Amore | [Yandere] Vento Aureo

𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊 ✃❦

A monster born from a laboratory.

Born with a face made to bewitch others.

As beautiful as desire itself.

Her name?

Y/n Desiderio.

"If you kill them all.....perhaps I'll like you more?" The girl placed her foot on the boy's shoulder, digging into his flesh with her polished black heels. Her alluring (eye colour) eyes blinked twice, and she titled her head in an innocent way. "Did I ever say that?"

Purple-green patches had begun to surface on his skin, but he did not yelp in pain. Like a pious worshipper he knelt, hungrily ravishing the sight of her as his hands helplessly groped at the hem of her skirt. He dared not touch her, no matter how he wished to do so— she was otherworldly, transcendental, far too good for man.

"Although, I'd have to admit that you've taken me by surprise! I didn't think you could actually do it!" All of a sudden she bent over in laughter, yet soon enough the amused smile on her face turned into one of cruelty. She stared down from above, at the teenage boy, who was covered in the blood of his companions. Indifferently, she hummed, "However, it's not over yet, is it?"

Staring right into his eyes, she told him, "There's still one last person left...."

"Y/n...." He couldn't remove his gaze from her. He was bewitched, deranged by her beauty. Those bloodshot eyes held insanity within them, and his trembling hand grabbed her ankle as he rasped fanatically, "If I die, will you love me then?"

He couldn't get enough of her touch. He crawled closer to her. His face, blood-splattered, made him look ferocious, like a demon.

Yet, he was not the demon here.

She was.

A demon of love and desire.

"You will love me right? You will love only me.....as long as I do what you wish, won't you?" He asked passionately, grabbing the hem of her dress and yanking it in desperation, empty and filled with desperation for an answer.

"I will~"

She whispered in his ear, her voice sweet as ever, just as she had been the moment she had tempted him.

"Good.........good." He mumbled repeatedly, satisfaction manifesting within his gaze. And without hesitation, his hand—still holding the gun that had killed his colleagues— was lifted, aiming at his own temple.

He pulled the trigger. It had been done before she knew it— the motion of a single finger, the sound of the bullet striking where it should hit, traversing the skull, and over where his content smile had been plastered—fresh blood, splattered thick crimson covered, the unsaturated hue still spouting unrestrainably through the noticeable hole by his head.