Chapter Text
Twilight birdsong burbled through the courtyard, the only sound disturbing the air in the lavish, manicured space. There was still too much daylight for the secluded garden to be bustling with activity quite yet, and the courtyard's lone occupant liked it that way. It was the last day of his seventeenth year of life, and tomorrow, his new existence would begin.
Giorno was one of the few occupants of the compound both able, and allowed, to enjoy the warm, Mediterranean sun, and these long, bright days of summer were the only times he had to himself, for contemplation and reflection, away from courtiers, servants and the ever present pressure of his father. He valued his privacy, and guarded it jealousy, and the few retainers trusted enough by Dio to retain daylight privileges knew it, leaving their beloved prince to his own devices should they see him about the estate.
"Master Giorno," said a wizened voice from over his shoulder. With a sharp exhale of irritation, he snapped the book shut and looked over to the source of the voice.
The woman behind him was his father's councilor, the witch Enyaba. She'd been instrumental in his upbringing, more like a grandmother than anything else, but he wasn't feeling receptive to any mothering impulses at the moment.
"What? I didn't think I was required for another few hours," he replied, annoyed with how young and churlish his voice sounded, instead of commanding and detached as intended.
"Not officially, but your father's awake. He asked for you." Enyaba's eyes glittered like pieces of coal pressed into her wrinkled face.
"Is he? Early for him." Giorno put the book down on the rim of the empty fountain upon which he'd been sitting. Hopefully it wouldn't be a long visit, Dio would be content with puppeteering him tonight at the rehearsal ceremony, and in no time he'd be back out here with enough light to finish his chapter by.
He walked unhurriedly through the corridors until he reached his father's master suite, pushing open the heavy iron doors with little effort and stepping inside the baroque bedchamber. Giorno was the only person with permission to enter this space without knocking and waiting for admittance.
His father, the de facto ruler of mankind, was waiting for Giorno inside. He was reclined, bringing to mind a sated leopard, upon a Versailles rococo divan at the foot of the massive bed that dominated the space, reading from a stack of papers with a dark expression.
"My Lord, as requested, here I am."
Dio rolled his eyes at his son over his papers, and sighed. The boy was an expert in the art of malicious compliance, and while he appreciated the presence of such a skill in his heir, he despised being on the receiving end of politeness that somehow simultaneously left no qualms about the speaker's true, less generous, feelings.
"GioGio, don't start with that this early, and we are alone regardless. Sit, sit, we don't have all night," he said as he motioned towards the overstuffed armchair across from himself, obsidian claws glittering in the dim half light of the room.
"Alright, father." Giorno sat, warily. His father wasn't a morning person (evening person, as the case may be), and he was acting suspiciously cheerful and informal for someone reading the pleas of crushed and subjugated humanity immediately upon waking. It was not easy to rule the world, after all, and Dio had been doing it, mostly alone, for fifteen years. In that time, the world had changed a great deal, indeed.
"I, Dio, am a generous God king," the vampire began sonorously. Giorno mentally prepared himself for A Speech– short statements rarely began with the 'I, Dio'. He nodded, eyes fixed on Dio's smirking face.
"Yes, father, you are, and we are grateful," he said neutrally.
Dio snorted, derisive and contemptuous. "Are we? Sometimes I wonder…" he looked away, to the window covered by a thick drape. "But I digress." He fixed Giorno with his stare again, unyielding, examining, invasive.
"Tomorrow, you take your official place at my side. I shall name you my successor, and appoint you authority in all things, officially, to all mankind. You will answer to no one but me, and be my face in the sunlight, my eyes and ears for the hours I am unable to physically traverse the earth. My son, my heir– tell me what you wish for yourself as the token of this momentous ascent to power."
Dio smiled at him, in as close an approximation of parental warmth as he was capable of. "Anything of mine, from my lands, to my wealth, to my precious magics, are yours to request. Anything. All I expect, is that your choice befits the king you will one day become." Dio reached out and stroked Giorno's face, tracing the lines of his jaw, his lips, like someone appreciating a sculpture, and Giorno had to force himself to remain still at the sudden touch.
The prince was not stupid. No gift of his father's was truly free; not one single cup of water would come from Dio without some hidden, likely extortionate price attached. Indeed, the life of luxury Giorno enjoyed was at the direct expense of his now long-dead siblings; Rikiel he missed most. His siblings had not met Dio's standards for sons, and were disposed of when they'd reached the age of twelve. Twelve years, apparently, was enough time for Dio to determine if they possessed the qualities an heir would need, and of his three boys, only Giorno had passed the test.
"I could not presume to ask for anything else, Fa-"
Dio interrupted him, "I am telling you that you must ask for something. And I am telling you that I will judge you by the thing that you choose. Choose." The warmth he'd exuded before had frosted over like glass on a winter's morning, just as Giorno had anticipated. Like so many times before, Dio was testing him. Giorno squared his shoulders and set his jaw, returning his father's piercing stare with his own. If this was a test, one to see what kind of heir he'd prove to be, he'd pass it with flying colors, as he had every other test so far.
Giorno thought deeply. What of his father's was both dear to him, but also something that Dio couldn't admit to being unwilling to lose? Obvious answers, like the direct rule of England, or billions of dollars, came to mind, but those were uncreative. Boring. Giorno knew that in a peculiar way, Dio was testing, probing, to see how insidiously cruel Giorno could be. To discern if Giorno had learned how to spot a weakness and zero-in on it without hesitation. Giorno neither wanted to fail this test, nor to pass up an opportunity for a bit of revenge. There was only one thing he wanted at all, after all, and it fit every criteria perfectly.
"I want Jotaro."
Dio's eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, too little for anyone, other than his son, to have noticed. But Giorno did indeed notice. He had chosen well, for his father was clearly struggling with an answer– clearly struggling, in this case, meaning betraying his emotions only through micro expressions of surprise and anger, and a split second of hesitation before replying.
"One, single slave? A rather, hmm, used slave at that, too," he quipped, feigning nonchalance. "Why him?"
The softness of his father's tone was a dead giveaway: Giorno had hit on something buried, private, possibly shameful; Dio rarely bothered to ask after Giorno's motivations as long as they were sufficient to the image of his son that Dio had crafted in his mind.
"He's the last Joestar, and his stand is the only one which can even come close to rivalling our stands. He is a symbol of the vanquished, old world, and a fitting representation of my new position in your court. With Jotaro Kujo at my feet, it would be difficult to ignore who, or what, I am. Would you ever trust another to hold a stand user of his caliber's leash? No. I want Jotaro."
Giorno knew his answer was a good one before he'd finished it from the look of rapidly darkening, contained fury on his father's visage that grew even blacker with every word that fell from his mouth. Dio pretended the expression came from disappointment with a dismissive shrug.
"If you want him, fine. I have dozens of younger, less… disagreeable…. bed slaves you would prefer, I assure you. But if all you want is a slave of minimal import, you can surely have him," Dio sneered.
"Go, I will reconvene with you tonight."
With that, Dio returned to his reading, and Giorno was permitted to leave. He let himself smile once out of the private chambers, a secret smile of triumph. Besting Dio at his horrible little contests of wit and will was one of Giorno's greatest pleasures, and he knew that with this request, he'd truly trounced his father in an extremely personal way. Stealing a sociopathic vampire's favorite toy may have negative consequences– the ruler of Earth was nothing if not petty– but Dio had challenged him to find and exploit a weakness, and Giorno had merely obediently obliged him. The prince paused at an intersection of corridors, and considered his next move. With a deliberateness quite like his progenitor's, he decided to pay a visit to his newest possession.
Jotaro had been drawing when he heard the approaching footsteps. He'd earned the right to small entertainments about a decade ago, and drawing was one of the things he'd taken to in the absence of television and other media. Books and films, as long as they were released in '89 or earlier, were technically permitted to him, but Jotaro preferred things that didn't remind him of Before. Before wasn't real, not in any way that mattered, and it made him sick to think about Before, so he didn't.
He put down the pad and pencils, and grabbed his pillow from his cot to cover himself. If the person approaching was Dio, he'd quickly put it back so as to avoid punishment, but even after all this time he still didn't enjoy being bare to the eyes of strangers, so anyone else would be greeting a Jotaro with his shame covered. Clothes were a privilege the enslaved last Joestar never did acquire; Jotaro frequently wondered if someday, on the off chance he lived long enough to become wrinkled and paunchy, he'd get them then.
Giorno walked along the rows of cells where the slaves deemed important, and or dangerous, enough to be kept close at hand resided. The one at the very end of the row was his destination, by far the largest of the cells, even containing a private bathroom and cooking hob in its close confines. The resident of this cell had been there longer than all the rest, and he was dear to the Great Lord, and so retained these special privileges. Jotaro waited, staring out the bars of the little window in the cell door. The face that came into view was quite unexpected indeed.
"Jotaro, it's Giorno. May I come in?"
Of all the menagerie of humans and vampires in Dio's bizarre High Court, Jotaro liked Crown Prince Giorno the most. Perhaps that was odd, given how much the boy physically favored his father, but Jotaro had been drawn to Giorno since the day they'd met, almost two years ago exactly. He was strange and quiet, and intense in a way that reminded Jotaro of his own better days. Giorno had always treated him, and all of the slaves and retainers, those generally regarded more like living furniture than sapient beings, as actual people. The stunningly handsome prince was arrogant, yes, but that was unavoidable given the facts, yet he still observed niceties such as requesting permission to enter a slave's 'personal' space. It was nice to pretend.
"Yes." Jotaro relaxed, shoulders slumping with relief, but his expression stayed fixed in stone.
While Giorno was certainly not what one could call a frequent visitor to Jotaro's cell, he would stop by from time to time for chess and conversation, and thus his presence didn't come as a total shock. He'd started doing it a few days after Dio had first introduced them. Well, "introduced" was a strong word; Dio had decided that it was time for Giorno to learn the art of intersecting sex and pain when the boy turned sixteen, and Jotaro was the practice dummy for every whipping, choking minute of it Dio demonstrated. Giorno's eyes had clung to Jotaro throughout every humiliating scene, but his hands never followed his eyes' lead. Jotaro was not to be touched by anyone but Dio, ever, no matter what, and not even Giorno was exempted from the decree. Not even an accidental or casual brush of fingers in a tight corridor was permitted; punishment was always swift and severe the few times the rule was (completely inadvertently) broken. It was part of how Dio had broken the almost supernaturally willful Joestar; Dio had to train Jotaro, in body, mind and soul, that he, Dio, Jotaro's subjugator and tormenter, was also the sole source of all goodness, all connection, all sustenance– anything that makes a man human. Dio had taken everything from him, so that anything the king deigned to return would be more precious than life itself.
Giorno entered the cell and shut the door behind him with a snick, turning quickly around to peer out the portico and check if anyone else was about.
"Should I set up the chess board?" asked Jotaro after a long, uncomfortable moment. Giorno was staring at him with an expression he could not identify, and it made him… restless. He got up and made to go to the small chest wherein his few worldly goods resided, but Giorno stopped him.
He stopped him, with a touch to the chest.
Jotaro froze, panic flowing into his mind, like a rapidly flooding car plunged into an icy river. Abruptly he stumbled back, and whispered, all gravel and grit, "Gior– Master Giorno, I mean– be more careful, you know that..." He fought to breathe, the drowning sensation worsening with every second. Dio would know. He'd know, and Jotaro would be punished, and–
"You no longer belong to my father, Jotaro. Well, you do, but only until the ceremony tomorrow night. At that point you will be given to me, as a symbol of my ascent to power."
Jotaro shook his head. This was impossible. Impossible. He looked down at himself, at the dozens of scars mapping his body, all consisting of three little letters: "DIO". He belonged to Dio, he was a good boy, he was good and why can't he breathe and–
Giorno caught him as Jotaro dissolved in a dead faint against the wall. A faint purple miasma formed around his splayed body, and Star Platinum's arms shot out to support him as well. Jotaro must be truly, deeply unconscious, noted Giorno. All stand bearing slaves, and especially Jotaro, had their stands suppressed by Dio with modified flesh buds, which were unable to be resisted or overcome as long as the subject's mind was active. Thus, it had to be Star Platinum's will alone manifesting now. Giorno and the stand locked eyes, and he was suddenly haunted by the pain, the horror in that galaxy gaze– I have him, Star, he thought, as Golden Experience materialized, its hands folding over the huge spirit's – and suddenly, Giorno was alone again with Jotaro.
The slim but wiry teen was strong enough to get Jotaro's impressive bulk onto the slave's clean, spartan cot. He ran a washcloth under the sink, and put it to Jotaro's forehead. Respectfully, he covered Jotaro's lower half with a sheet, and then he sat down on the worn, wooden chair to wait for Jotaro to come to.
In retrospect, Giorno could see he should have said something first. He should have braced Jotaro for the news, should've considered what an unexpected touch would do to the tall, brooding man, but he'd just wanted to touch him for so long. Of all the people he'd ever seen his father bed, of all the people he'd ever seen bedded in general, and even of all the beautiful, sensual people he'd since bedded himself, he'd always wanted Jotaro more. Giorno knew how well trained the slaves were, of course (no point in an unruly slave, so the breaking process was an unfortunate necessity), but he hadn't considered just how deep the conditioning would be for Dio's favorite, and only consistent, bed slave. The answer, apparently, was very.
Jotaro awoke with a gasp and sat bolt upright, gulping in air with ragged heaves. After a moment, his breathing stilled, and he swiveled on the cot to face his companion. He looked at Giorno, and frowning, slowly said, "Why? Why tell me now?"
"I wanted to make you aware in advance of the ceremony itself, and not have it sprung on you like a nasty little surprise. I don't know how my father is going to react to the reality of losing you, once it sets in, but ultimately, this is his fault. He instructed I ask of him a gift, you see. I chose you." Giorno studied Jotaro's face, which had since returned to its general state of neutrality, but upon hearing that Giorno had asked to do this Jotaro's jaw dropped.
Unable to stop himself, he asked in a hoarse, horrified whisper, " Why?" His fists clenched the thin, cotton bedsheets, and he looked at the ground, unwilling– truthfully, unable– to look at Giorno. Does he...know?
"For two reasons. One, Dio presented the offer to choose my own debut gift as a test. He, in a way, asked me to show him what I am capable of in terms of statecraft, and you were a perfect pawn. In this way, I admit I am using you; you're symbolic of the victory over the old world, and of Dio's immense power; beyond that you are… a weakness of his, personally. However, the second reason is that I've wanted to touch you since the day we met. You are the only thing of Dio's I've ever been jealous of, and now you are mine."
Jotaro's brows furrowed, and he shook his head. "I don't..." He looked up at Giorno, studying him. Slowly, he pulled the sheet back, leaving his body fully bare to Giorno's gaze once again. It wasn't as if the young prince had not already seen him, every square inch, a hundred times, but this– deliberately revealing himself to Giorno in private, just the two of them, completely alone– felt more intimate somehow. He displayed his scarred, taut, lean, no longer young or smooth body, a body that had endured hell for Giorno's inspection.
" Why ?" Jotaro repeated suddenly, surprised at his own impulsivity and disrespect. This time the question had a ring of fire surrounding it, a glimpse into the fury that was buried under a thousand tonnes of despair. The slave watched the prince's eyes rake like aquamarine claws up his thighs, across his hips, over his soft but still impressively thick sex, up his toned stomach and dark trail of hair, to his broad chest, and finally to lock with his own gaze.
Giorno stood from his chair, and closed the distance between them with a step. With one fingertip, he caressed Jotaro's collarbone, tilted his face to once again meet the slave's scrutiny and answered, barely audible, "Because I was told I could not have it."
If Giorno's eyes were a lush lagoon, magically alluring, then Jotaro's were the open ocean, storm tossed and dangerous enough to drag a sailor to the grave. The fingertip on his skin felt heavier than an anvil, it hurt, he wanted it to stop, but… A part of his mind was clear, untroubled.
Wouldn't you rather it was Giorno? This is good. I should be happy. " I'm still his. Until tomorrow. Don't," he found himself saying, turning his face away from Giorno's inspection. It was automatic, and he was unable to stop the part of himself that was so well trained, so well heeled to Dio's commands. Even if it had secretly been Giorno's touch that he'd imagined in place of Dio's through those long hours, those fantasies had been colored with guilt. Jotaro knew damn well that the line from child to adult, from someone still developing, to someone capable of consent, wasn't as firm and black and white as a birthdate, but eighteen was still so young, so young, in fact he'd been that young when–
Stop. Don't go to the Before.
Besides that, Giorno was Dio's child begotten using Jonathan's body, and Jotaro couldn't stand the thought of choosing to want, yes, of wanting to fuck a person both so young and of his own flesh. The two worst sins of lust, weren't they? Incest and pedophilia? But did his relationship with Giorno even truly reflect those things, or, like so many other things in Dio's brave new world, was it something else entirely? These thoughts tormented the back of his mind in the quiet hours of the day when he was supposed to be sleeping, eroding what little pride in his morality he had left. It was because of Dio, of course. All of this, every degeneracy, could be traced back to Dio. Dio wasn't a choice, he was an inevitability, and Jotaro's rape and imprisonment obviously wasn't something he'd chosen. The guilt that had once nearly killed him– Kakyoin... JiJi… Avdol… Polnareff… Mama and Papa…the whole goddamn world, let them down, let them all down – had long since congealed into something else; this was his destiny. He didn't resent it anymore.
Giorno looked stung at Jotaro's abrupt proclamation. "I admit, I didn't think you'd be so reticent to leave my father's bed, but, I see now…" He withdrew his finger and stepped back. "Make your peace with this tonight, Jotaro. I had hoped you would… well. Tomorrow night, I take you as my own, and I will do so before all. You belong to me now."
With a little smile, a Mona Lisa quirk on his lips that didn't reach the wounded, cold affront in his eyes, Giorno turned to leave. Upon opening the door, however, he was nose to nose with someone who'd been listening. Dio smiled.
"My, my, Giorno. It all makes much more sense now." The smile etched on Dio's face was wicked.
"How long were you there?" Giorno was a blank slate, unemotional, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed. His heart beat so fast in his chest it hurt.
"For most of it. You are taking this very seriously, I see, which does please me; you were truly as clever as I'd both hoped, and dreaded, with your choice. My little morning star," he chuckled fondly. "Lucifer was too on the nose, but Giorno, you are so well suited to your name. Brilliant. Sometimes, I rather hate it." Any trace of fondness disappeared in a flash of unbridled rage. Dio pressed his jaw to Giorno's, and whispered against his ear, "Get out."
Giorno left unhurriedly, not rising to the bait, but complying without hesitation all the same. "Tomorrow night," he said as he turned the corner out of sight.
Dio levelled his gaze at Jotaro, scrutinizing him. Jotaro sat, immobile, on the bed, face like stone, his eyes unfocused; Dio knew him to dissociate when things got too much for Jotaro to comprehend, and it appeared he'd done that now. Nonetheless, Dio didn't have the patience to wait for him to come back at the moment. He needed satisfaction now.
"Present yourself to me," he hissed.
Instantly, without a single change in his expression, Jotaro lay down on his stomach and tucked his knees under himself, ass in the air and thighs apart. Dio noticed he'd not even blinked, and the detail warmed his miniscule heart.
"You did the right thing, Jotaro," said Dio, his voice slithering into the slave's exhausted mind, licking at his ears and prodding the little triggers long implanted in his psyche. "You were so good, so loyal to me. I'm very pleased."
Jotaro's face flushed warm as it was buried in the fabric of the thin cot. Praise from Dio, the rarest, sweetest ambrosia of all, poured into his ears and he wasn't even bleeding…? This day was too much already. He could feel the walls closing, his focus narrowing down to nothingness as the roar of white noise took his hearing, and spots of swirling inky black dissolved his vision into splotches. He didn't speak, simply raised his hips slightly, getting comfortable, autonomic. He knew Dio was speaking, and that he'd praised him, but now there was no way to understand the words.
Dio sucked his fingers for a moment before slipping them into Jotaro. Jotaro was always ready for Dio; it was a part of Jotaro's daily ritual, as bone deep as washing his face or brushing his teeth, so Dio had no need to wait for his slave to go through the tedious, off putting preparations for sex when the desire took him. For his part, Jotaro didn't react much to the penetration, just a soft grunt, and a little rock of his hips against Dio's finger. "You missed me, didn't you, ocean eyes? I'm sorry I've been so busy," said Dio, sincere. Indeed he'd much rather fuck, feed upon, and torture Jotaro over attempting to bring order to an ungrateful world, so no word of a lie there.
Dio felt uncharacteristically tender; the prospect of losing Jotaro, to his own son no less, was proving more bothersome than he'd anticipated. He found himself hesitating, mulling over the prospect of reneging. Irritation at experiencing such a petty emotion roiled up, and Dio thrust his thick cock roughly into Jotaro with a sneering sigh.
"Ah, my little JoJo, as tight as the day I first fucked you," he groaned, setting a quick but tolerable pace, actually bothering to angle himself to stimulate Jotaro's prostate for once. He raked his claws down Jotaro's long, built back, deep enough to cut and bleed, but not enough to truly harm, ensuring his slave would go to Giorno bearing a reminder of who truly owned his soul. "You are so lovely, so utterly broken, ah fuck," sneered the king, his pace gradually quickening. Dio wanted to fill Jotaro tonight, hungry to make his bitch fall apart impaled beneath Dio's ravenous body.
Outside the door, meanwhile, Giorno was pressed against the wall outside, listening, agonizing himself with the sounds of sex on the other side. Dio was positively lavishing Jotaro with adoring praise, and judging from the rhythm of creaking bedsprings and slapping flesh, fucking the slave like a lover. He stayed until he heard the telltale sound of his father's frantic pace before cumming, and the growling, arrogant purr of his voice mid-release. Jotaro had been silent throughout.
Full of icy determination, the prince stalked away to prepare for the rehearsal dinner. When Giorno finally fucked Jotaro, he'd make him scream.