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wri0thesley · 2 years ago

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disciplinarian - prosciutto x reader (3k)

you have made a mess of things - and prosciutto is not going to let that pass without punishment.

cw: yandere prosciutto. dubious-consent/non-consent (reader is well on the way to stockholm syndrome if not already there). afab reader referred to as 'spouse', no other gendered terms used. captive reader. spanking, exhibitionism, allusions to prosciutto using his stand on reader in the past. use of pet names, use of 'slut'. minors dni, not sfw.

[a/n: a fic in which a random number generator was allowed to choose some of my favourite kinks and characters for a little birthday event i did for myself! this one threw up 'prosciutto', 'impact play' and 'yandere!' it's been a while since i published jojo but oh, i could never forget about my love for One Old Man Mafioso!]

It’s your own fault.

You stare at the ruined dinner and feel your breath start to come in short little pants; a tell-tale sign that you’re about to panic. About to start crying. You should have checked on it more often! You should have double-checked all of the temperatures, stayed in the kitchen instead of going into Prosciutto’s study to read and imagine you were somewhere else--

The front door swings open. Prosciutto’s voice, warmth seeping from every syllable, calls out into the hallway;

“Tesoro? I’m home.”

That warmth will quickly dissipate when he sees what you’ve done. Even now, as he calls out your name once more, you can hear a mounting frustration; Prosciutto likes you to be ready to rush up to him when he comes home from work, peppering his cheek with kisses and chirping questions about his day, every inch the adoring little house spouse that he has mercilessly drilled you into becoming. You ought to be fussing over his jacket, stroking his cheek and telling him you missed him with heat in your cheeks - offering to fetch his slippers and a whisky for him to unwind with . . .

Instead, you are in the kitchen in front of ruined dinner, your apron a mess and tears rolling down your face as you face the facts; Prosciutto is not going to be happy with you.

“There you are.” The mafioso’s voice has a sharp edge to it as a shadow falls across the doorway. You start guiltily, trying to hide the tray of burnt food from his ice blue gaze, but there’s no real escape from a man like Prosciutto. You know he’s seen it the moment that his elegant lip curls and his eyes flicker back to you. “ . . . Really. Is this how you greet your husband, amore mio?”

You want to bite back at him that he is no husband of yours - that it is hardly husbandly of him to have snatched you from your life and installed you into his like you are an asset to be owned and bossed about, a caricature of what a traditional man would expect from a spouse. It is hardly husbandly of him to have taught you to cook and clean and serve him by belt and by threat and by the strange power that he possesses that you hope never to experience again--

(You can still remember it, at night, when Prosciutto is still on a mission and you are alone - how it had felt to have your bones age and crack all rapidly at once, your skin sag from your frame, your heart to suddenly have years and years of use and wear piled upon it in what felt like moments. You never want to feel it again. You’d promised him, afterwards, tears still drying on your face, that you would be good from then on in.)

“I’m sorry,” your words all come out in a rush. “I-I didn’t mean to, Prosciutto. Amore. I--I just got distracted, it burnt, I’ll cook it all again--”

His expensive shoes (gotten for a bargain, or so he claimed, though you know that half of the boutiques in the city cower when he steps into them and rush to offer him staff discounts and anything he desires) squeak on the tiled kitchen floor as he steps closer to you. You force yourself to breathe.

“And waste another day’s worth of ingredients?” He asks you, calmly. “Do you think I am made of money, amore mio?” The pet names are a deliberate choice - they serve only to make you even more frightened. He casts his eye over the spread again. “It’s good for nothing but the trash now. Tell me--” And then your chin is being grasped by hands that have murdered and killed and God knows what else. “What did my pretty little tesoro have to occupy their mind that was more important than being good and taking care of their husband, hmm?”

Your voice cracks.

“I-I’m sorry--”

“Not good enough,” he says, his voice still calm. Prosciutto is cool and calculated in all he does; he does not shout and rage at you. His quiet seething, his way of keeping his handsome face a visage of serenity even when he is doing depraved things, is far more frightening than anything else. “Come. Leave the food for later. I think you need a reminder of your place.”

Your breath catches. You know what he means by this, and as if your body is already protesting the coming punishment, you feel last week’s almost-healed bruises on your buttocks sting. And, too - because Prosciutto has trained you to be that way - you feel a heat low in your abdomen, a clenching of the part of you between your thighs that Prosciutto equally adores to torment.

Prosciutto senses your hesitation and clicks his tongue at you, motioning towards the upstairs of the little home you two share (some holdover from his family connections, though it is not quite as well-maintained as it ought to be).

“I’ll give you five more strikes for every moment you dawdle,” he says, and he gives you a smile not without a hint of his teeth. When you had first met Prosciutto, you had thought his overbite and the gap between his teeth handsome - now, you wonder if they are on display so often if only to warn you that this is a man who will bite if he is threatened.

You pass by him - and on cue, one of Prosciutto’s hands comes down and squeezes your ass as you walk, his hands strong, fingers digging hard into the plush of your rear. You whimper, and Prosciutto lets out a hiss of pleased breath through his teeth.

“So soft,” he murmurs to you, slapping you on the rear now as if he is urging you to move faster. “Mm . . . as much of a shame as it is to punish you, tesoro, you’re such a very lovely canvas for the discipline.”

Despite your will, the compliment makes your insides clench once more. Heat gathering between your thighs in hot little shocks - there’s something about the clipped way that Prosciutto speaks that makes you want to get on your knees and do exactly as he says, even if you do hate him. Even if you do wish you were somebody else, somewhere else, away from here.

(Hate is a difficult thing; you hate Prosciutto. You hate what he has done to you. But his fingers are clever and his mouth is tender and the frissons of danger being his give you are more of a lure than you’d like to admit. Even if you could escape, sometimes you fear that you are so thoroughly under his spell that you would miss him).

He chuckles as if he can tell what you are thinking - his hands rest upon your hips as you walk, guiding you upstairs, the movement at once gentlemanly and possessive. Those are two things that the mafioso excels in.

Prosciutto’s bedroom.

He leaves you standing in the middle of the floor as he slowly, leisurely, crosses the room to sit upon the bed. You stand there for him, tension brewing, even as Prosciutto lets out a slow sigh and removes his ascot with elegant fingers. As he unbuttons his jacket and shrugs it off shoulders, showing the sculpted muscles of his scarred chest. You barely stop yourself from trembling.

When the jacket is shed, he rests back upon the heels of his hands and looks at you with that handsome, disaffected air - mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. His command is simple.

“Strip, and then come here and bend over.”

Prosciutto likes you to look the part of his little spouse. You wear clothes that are well-made and prim and a little old-fashioned, with fiddly little buttons and awkward zippers that you sometimes need his help to get into in a morning. He offers you no such help now, as your fingers slip on the buttons and you miss the catch of the zipper three times from your clammy palms. He breathes out through his nose in a flare of irritation, and you make a squeal of apology as you finally manage to shed the last layer of your clothes and you stand before him in nothing but your underwear, white satin patterned with deep red roses that Prosciutto had picked out for you. He looks at you in satisfaction, noting the damp patch at your gusset.

“My underwear too, amore?” He likes it when you use pet names for him - when you call him ‘my love’ or ‘my soul’ or ‘husband’. He likes ‘Signore’, too, but he prefers that when the two of you are playing one of his favoured little roleplay games. Right now, he is a husband disciplining a wayward spouse, and he wouldn’t react well to it. You hope the little term of endearment softens him.

“Just the top,” he decides, and you obediently reach behind yourself and unclip it with only a little difficulty. You feel your cheeks heat as Prosciutto looks at how your chest is released from the satiny cups, but manage to keep your composure. “Ah. How lucky I am to have such a pretty spouse, hmm?” He reaches forward, pinching one of your nipples roughly. A soft noise of surprise falls from your lips as he continues to pinch, twisting it just enough for it to edge the line between pleasure and pain, forcing the bud to pucker and stiffen beneath his ministrations. He repeats the process with the other, making you press your thighs unconsciously together. “Maybe I should use a cane on these, one of these days.”

“N-no, please,” you breathe out, but you’re already losing track of the thought of anything but Prosciutto’s fingers upon you. He chuckles, tugging at your nipples again.

“Maybe some pretty jewelry, then?” He suggests. “One of my associates is very skilled with metals--”

You whine as he pinches just a touch too hard, and, satisfied, he lets go of the sensitive buds - stiff and already aching from a mixture of fear and arousal and the pressure he had exerted.

“Very well,” he says in amusement. “Come bend over my lap and let me give you your punishment.”

You have no other choice, really - you arrange yourself exactly the way you know Prosciutto likes you, bent over his lap, your ass in the air. Your sore nipples uncomfortably rub against his slacks and the bedspread, and you know that they will chafe between both as you move with every hit of his hand or his belt or the hairbrush, chest swaying with the pressure--

His hand rests lightly on the curve of your ass.

“You’ve been well-behaved other than today,” he muses aloud, rubbing warm circles onto the heated skin. The touch of his calloused palms on your soft ass sends more little electric shocks to that place between your thighs, satin sticking to the folds of your cunt. “Just my hand, hmm?”

“Thank you, amore,” you say, automatically. For his mercy. He chuckles, rubs his thumb over the seam of your ass through the underwear and stops just before your sex.

“No more than you deserve,” he says. “You’ll count, yes?”

You nod, and Prosciutto seems satisfied enough with that. You hear the sound of his hand pulling back - the displacement of air as it whooshes back towards your ass, and then the calloused meat of his palm collides with your bare flesh. You cry out in surprise at the feeling, despite knowing it was coming.

“One!” You say. “Th-thank you!”

He pauses, hand still upon your ass. Heat radiates from the spot he has just touched, like waves lapping upon a shore.

“Thank you, what?” He asks, his voice dangerous - and you know it is a test. You take a great shuddering breath.

“Thank you, carissimo--?”

You hope you have made the right choice - that the pet name will soften him and soothe him and remind him that he is your husband and you adore him (or, at least, you do because you know what is good for you). The question hangs in the air for a moment that feels like it lasts for an eternity, before Prosciutto lets out a grunt of pleasure.

“You’re welcome. Don’t forget next time.”

So you don’t.

You do not forget to count or to thank Prosciutto or to call him all of the sweet things you can think of; thank you carissimo, thank you caro, thank you amore, thank you mio re, mio amato--

And Prosciutto’s blows do not stop coming, each one slower and more lingering than the last. Palm slapping against your rear and thighs until you are all over sore, fingers digging into tenderised flesh, Prosciutto’s hand taking delight in the way you whimper and whine and your voice goes high and reedy as you reach seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .

At twenty, he leaves his hand upon your ass for a beat longer. Luxuriously and slowly slides it down, further than he had before - and laughs a little meanly as his fingers dip between your thighs, feeling just how wet your underwear is.

“Oh, amore,” He breathes, in that damnably low and seductive voice. “You like being punished, don’t you?”

There is no real argument to what he’s saying. With every hit of his hand, you had felt those sparks and shocks that had resonated all through your body and landed squarely in your cunt, between your legs. With every number that had fallen from your mouth, you had felt yourself pump out more slick, until the satin was utterly saturated and it was a wonder you were not dripping all over the floor.

“You’ve made a mess,” Prosciutto breathes against your ear. “Mm . . . I’m going to have to replace this nice lingerie. Do you know how much it cost?”

“. . . I . . .’m sorry--”

“Oh,” another chuckle. “Don’t be. It’s nice to know what a little slut my pretty spouse is.”

“I’m not. . .”

“Ah. So you’re not desperate for me to do this?” He slowly, deliberately, presses his fingers against the seam of your sex, rubbing it through the satin. Against your will, a whine falls from your mouth - the pressure is perfect, his fingers so good against your heated core. “You’re not moaning like a bitch in heat?”

“Prosciutto . . .”

“You’re a very lucky little slut, at least.” Prosciutto’s fingers begin to rhythmically slide backwards and forwards, over your cunt - you whimper as he finds your clit, rubbing the satin against the swollen little nub in a way that makes you squirm and hot tears spring to your eyes. “I don’t mind that you’ve gotten off to me punishing you. In fact . . .”

He doesn’t bother to go beneath the fabric - just finds your clit, swollen and stiff through satin as thin as spider silk, and begins a rough, mean assault on it that has you gasping and panting.

“I’ll even help you along.”

It’s too much. It’s all too much. The position - blood rushing to your head. The way that your ass aches and stings from his discipline, the way he’s practically trained you to get turned on by being hurt, the confusion that you feel about all of this . . . Sometimes you want nothing more than to be the thoughtless little whore of a spouse he wants you to be. Things would be so much easier, wouldn’t they?

Your breath comes in short sharp pants as Prosciutto increases his speed, roughly circling your clit. You squirm hotly as the pressure follows suit. All of the feelings inside of you - the confusion and the heat and the arousal and the hate and everything else - all tangle together in your mind like old embroidery threads, a mess impossible to unravel--

Until they do. The threads are all suddenly pulled apart in different directions, and your insides explode in an orgasm that is partly pleasure and partly pain. Prosciutto’s fingers do not slow, hot hard circles that guide you over yet more hills and more peaks. You don’t know if it’s good or if it’s overwhelming, all of the sensations creeping up on you at once like ivy overtaking an old house. You sob out a dry, whimpering noise that makes Prosciutto sigh.

He slows his fingers as the last ebbs and flows of your peak flow from your thighs to your feet to your fingertips and out of your body and lets you lay there limply upon him, breathing hard.

You are suddenly aware of every part of your body.

Your underwear clings wetly and uncomfortably to your folds, the gusset utterly soaked from the painful orgasm that Prosciutto had wrung from you. Tear tracks are drying on your face, your ass aching from every spank of Prosciutto’s hand. Your nipples ache from how they had rubbed against the fabric of Prosciutto’s slacks with every body-shaking hit you had taken.

“There,” Prosciutto says, pushing you off of him so you land in an ungainly sniffling heap on the floor. Beads of your arousal and release are streaming down your inner thighs. He acts as though what he’s done has had no effect upon him, though the stiff tent of his erection tells a different story. You will get that particular part of your punishment later, caged underneath the unending snap of his hips and snarl of his voice about what a good little thing you are, taking your husband’s cock like you were made to do. “Now. I think it’s dinner time, don’t you?”

You sniffle again and look up at him with beseeching eyes.

“I-- I burnt dinner--”

“Well,” he says. “I suppose you’ll have to make it all again, won’t you?”

It’s almost a pardon. You nod frantically at him, and go to reach for your abandoned brassiere, your other clothes - only for Prosciutto to stand up and bring one well-heeled foot right down upon the pile of fabric.

“I don’t think you deserve those, tesoro. Do you?”

“B-but . . . the window--”

He looks down at you with a glint in those deep blue eyes, a devilish smirk playing about his lips.

“You should have thought about that before you made such a mess of things.” His eyes slide over your figure - your bare chest, your rapidly bruising thighs and ass, the thin and soaked excuse for underwear you’re currently wearing - and he sighs in satisfaction. “Don’t you dare close the curtains, amore mio. Maybe this will be another lesson for you.”

#prosciutto x reader #prosciutto smut #jjba x reader #jjba smut #yandere jjba #yandere prosciutto #writing #not sfw text #yandere for ts #dub con for ts #non con for ts #jojo postin

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gogo-jojo-imagines · 4 years ago

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(A/n: hope this is ok and didn’t butcher the characters lol, it’s been a while

Spoiler warning for Part 5 at the end of Fugo’s ask )

Bruno:

Bruno’s the type of guy whose demeanour makes you feel safe, that if you follow under his wing, things are gonna be ok.

But since he’s doing the heavy lifting for his squad, sometimes a guy’s gotta have someone to do the same for him.

He wants someone that he can confide in, that cares for him in subtle ways and doesn't take his excuses for not taking a break for an answer - to an extent.

More often than not you might leave him his lunch on his desk when he’s swamped with work. Or leave him his coffee, or a note, or a kiss on his temple. He’s simply putty in your hands when you do that.

You still love him even though he’s got a schedule and a business to take care of, and even though he told you that at the start of the relationship, and you knew the challenges, even now you powered through because you love him so much and he might just float out of the chair and into the sky he’s high on love.

You’ll complain that he hasn’t been out of his study, that he’s missing on sleep, and he’ll tell you gently that he has work to do, but both of you know it's a front for his responsibility.

But if you tell him that you miss him when he really hasn’t taken a break, and then he decides, he really can’t just leave you waiting on him for too long now, can he?

You take care of him without complaints and still give him love, and he thinks you’re an angel from heaven

Your efforts are not in vain; he’ll treat you so sweetly and intimately you’ll be wondering what you saw in your past loves and leave you spellbound

Abba:

Abba’s the type where he used to have a twinkle in his heart, big sparkles in his eyes and an unbroken streak of loyalty.

But now that’s broken, and he feels unworthy, and he’s probably harbouring self resentment as deep as the ocean and who would love a broken piece like himself? Who would want to give him another chance?

Enter Reader - stage left

If you show Abba unconditional patience, he’ll come around, and he’ll absolutely flourish - even if he might come off prickly at the start when you meet him

Of course if he throws jibes and remarks at you at the start (which he might do since he’s acting on instinct and a knee jerk reaction with trying to protect himself from being hurt again), he needs someone to put him in his place, and tell him to shut the fuck up, and he’ll realise how he hurt you, and how much he cares,

Will probably need some time to parse through his emotions, but if you wait for him, it’ll be worth while

He loves your spontaneity, knowing you wont go overboard like Narancia on a sugar high to make him laugh - just enough to make him smile while taking things easy

He’s probably worried half to death about your safety in Passione, but if you’re a stand user he’ll chill out a little bit

Big ‘I’ve known Reader for x amount of time and if anything were to happen to them I’d kill everyone in this room and then myself’ vibes

Mista:

Honey, you got a storm coming

Mista is your standard fuck boy for a first impression but he’s so well put together with everything else with his tastes that you wonder what the hell you did to impress him

Mista wants a companion, someone to treasure the world with - probably someone that likes to try new things, go new places, do stuff with him

Super chill, he’s very laid back - he probably needs someone to be a little switched on than him in his day to day life

‘Hey Mista, did you get that report to Bruno yet?” Will give you a big kiss and a thank you if you do so as he tears ass to get it done

He’s got a know how for good food, he cares about his appearance,, he obviously is proud of his dress sense - he needs someone that respects him and his lifestyle choices.

It doesn't matter if you’re a chill person or someone that’s really stressed out, as long as you let him be himself and enjoy life with him, that’s the type that Mista is on the lookout for

You might be shy or flustered about whatever and he’ll always have this dopey smile on his face because he loves you so much

He’s a big romantic at heart though, he will absolutely wine and dine you

If you have a connection with him, he’ll encourage you to be your best

(If you ground him when he’s having a 4 phobia freakout, he might just think about marrying you)

Narancia:

Meme machine extreme

He’s not afraid to voice his opinions and get into fights - it's how he was raised on the streets

He’s opened his heart too and been abandoned, so sometimes the way he acts is a way for his survival

It’s a man eat man world out there, so he lashes out, gets into fights, and is triggered when his vulnerabilities are made fun of

He needs someone that takes care of him and gives him plenty of affection and encouragement, head pats, kisses on cheeks, encouragement when he gets something right

He’ll be super sceptical at first, Like.. seems fake but ok

Once he knows you’re the real deal he’ll be so excited to show you around and tell everyone all about you

This little orange is vibrating something fierce

Someone that gives affection, heaps of patience, and someone that doesnt mind teaching him some basic math - you’re way nicer than Fugo anyway

You give him a kiss on the cheek and suddenly he’s blowing past year 3 math like a speedboat in water

Probably someone that can keep up with him too, he’s excitable and you gotta have enough energy to follow with whatever he’s got going on in his head

Heartfelt and sensitive, he’ll take good care of you Anon

Giorno:

Someone that understands his background. You don’t have to come from a similar household that Giorno did , but if you do it’s an extra plus

If he finds out that you went through hell, and still managed to hold onto a positive outlook, he’ll be drawn to you

It’s a little difficult because, Giorno is the type of person who will bring ease to everyone, like Bruno, but he also has this magnetic quality about him that draws people to him

But he’ll know if you’re special just by a single glance

It's more of a slow burn with him, but for him he’s trying to figure out if he can trust you, and figure out how you tick on the inside

He enjoys figuring out how you think, not in a creepy way, but he’s fascinated by your experiences, your thoughts, and your actions

When he establishes a baseline of trust with you in a fight, that's when the relationship really begins to flourish

If you have his back during a stand fight, or an argument with someone else, he’ll definitely notice it

And when you trust him completely, even when he’s got a batshit crazy plan, he knows he’s got a partner for life by his side

Fugo:

Despite being known for having a short fuse, Fugo is a pretty emotionally sensitive guy

Someone that’d supports him unconditionally definitely helps, and makes him feel like he’s not up against the world by himself with the lot that he’s been given in life

He’s not a villain in your eyes, when he runs away from the gang before the fight with Diavolo,

You’re with him through thick and thin, and you’ll never know how much you truely helped him during that crossroads in his life

Fugo appreciates someone that’s intelligent, and he’s not afraid of asking questions that pique his natural curiosity

If you’ve got a special interest, or if he has knowledge in an area, he’s happy to either talk about his interest if you ask him, otherwise he’s happy to hear you talk about whatever you’re into at the moment

He’s alike to Abbacchio that his anger manifests itself for a myriad of reasons, but he’ll be drawn to you regardless if you’re there by his side and give him patience

He’ll be drawn to a gentle presence, someone that’s calm, an antithesis to the storm raging inside him

He’ll appreciate everything you do for him, and the amount of time you stick by him, even if you’re being a comforting presence

-Gyro mod

#//wakes up from a 5 year nap #I will be postin the rest of the requests sdfjkdsf #JJBA #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Reader Insert #Guido Mista #leone abbacchio #narancia ghirga #giorno giovanna #pannacotta fugo #bruno bucellati #bruno buccellati x reader #guido mista x reader #leone abbachio x reader #narancia ghriga x reader #giorno giovanna x reader #pannacotta fugo x reader

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