#prosciutto gappano

[jellyluchi]

Mi dai sui nervi!

A/N: I'm supremely late but this is part of Celebrate Love Collab by @anikasenkujo for Valentine's Day! At least I'm somewhat on time for White day!

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Pairing: Prosciutto x Reader Genre: NSFW Warnings: daddy kink, improper use of stands,tentacle bondage, dacryphilia, edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, cream pie, voyeurism, multiple penetration (both cock and tentacles), degradation, possessive behavior, angry sex Summary: You tease Prosciutto a bit much on Valentine's day, leading you to your exhausting yet sexy demise.

“It’s not right,” Prosciutto says, taking a sip from his coffee, sitting across from you he’s the perfect visage of relaxation in his rare casual clothing, a fitting sight for the reason you’re here. But his face contrasts entirely, brows turned down and eyes squinting just a bit as he looks at you, the smug little smile on your face irritating him more. “The process of making pasta should be treated with more respect than you are giving it.” 

Resting your head over your palm, you let your elbow stand on the table, the white tablecloth reflecting the sun beautifully and you remember why you’re here. After rigorously saving money, your husband finally arranged a trip for you two outside of Italy, and given the perfect timing, you two chose to plan it for Valentine’s day. What better day to be in the city of love, Paris, than the day of love itself? 

Seated with your favorite outfit on and feigning innocence towards his mood, you continue, “but pasta is pasta, it tastes good no matter what. So what if it’s a little soggy? Or even a little soft?”

The petulant sight that leaves Prosciutto’s lips tells you that you’re going in the right direction, you almost expect him to start shaking his leg under the table in frustration. 

“That’s not how it’s supposed to be cooked, Tesoro. Do you not remember how I taught you?” A sudden vision of a very excited Prosciutto enters your mind as you remember his meticulous explanation of the pasta boiling process. 

“ Every rule doesn’t have to be followed… People make changes to recipes all the time, it’s no big deal.” The dawn of a scowl forms on Prosciutto’s perfect lips, his naturally angry eyes growing angrier by the second at your dismissal. It’s odd, he thinks, you’d never shown this much nonchalance when it came to cooking at home, what got into you? 

“It’s not about the recipe, my darling, pasta making is a craft!” He says, his hands starting to gesture in a very stereotypical way. Holding back a giggle, you decide it’s time for your final blow. If you want to see a man like Prosciutto truly riled up, you will just have to pretend to disagree with his every statement in a way that’s just condescending enough for him to take the bait. 

“Oh please, it’s not that deep.” Expecting him to lose his patience in your face, you look away towards the other patrons of the quaint cafe you two decided to visit during the afternoon. Most other customers are deep within their conversations, completely ignorant of the little game you two are playing. Except for one lone man reading a newspaper nearby… 

A dark chuckle escapes Prosciutto’s lips and you turn to him, the sound dangerous from the way he looks at you and you realize any farther would be crossing a line. A warning flashes in your brain but you decide to ignore it. 

“I see what you’re trying to do. You just want to get punished.” Crossing his legs, Prosciutto sits back as if satisfied at having figured out your plan and waiting for you to pout at him as you usually do when you’re mad. “You won’t get what you want from me so easily.”

Yet, he doesn’t get the pleasure of seeing your plan fail as you give him a genuine smile, one that feels too nice. Suddenly, he feels your foot near his calf pressing and caressing gently, a smooth motion sending sensation up his leg. 

Immediately stiffening his body, he keeps his breathing from becoming uneven, thanking his luck that the table clock covers your activities from being viewable to the cafe’s patrons. A blush crawls its way to his cheeks, coloring the pale white of his skin a beautiful rose. 

“Is that so?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your legs threaten to go higher into his thigh, yet the scowl never leaves his face. He looks so handsome, you think, blushing prettily for you with the seething anger of a tiny kitten. “If I wanted to be punished… my methods would be far different than you could imagine.” 

 With your warm, gentle touch leaving his leg, Prosciutto looks at you confused when you stand up from the table. But he doesn’t have to ask you where you’re going as you walk up to the lone man you’d noticed earlier. With the blush now dissipating, all of his blood rushes elsewhere as Prosciutto’s knuckles go white from anger. 

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” You ask the man who shakes his head no. He must be no older than forty and you try to suppress the excitement of having your husband watch you talk to an older, handsome man. You feel electricity run through you as you think of Prosciutto’s hawk-like eyes on you two from his spot, the jealousy making a terrible mixture with his anger. Taking the seat, you make idle chatter, making sure your proximity to him 

Soon, you learn his name is Phillipe, a local businessman who seems rather confused at your attempt to speak to him, yet shows no sign of refusal. In fact, his warm smile and laugh at your terrible jokes seems rather inviting. Sneaking a glance, you realize Prosciutto kept his eyes stuck to your figure the entire time, now smoking one of his cigarettes impatiently, and you catch his thigh shaking from your view of him. It’s a wonder he hasn’t decided to drag you away yet, so you push your limits. 

Leaning closer to the man, you ask him to repeat what he was saying, as if you couldn’t hear over the minimal commotion of the outdoor cafe, your hand coming to rest on his arm. Phillipe says something inconsequential yet you laugh heartily, your hand now moving to his one on the table. 

With your heart pounding in your ears you wait for the devil to come to get you. And within what feels like seconds, you sense your husband’s presence behind you, taking a hold of your free hand, his voice coming an unnatural baritone from above. “Let’s go.” You didn’t see when he crushed his cigarette under his foot or when he strode with all the determination that his body could muster and the fire of a thousand suns burning within his mind. 

“Oh, goodbye!” You say politely to the man before your companion could pull you away, his grip on your wrist firms, almost painful. “Prosciutto?” 

He would not look at you, barely registering your voice as you two make the quiet way back to your hotel room. Your questions fell on deaf ears in the hallway and the elevator. 

Blood rushes past your ears as you wonder if your game has gone too far. But Prosciutto closes the door to your room rather gently when you expect him to slam it. 

“What’s going on? Why won’t you speak to me?” When he finally looks at your face you see the sparkle of his blue eyes have turned them into dangerous, dark cobalt. Long gone is the smugness and mischief that you bore moments ago, replaced with alarm and anxiety. Yet you can’t help but find it somewhat lustful just how jealous he must have gotten for him to be looking at you this way. Swimming in the depths of his shimmering eyes is a possessiveness you’ve yet to see from him. 

“How can you ask me that after what you were just doing?” He asks back, clearly restraining his voice to keep from shouting at you. The amount of self-control he subjects himself to only adds to your arousal and you look at his shaking fists. Suddenly running a hand over his face, he turns towards the window overlooking the beautiful city. And you wonder if you’ve ruined your Valentine’s day for both you and your beloved. 

“Wait, Pros, I-” 

“You very much wanted that punishment didn’t you?...” Prosciutto mutters, not looking back at you.

“What?” 

A sudden cold sensation overtakes you, as you feel the presence of something at your back. Before you could blink, your body is pulled towards the bed in one fell sweep and you land on the mattress somewhat disoriented with a vice-like grip from something that keeps you from moving. Your head rests against something that is there and also not as if a phantom grabbed you by the waist and you realize the large robotic hand that pulled you in is none other than your husband’s stand, The Grateful Dead. 

A couple of eyes stare back at you from its arm when you look towards Prosciutto for answers. 

“Prosciutto! What’s going on?!” 

Your feet are kept from squirming as the tendrils from the stand body roam your flesh greedily, quickly getting beneath your clothes. Despite the discomfort, you can’t deny the heavy feeling of arousal between your legs, pitting at the bottom of your stomach and you almost moan when a tentacle ghosts over your nipple.  

Your husband finally turns around, facing you with the apathy of a jaded man. You notice the straining erection tight within his pants as he takes off his jacket with one sensuous motion. Muscles protruding from under his shirt, Prosciutto looks the epitome of hardened mafioso when he strips, something you’ve come to appreciate over the years in your relationship. 

“Playing silly games with me,” he spits, his tone venomous with rage. As you feel his stand’s hold on you get tighter you realize just how much anger you’d roused in your husband with your actions. Despite the terrifying realization, you only feel yourself ache more between the thighs, the thought of his wrath only tantalizes you further. 

“I’m sorry Daddy,” you let slip, moaning as the tendrils squeeze your soft flesh at the perfect spots, your favorite spots. In some quick motions, he’s able to get you entirely naked, not caring much for the fabric it ruins. You whimper at the manhandling, noticing that your Daddy ignored the pathetic apology, opting to fill his pockets with his hands while watching the show of your defilement with keen eyes. 

Whimpers and moans echo on the walls as The Grateful Dead restricts your body with strict yet delicate strokes, the strange feeling of the tentacles overtaking all your senses inch by inch. You notice your Daddy sitting nearby, drinking in the filthy sight with his legs wide open, showcasing the protruding of the member you so wish was inside you instead.

As a tentacle penetrates you more roughly than you were expecting, you imagine it’s your Daddy’s warmth, and the slick flickering of your nipples is your daddy’s tongue. 

“Puttana,” he comments slowly, letting you watch him palm himself with barely restrained desperation. You know he wants to be inside you as badly as you’d like him to be. Biting your lip, you lose yourself in the pleasure of his derogatory word, quickly nearing your climax from the overwhelming stimulation from his stand. As the first waves of pleasure wash over you, you arch your back, legs shaking from the impact, only to realize the tendrils have not stopped their movements. 

Screaming from the overstimulation, your hands clutch at the sheets for some semblance of sanity within the experience. Mind going completely blank, your muscles ache everywhere, yet you only want more, allowing the stand to bring forth another orgasm from within you. its tentacles now cover more than half your body. 

“Please! Please, please, please,” you repeat, the sound of your voice now a broken record at the mercy of your husband’s wrath. The ache only worsens as there is no time for rest. The Grateful Dead is a stand as ruthless as its master, covering your mouth so you only hum from the restriction and its assault on your body, the sound of your wet entrance feeling like music to your Daddy’s ears. You see him now, still watching you with such hunger yet having the self-control 

Without comprehending any of your own words, you beg for your Daddy in broken, incohesive bursts. Whether for his stand to let you go or for him to offer you his length, you don’t know. Full to the brim and spent to the last drop of your sweat you finally relax when the tendrils slow their motion to a halt. Your breathing labors from the strenuous climax, but a tug from your arm has you whimpering from the firm grip it still has on you. 

Naked and bared to your Daddy, you still contain the shame and humiliation of him watching you get fucked by his stand, yet it keeps your arousal intact. And you let your legs spread wider when he nears with a satisfied, sinister smirk. Finally losing his shirt, he works on his belt buckle knowing it would make you moan just from the sight alone. 

The bed creaks from the weight of your Daddy’s knees as towers over your helpless body. 

“My my… What a filthy little whore you make,” he whispers, hand coming to squeeze at your large belly, moving closer and closer to where you want it most. Your chest rises and falls from the sound you make as a reply. With a gentle finger, he prods at your entrance to see how much his stand has opened you up. A yelp escapes your lips when two fingers slip in easily, the orgasms having left you extremely wet. 

“What a sweet little hole hm?” Your Daddy’s fingers stroke your walls pleasurably, having you buck your hips onto his hand immediately. But you so wish it could be his cock instead. As another orgasm nears, you think he would let you have one more, only for his fingers to leave at the last moment. 

Whining, you beg for him once more. “Please, Daddy? I promise I’ll be good. I promise!” But your request falls on deaf ears as he continues to edge. You’re not sure how much time passes before the tears crawl from your eyes to your neck. 

“Beautiful,” he mutters as your Daddy uses a thumb to smudge the ruined eyeliner, noting the smudged lipstick and ruined makeup caked over your face. He doesn’t stop even for a moment until your cry gets loud enough for the neighboring hotel room to hear. 

Too exhausted to beg, you don’t notice when your Daddy finally hovers over your restrained body. 

“Let’s have some more fun, shall we?” 

If you had the strength you would have attached yourself to him but the restraints keep you in place as you feel his cock tease your entrance. The hot flesh nearly scorches you, yet the smoothness from all your fluids makes you grind, especially when it reaches your peak. Moaning for him, your legs spread farther, subconsciously waiting for him to penetrate. 

“Ah!” The sound verbalizes from you as soon as he slaps your entrance with his cock, clearly playing games the way you’d been doing. 

“How about this, puttana, admit that you’re Daddy’s filthy slut and I may think about giving you what you want.” 

You are in no position to be making any demands, no position to be fighting back, only in place for your holes to be used by your Daddy at his discretion. 

“I am! I am… I’m Daddy filthy slut! Please just fill me like the filthy slut I am.” Your begging is finally fruitful as he enters you immediately, hot flesh throbbing against your walls, weeping from the lack of stimulation. He’s just as wet as you were, and you realize just how desperate he’d been for you. 

“Don’t you dare cum before I say so,” he threatens, gripping you by the jaw as his thrusts pick up. Your Daddy’s lovemaking is as ruthless as he loves to be. Gripping your wide hips he keeps his stand on you to keep your body in place as his eyes close in pleasure, using you the way you were intended to be. Posessively, his hand squeezes your chest, your belly, and your thighs, muttering "mine, mine, mine," to no one in particular. Your climax is impending and the ache of your muscles has you crying for release yet you hold on to your Daddy’s command.

Heart racing, you feel the tentacles moving once more, this time to your other hole, using the slick from your orgasm to slowly lubricate the muscles. You know your voice will be sore the next day from the exertion when the stand penetrates you once more in tandem with your Daddy’s cock. Filled to the brim, your senses are overwhelmed and you cannot tell how much longer you could go without release. 

Body protesting, you feel the arch of your back and the writhing muscles painfully throbbing from the pressure. At least, your Faffy finally releases into you, the thick white fluid pushing you over the edge. His thumb moving to your peak, he finally demands you cum over his cock. With one final shout of ecstasy, your body finally gives away, cumming over his cock and The Grateful Dead’s tentacle. 

At least, the stand disappears as Prosciutto’s body drops beside you and you keep yourself from passing out, the feeling of his seed dripping out of you keeping you from losing consciousness. 

You don’t expect your husband to suddenly turn to you, checking your hand and legs for any marks, sneakily pulling you into his arms. Not being able to say anything from your mind being foggy, you watch him with interest. 

Prosciutto leaves the bed momentarily, still completely naked, and produces a wet, warm towel that he drags over your body where he thinks the grip was too tight. And over your entrance, cleaning you up diligently. 

“Would you like some water?” 

You nod, your voice not having come back after the activities you just shared with him. He helps you sit up and holds the glass for you to drink after quickly fetching it from the tiny hotel kitchen. 

“Is there anything else you’d like?” He asks, once your glass is nearly empty. 

“Bathroom,” you blurt out, not even questioning that he helps you stand, walk, and do your business before letting you lay back in bed. 

Feeling him come up behind you and drape an arm over your midsection, you allow him this intimacy while looking into his blues. 

“I meant it,” he whispers. When you look at him with fatigue and confusion he clarifies himself. 

“That you are mine. No matter how many games you like to play with me, or how far your teasing goes… You’re mine.” 

The last words slip from his lips like a whisper before his exhausted eyes finally close into a deep sleep.

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