#standfucking

It’s unfair how unruffled Prosciutto manages to be by everything.

He’s so good at staying calm in a crisis – you know that’s why he gets sent out on missions so often, even when his stand isn’t necessarily suited for what needs to be done. He’s able to calm other people with a stern word and pressing his forehead against theirs, reminding them of their possibilities.

He’s good at staying calm always.

Even now, with his cock stuffed halfway down your throat, Prosciutto’s face is more mildly amused than anything else. He’s looking down at you with one of his hands wrapped around strands of your hair and the other one holding the base of his shaft whilst he drags you on it so you’re helpless to do anything but suckle and lick at the skin.

(He tastes salty and musky and masculine, clean but sharp – his cock is thick enough that you can only just draw breath around it).

“You look like such a mess,” he murmurs, idly.

You’re helpless to reply to him as your body jerks again, Grateful Dead’s warm presence behind you a reminder of what exactly you’d agreed to let Prosciutto do tonight. You shiver as one of the Stand’s tendrils strokes down your bare back, the curve of your shoulderblades, before resting against your ass.

“You’re wet,” Prosciutto tells you, as one of those same tendrils brushes against the outer lips of your sex – as if you didn’t already know! “Good. You’re so good for me, amore.”

That you are. The two limbs that Grateful Dead uses as both arms and legs take hold of your ankles, forcing them further apart. The stand makes a rasp – it doesn’t speak, but Prosciutto seems to know what it means just from that. Your boyfriend smiles at you, stroking your cheek for a moment and letting go of his cock. The hand on your hair doesn’t move.

“He thinks you’re pretty,” Prosciutto says. His lips quirk. “I have to admit that I agree on that one.”

One of Grateful Dead’s tentacles – slicker than you’re expecting, wetter – presses at the cleft of your ass and you start against your will. Prosciutto shushes you.

“Oh, he’ll be gentle with you at first, I promise. Do you need something else to concentrate on?” You look up at Prosciutto, your cheeks hot, and he smiles at you. He pistons his hips very slowly, keeping you upright as Grateful Dead’s first tentacle begins to inch inside of your ass. It hurts, briefly – a stinging, aching kind of pain at the unusual intrusion – and then you just feel . . . full.

“Good, good,” Prosciutto murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. You realise with a start he can probably feel everything that his stand is doing to you – and as another tentacle circles your entrance, teasing you, you know that he can’t miss the way that your entire body throbs.

There’s the second tentacle, then – pressing swiftly inside of you, longer and more flexible than Prosciutto’s cock is, the sensation cold but not unpleasant. The moan you make is stifled by Prosciutto’s cock inside your mouth, and you’re grateful for it, knowing that the noise is probably shamelessly loud.

Prosciutto’s overbite digs into his full lower lip as he attempts to keep control of himself, even as your channel squeezes and constricts around him. You’re drooling now, overwhelmed by the feeling of being stuffed full in every opening you have – you’re looking up at Prosciutto himself with your eyes watering and your makeup running, and he can’t deny how cute you look wrecked.

Grateful Dead blinks at him from behind you, a slow, satisfied kind of movement. He nods at his stand, and you feel the two tentacles inside you slowly begin to move, rubbing at your insides, pressing so close to one another that you think for a moment you might pass out.

“He’ll start slow,” Prosciutto says, his voice a little hazy. Your entire body feels like it’s being used in the best possible way. “Tap out if you need to.”

The final two tentacles brush your waist, wrapping around you – you feel Grateful Dead’s presence push into your back, and you gasp around Prosciutto’s cock as those two tentacles snake over the curve of your breasts, the ends teasing your nipples to hardness. You have a brief flash of thought of one of them wrapping around your throat and you whimper, trying to take your mind off the feeling by sucking Prosciutto’s cock. Your tongue is messy and sloppy against him, your body rocking in time with Grateful Dead’s tentacles inside of you. You win a hiss of breath from your boyfriend, though he’s still looking down at you like he’s laughing at how much of a needy slut you look.

(You know you probably do; you can’t help it.)

“He doesn’t want to break you,” Prosciutto says, breathlessly. “Cute.”

It is cute. If you could pet the stand currently fucking you, you would – but instead, you settle for moving your hips against him and keeping yourself upright. The tentacles playing with your breasts, squeezing the weight of them and tugging at your nipples, do not stop for an instant. You’re overstimulated from being touched in all areas, but you also know that everything is just getting started.

The tentacle buried inside of your sex twists just so, rubbing against your sweet spot, and you whimper as your first orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave. Prosciutto hisses, probably not missing the gush of wetness on Grateful Dead’s appendage, or the way your eyes unfocus just for a moment--

Grateful Dead makes that low rumble like a purr again, and you wonder just how brazen you must look right now, with Prosciutto’s inhuman stand bent over your naked body, using you like you’re nothing more than a cute human toy. Prosciutto slams his hips hard, his cock briefly hitting the back of your throat.

“But maybe,” Prosciutto murmurs softly. Grateful Dead senses whatever it is Prosciutto is going to ask before he says it, his body coiling dangerously, the tentacles inside you withdrawing until just the slick tips are dipped in your holes. You whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness, feeling your slick practically dripping out of you. Prosciutto’s gorgeous mouth is a smirk-sneer that makes you feel weak at the knees. His words are whisper breath quiet.