Wild Cards (JJBA Villains x Reader)

28| Risotto Nero

Pucci: how to get my crush to notice me no borax no glue

LONG CHAPTER AND IM UPLOADING ONE RIGHT AFTER THIS LESS GOOOOOO

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"Risotto," you say. "Are you here to renew your contract?" 

He wears disease well, though he suffocates himself in a poisonous ambition. His occupation squashes him, he is stooped beneath the ceiling, though it is tall enough to stretch, he is hunched in his chair opposite the desk, too small for him. 

He had a slack-jawed expression. Nothing could interest him. An envelope, sealed, is politely dropped onto your desk. Your hands remained clasped on the wood, unmoving by the thought of entertaining his purpose, because it was a poor, simple one, and those were always most boring. 

"Never. I learned my lesson with you." He said, his words a continuous monotone droning, that left a lasting amusement with you. "I intend to pay off Diavolos debt."

"Risotto, he's tied to a contract, you know how they work." Your face breaks into an amused smile, you tap your shoulder in emphasis. "Or did you forget?"

Risotto lets out a sharp huff through his nose, yet his body responds to you, twitching, just at his shoulder, where beneath his leather get-up deep scars of a broken contract were carved into the meat of him.

There is a wheezing, it's light and struggling against the air, it fills the silence between words. Esidesi is just behind on your couch, in just enough of a position to jump up and intervene if need be, as soon as he catches his breath of course. 

Pucci stands directly to your left, impossibly close. You consider on impulse, many things, what could shape or define the complex relationship that stood as a uniting rope yet unmovable barrier, but business is the guardian watching over your folded, idle hands. 

"Risotto, you and I are on a clean slate right now. You had broken the contract—though I have forgiven you—But; Just because you have found your own little band to play king with, does not mean you can come into my office, and make demands."

Risottos narrowed eyes, eyelashes leaning down at you like nodding flowers, his strong European structure and Roman nose, they were a mother's features put to a sinister complexion. His pale skin pulsed with iron like a machine working, his chest barely moved to take any breath.

It was awful how you still haunted him. There are wild things behind your eyes that play with him, silently, to resist would be a sin. Long has hell accepted him and every crucification he has served meister.

"I am not making demands. I am telling you." Pucci let out a humorous shot of air through his nose at that. "You can accept that money, or we can take him forcefully."

 For a conflicting energy drank what civility should remain, to be each others own threat and crippling weakness was to tolerate the forgotten relationship that bound the emotion.

The room held its breath, The curtains moved uncomfortably, the windows kept their eyes wide open to watch the spectacle. In the next room, a song plays with smooth instruments, soft clicks of the piano, deep tones of the saxophone. A man's heart bleeds through his words.

You pushed out your lower lip with your tongue. You stared hard at Risotto, as if considering whether to eject him from the casino. 

Risotto dared not speak your name for fear of infliction. His skin tickled just at the cusp of his scars, his body remembered you everywhere it shouldn't.