

He lets the words linger in the air for a moment, holding the threat of what he might ask you to do over you. He's done plenty of things that have driven you to tears - made sure that he has visitors dropping in to see you on the days when he's said you can wear nothing at all, made you send pictures of yourself to his comrades as punishment when you haven't behaved yourself, made you fuck yourself on a phone call with him for three hours once without giving you permission to come--

"First," he says, reaching into his pocket (you steel yourself for the toy to start buzzing, but the remote is not pulled out). Instead, he pulls out thin straps of leather. "I want you to wear this all day." The leather is unclipped and you realise with a hot flush of embarrassment that it's a leash. "We're running low on some groceries and I'm sending you to the market with Pesci later on."

Oh, no. Not . . . not Pesci. You hate when Prosciutto involves him like this - when Pesci is flushing and too awkward to look at you, when he barely knows how to speak to you, when he's too sweet to ever treat you the way Prosciutto demands he treats you (at least, you think, you're punished for that and not Pesci himself).

"You may put your coat on before you go outside," he says, "But you may not let Pesci let go of the leash. Do you understand, troia?"

"Y-yes, Signore."

"Good girl." He soothes a kiss onto your burning forehead. "The bedsheets need changing. You made a mess bleeding on them last night. Some of my suits need pressing - you ought to know which ones by now. There's a horrible mess in the closet--" From him getting dressed. Your own clothes are kept in perfect order - Prosciutto hates it when they're not. "There are some socks that need darning, too - oh, I know you hate sewing," there's that mocking chuck of your chin again. "But you're so clumsy with your own clothes, better to practise on something unimportant, hmm?"

(You are not clumsy with your own clothes. You are unerringly careful; when things rip or tear, it's generally because Prosciutto's hungry fingers or hungrier knife has decided you would be better off without any fabric marring your lovely body. You are always made to pay for the clothes, though not in money - you're made to pay to the tune of Prosciutto's fingers inside you until you sob for him to stop, his gun in your mouth as he demands you treat it as if it were his cock, his hand around your throat until your vision goes black).

"Of course," you say. "I-I'll try to get better at it, I promise."

"Mm," Prosciutto says. He steps back, taking a last moment to drink in the pretty picture you make for him - all black lace lingerie and stockings digging into full thighs, thin leather straps of the leash and harness accentuating your pretty neck and your body (he notes that said body is looking remarkably unmarked - he'll have to see to that later). "Oh. Dolcezza? One more thing."

He turns to go, as you whisper out a "yes?".

"Don't dare come before I say you can."

And a finger slips into his pocket and flicks a switch and the toy inside you buzzes into life, already turned up to the highest it can go.