Till Death Do Us Part | Risotto X Male!Reader

7| Mad-Mans Workshop

The sun shrinks behind the mountain's shoulder in the presence of the waning moon, its ashen body drifting into the sky with a tail of stars in its wake. Nightfall has come, and Risotto finds himself in the Mad-Man's workshop.

He was human, the blonde assured him, more than the others in the manor. Though that was mostly in a psychical sense. He introduced himself as Prosciutto, the "Doctor" of the place, in some sense.

Whenever Illuso got a chip in his body, Prosciutto would buff it out and sculpt it back into place. If Formaggio's stitches became loose, he would tighten them up. If Melone had trouble molting, then he'd lend a hand to peel away the shed skin. 

"I'm not going to run some sick experiment on you, so whatever thoughts the others put into your head, get it out now."

He must've caught Risotto hesitating at the door, foot barely lifted off the floor with the restrained intention of going inside. This was the room with all the banging and shouting earlier.

He continued to waver at the doorway for many seconds more, and only when Prosciutto seemed tog et suspicious of his caution did he manage to work the courage to place his foot down, and drag himself inside. 

It was much bigger than his room, that was for sure, but it was to be expected since it seemed to be a combined study space, a place where he wouldn't have to go too far to pull apart a rats insides and pin it into a diorama while it was still moving. 

Risotto shuddered at the sight of its tail straining against the needles holding it to the cork, its insistent squealing cut quiet with a swift scalpel to the throat.

"I must apologize for that," Prosciutto smiled from across the room, his voice bouncing smoothly off the cluttered walls. "I expected to receive you at a later date, so there's a bit of a mess."

Did he throw that scalpel, with such precision and suave, from where he sat in his corner? Risotto was all the way by the door, a good plenty meters away, so he must've simply interpreted what he saw wrong. Maybe it was just Sorbet and Gelato again.

He tried not to look behind him, where a hanging dartboard stuffed with scalpels seemed to say otherwise.

"Alright, step on over. I only need you for a quick wellness check." Prosciutto said, snatching a notepad into his hand. "As you walk, tell me how your ankle feels.

His ankle? Right, his ankle, he'd dislocated it running away from the servants of this manor, though it had seemed to heal faster than it should've. That isn't to say there wasn't a slight sting still hanging around.

The limp that burdened Risotto upon his first day was now a much lighter version of itself, a ghost of the pain he once endured only just beginning to haunt him. "It's better than when I was found. Still hurts a bit, but it's bearable."

"Good, it seems the drug is working."

Risottos head snapped up to look at the doctor. "Drug?"

"Yes, drug. The bath you took had chemicals in it I developed myself, I'm happy to see that it worked to heal you faster. However, I could make it more potent so that the pain is subsided by tomorrow morning, including any other cuts and scrapes still left behind."

That sounded nice, really, it did, but what was the point in him getting better when his whole reason for being there was to be eaten? Turned to fodder, left to cry to the flock that had long abandoned the black sheep, Risotto.

The thought made him consider, and so he decided to ask.

"Why is there any use for me to get better when I'm just going to get killed."

"Well, you're not going to die. At least, not yet; you still have use. I'll make sure you won't croak anytime soon."

It was only mildly disturbing how nice this guy sounded. And he didn't trust his ears. 

Though that might've been because he just heard him say he'll inevitably die.

"I'm going to assume you have no other problems other than your ankle and the occasional scratch. If there are, voice them now."  Prosciutto said flatly, holding a jar of something out to him, which he'd pulled from a random drawer in his desk. "Take a hot bath tonight, and put this in the water. You'll find yourself feeling better in no time."

Risotto amused himself with the thought of it being some kind of seasoning, a little something to spice him up with before getting eaten. It was only when he realized he'd actually found himself smiling at the gruesome thought did he realize he'd been in the manor for too long.

There wasn't much else for Prosciutto to look at, or at least, nothing that seemed to need immediate attention, so he was waved off to his room, where a steaming bath had already been run for him. He'd have to thank Melone for that, as the misplaced scale seen on the floor was a give away to his act.

It was a quick in-and-out job, washing himself with a sponge he didn't want to know the history of, dumping in the substance that vaguely resembled saliva, resting himself in the heat till the water ran cold. 

Throwing on the clothes kindly set out for him by Melone, least he assumed he was the one that did that, Risotto trudged over to the perfectly oversized bed and collapsed. Too much happened in one day, and yet, he felt he still could've accomplished more.

At the end of the day, when frost began to slowly creep along his window, and the clouds began to blanket the sky, everything seemed to finally rest. There was a gentleness in the air, the golden candle light that basked the room in warmth letting shadows sway as the chandelier rocked.

It was like a baby's mobile, softly putting him to sleep with its curious tilt, the blanket only on half his body when his eyelashes began to flit closed. He laid there for a bit, maybe longer, in a somewhat conscious state as his entertainment comprised only of the focus of his chest rising and falling.

It was when the candle blew out in one great puff that he was sent into reality again, deprived of that carefree rest he longed for. (Y/n) was back, it seemed. It was the second night he had come.

Risotto decided to keep himself still, however much he could in his panic, and put on a façade like no other. The stalking of the vampire could be heard in the deliberate footsteps hitting the floor, a subtle warning of him growing near, making Risotto shudder at the sound of them stopping at the foot of the bed.

He waited, just as he had before, and accepted death as it would find him. The reaper may find his mangled body mutilated in the deep woods, or maybe discover his organs laced along a tree as a disgustingly festive sight to bring mood to the season. 

Whatever (Y/n) would do to him, he wanted him to do it soon. And yet, just as before, the soft caressing of his fingers came along his head instead of an onslaught of sharp nails tearing his flesh.

They had a bit more confidence in them this time, the slightest bit of assurance, and let themselves drift where they pleased, no longer limiting themselves to merely ghosting his skin. Now, the pads of his hand could be felt grazing his cheek, tracing his forehead in a repeated motion that was almost sickeningly sweet. 

Risotto remembers when his mother would love him just as softly, lulling him to sleep in the safety of her touch, placing a kiss to his head before leaving to her own room. It was just as it was now, strangely domestic, however in a place he wouldn't ever consider home.

The cold began to sink into his body with the absence of the candles flame, body shifting to hide away in what covers he could pull unto himself. 

(Y/n)s fingers would snap back in fear of his wake, and Risotto thought it was the end of his question-raising tirade-- only to be proven wrong when he felt the blanket being gently dragged over his body, tucked into the curves he pressed into the mattress to keep him warm. 

Despite his wishes, (Y/n)s hand returned to where it once was, gently thumbing the space beneath his eye with tender strokes. As unsettling, and even alarming, as it was to be in this position with a person-- no, thing, such as him, Risotto couldn't help but find a sort of comfort in his benign. 

And as he slowly let himself get consumed by slumber and the kindly brushes against his face, he couldn't help but wonder what (Y/n) might've looked like, and if he could ever find himself warming up to him.