Call me Des. Writer. 18+ Prosciutto HQ. JJBA. But also multifandom. Rare pair central. Lover of AUs and HCs. Lots of fic, and sometimes sketches. AO3: Desdimonda icon by @watermeloncults on twitter; header by me
Drabble request - Intoxication
M
Tags: Unhealthy relationship, Drug use, Gun play
632 words
There’s a line they walk, as if called to warned to willed to-
-that takes them by the hand, and makes them forget what it’s like to taste no.
So many things shed, after the train to Firenze.
skin and blood and bone
(soaked into the ground. Shards stuck like seeds. But they won’t grow. Just a memorial of what they’d took)
sanity
(washed down his skull, catching the back of his throat. It makes Prosciutto gag until he’s forced to swallow and open his eyes again, to a world misaligned once more)
self
(a soiled reflection that doesn’t make sense anymore. It tries to speak back, but he doesn’t listen)
Prosciutto wonders how much Mista’s shed. It must be something, when he’s grinding against him, found in a sin of souls, smeared in sweat, lines of sticky alcohol dipped between the lines of his exposed muscles, a chromatic wave of colour every time he moves beneath the neons, stuck between Prosciutto’s hands, almost becoming an amalgam of each others bodies. Desperation. Denial.
Danger.
Guido. Prosciutto says it again for himself, before it touches Mista’s ear (Guido. Guido) Long and longing. A whisper, even in this throng of noise. Beats so deep they reignite old wounds, and shake the dust off corners you keep hidden. He knows Mista looks up at him. He feels it through his body pushed closer, missing a beat of the song.
There’s never really any words when they walk this line. Just movement. A language written on skin, punctuated with motion. Need-
-and this line of violence.
Guido. Another whisper as Prosciutto steps back, somehow parting the crowd without even asking. And there’s only one way Mista will ever go in this place, as he takes Prosciutto’s prosthetic hand, feeling his cold, powerful grip, pull.
-------------
It’s always the same as before.
A nightmare, to a dream. Chasing danger in stall number three.
Straddled on top of Prosciutto, sat on the toilet, Mista looks down at Prosciutto. The thick scar down his right eye, sucking out the sight, just another line in his beauty that he never loses. Just grows. Just glows.
And he knows.
Hair half up, half down now. Mista never asked why, but beneath the strands at his neck, his shoulders, Mista feels the deep scars of the train. Of the joins of his prosthetic arm. It feels more intimate than dipping his hands beneath his trousers.
But also like he’s stepping beyond the line they were only allowed to walk. Danger, outside danger.
“What?” says Prosciutto, voice hoarse as he presses a hand to Mista’s bare sweat stomach.
“Nothin’.”
“Keep it that way.” And pushes. Arching Mista back, deep. Enough that he lines his coke on Mista’s stomach, and snorts. He rubs the rest on his gums, and licks the last grains off the grooves and shapes he knows too well.
Mista trembles. Always right now, being used as nothing more than a surface, to please.
Hands spread around Mista’s waist as Prosciutto sucks in the rush, tapping along muscle. Shaping bones. Feeling the breath and beat of his being, until he snaps the gun from Mista’s belt, and drags it around, almost hearing the way it clicks against his bones and squeaks against his sweat.
Now it’s Mista’s turn.
Prosciutto pops open the first button of Mista’s jeans as he sits back up, eyes fixed on his gun.
“Slower this time.” Mista’s voice is almost a dangerous demand to someone like Prosciutto, as he feels him wrap a hand around his cock.
“I don’t got all night, Guido.” Prosciutto smirks as he clicks off the revolver’s safety, and presses it against Mista’s stomach, a deep, desperate moan bouncing off the walls of stall number three.
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The ends of his hair is smoke, like TGDs. And the tentacle comes from the back of his neck. It's length can vary, and the end can change to claw, that he can use as another limb. It's extremely sensitive to touch and can also hear when against a surface.
The three eyes on the right of his face are past, present and future. He can only focus on one at a time, unless he's granted a vision.
He only has one wing since he fell. The other severed, and can no longer fly. The one wing lets him hover briefly if supported by his tentacle, but it's painful.
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Risotto body worshipping his partner. Just, being so exquisitely gentle with large hands that haven't needed to be calloused. Always warm. A hang of blood, of metal when close. As if you've just bitten your lip.
But it's always how gentle. And slow, he is. A power of patience.
Forming shapes on your skin. Moulding your body in ways you don't know as he roams his fingers over skin, pickled in a shiver, hairs on end. It's like writing, the way he moves. Because he never really speaks, does he.
Words a tuck, behind tongue. You feel whispers against flesh. Somehow in another language. His own. Your own. Slowly discovered the more he touches. Longer. Lingering. Pulling up sounds you didn't know you could say. Finding cuts and curves of your body you're sure he's just made.
Got asked on my CC on twitter a while back for domestic RisPro HCs and here's what I gave. I don't usually do fluff well but....here you go.
-Prosciutto is an organised person in all aspects of his life. Scheduled. Risotto is, professionally. But not so much personally. He's relaxed, and much, much more unwound than Prosciutto. He isn't as tidy. Things scattered around. Less regimented and organised. And it - sometimes - really pisses Prosciutto off. Arguments spark from stupid things like towels on floors. Empty shampoo bottles on shelves. Unchanged coffee filters (a capitol offence). Sometimes Risotto is too relaxed for Prosciutto and it gets to him. I think, because he doesn't feel like he can ever be like that. And it's a frustrating reminder.
-As someone who uses bobby pins for his hair a lot, 100% their home is scattered and full of them in corners and floors, the bed and in places you would not expect. -There's lots of mismatched rugs on the carpeted surfaces to cover the blood stains from misusing Metallica and indulging in Risotto’s blood kink.
-Prosciutto stress cleans their guns late at night when he can't sleep, watching his favourite old movies. Risotto always makes sure there's plenty of supplies in for him to use.
-Prosciutto isn't very good at self care. Risotto enjoys cooking though. Their schedules very rarely align, but he makes sure to make Prosciutto food as much as possible, and leave it in the fridge or on the side ready for when he wakes up or comes home so he doesn't have to think or do.
-To balance this out, Prosciutto is often the one who buys the groceries. Filling Risotto’s fridge. Buying him things here, there. One of his biggest acts of love definitely gifts and items. They're tangible and don't require words or larger sentiment.
-Risotto loves the mornings. Prosciutto loves the night. They're the 6am meme of the couple where they're passing when one is waking up, and the other is just going to bed.
-Prosciutto takes so fucking long in the bathroom. Risotto started insisting they shower together if they need to get ready at the same time. Initially, that just made things take longer. But they got a routine sorted. And somehow they're in sync. Prosciutto going through his daily ritual, while Risotto goes on around him and gets completely ready and makes them both breakfast, prepares lunch and cleans, by the time Prosciutto finishes pinning his last bun.
-Sleeping together - just sleep - is something they both treasure. Risotto more loudly than Prosciutto. Risotto tries hard to make time in their schedule, even if it means they sleep in the middle of the day. 6pm. Or an hour overlap at dawn. Prosciutto warms up more to this affection. And soon it's the best part of his day. Week. Life. The silence at his side, all he wants.
He's struggled to sleep properly most of his life, and from the circumstances of hi. growing up, he was always on edge.
Then his training as an assassin (rough around the edges at first, until honed and hardened when Passione took him in), has made him someone who lives life alert and aware of the slightest changes in temperature, unusual noises, sensations, presences. His reflexes from sleep to awake are sharp. Instant. It's like there's always one eye open.
Prosciutto's woken up more than once to find Grateful already there. Watchful. Silent. Ready.
He can sleep almost anywhere in desperation. Short naps to recover energy for work. But he struggles to sleep next to someone. Having a presence beside him disturbs his subconscious ritual of awareness, breaking through the barrier that was always there. A disturbance. But also, a comfort.
It gets easier, the older he gets. And something he wants more.
Someone there.
Even if he still can't sleep well, they can. Sometimes Prosciutto watches them, trying to find clues - answers - to why they can find peace, and he can't.
But maybe, eventually, drawing closer to their side as the nights become ritual, he will too.
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I have a cyberpunk AU where Prosciutto is a Doll (a whore, companion or whatever you want, that can be programmed to fit any of your desires, even down to physical preferences. And all memory of sessions are erased after. It's inspired mostly by CP2077, but also Dollhouse and Altered Carbon).
I've written a RisPro fic in the AU and will write more. HCs and stuff to come :3 it's fast becoming my fav AU.
Prosciutto finds Risotto asleep at his desk when he comes back late (again), hat hanging lazily over his face (it was a habit, Prosciutto had come to notice).
He sits there for a while, wanting to reach out and touch. But before he realises what he's doing, he's talking. Words falling, unintended. Quietly, barely louder than the morning birds, waking at the window, as he confesses his love, not realising Risotto is awake.
For he hasn't noticed Risotto’s gentle subconscious quiver of Metallica as it pulls on his pendant. Stronger, the more he talks, as he tips off his words with a touch, and a kiss he didn't expect to the top of his head, messy white hair, sealing the words away.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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So...I'm reviving this blog as a JJBA and multifandom blog. No more obey me I'm afraid. I've moved on from it. I'm sorry😔💜
If you still enjoy my writing or like JJBA and want to stick around, wonderful 💜 if not, thank you for being here and reading my Obey Me fics and giving them love.
I've written a LOT of JJBA fics over the past 8 months so....prepare yourself for some updates and HCs and rambling on here in the future.
I also have a twitter where I'm very active:
The latest Tweets from Des 🖋️💜 @commissions (@grabthemhorns). 30+ she/they I write a lot. CEO of poetic porn. JJBA! Prosciutto HQ 🤐🥓/😈🥓/✂️🥓/
Also, I'd LOVE some JJBA blogs to follow if you have recs. I am heavily invested in part5, particularly Prosciutto, La Squadra, Bruno and Diavolo 😏💜