Dio notices Jonathan’s growth spurt for the first time during a rugby game. They are playing a round of friendlys, the Hugh Hudson team split into two against each other. The ball sails through the air towards Dio. He barely has his fingers around it before the massive bulk of Jonathan’s body slams right into his back, sending them both sprawling into the dirt.
The tackle knocks all the air out of Dio’s lungs. Jonathan’s burly arms are wrapped around Dio’s waist, the firmness of his chest slammed against Dio’s back as they land. Absurdly, he has one hand outstretched towards Dio’s head, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself on the landing, because of course Jonathan Joestar would be considerate even in his tackles.
Jonathan’s crotch rubs against Dio’s ass, the shape of his cock obvious through the fabric of his shorts even when soft. For a heart-stopping moment, Dio imagines being pinned under Jonathan in other circumstances, crushed by the sheer mass of him, held down by that imposing strength and unable to escape, to do anything but take every inch that Jonathan feeds him. It sucks the air out of his lungs as surely as the tackle. But then the roar of the crowd comes back to him, and he splutters red with indignation.
“Get off of me, you oaf!” Dio snarls. He releases the ball and his teammate swoops in to save the play. Jonathan is off him in an instant, stretching out his hand to Dio before going after the ball again. Dio swats his hand away. He doesn’t need to be reminded why perfect golden boy Jonathan Joestar has won the sportsmanship award two years running. Jonathan watches him as he goes.
This is the first time that Dio notices how large Jonathan has grown, but it is not the last time.
At the end of that semester, Jonathan is named team captain, and then the most eligible bachelor at Hugh Hudson in the school newspapers. The Hugh Hudson rugby team sails to victory in the regionals. They celebrate with contraband brandy and whisky, coughing and laughing like mad, each boy taking turns congratulating their new captain and ribbing him for the eligible bachelor prize.
Dio takes his turn too, giving Jonathan an affectionate squeeze, letting his hand linger on that muscular shoulder just a moment longer than is necessary. He raises a toast, the image of camaraderie, but when Jonathan isn’t watching, he lets his gaze run over every inch of Jonathan’s body—the exposed skin of his tummy when he raises his arms, the swell of his firm pecs through the too-tight shirt, the rippling of muscles in his broad back when he lifts one of their teammates in jest.
It’s as though a floodgate has opened: once Dio has noticed Jonathan’s body, he cannot stop noticing. He cannot stop himself from thinking about it.
They return to the Joestar estate for the winter holidays. In the privacy of Dio’s own bedroom, he touches himself, more brazen than he could ever be in the dorms. He takes his time. He strips down until he’s fully naked, luxuriating in the cool silk of his bedsheets against his hot skin, curling his toes in it with pleasure as he runs his fingers teasingly over his cock. He wonders if Jonathan is doing the same in his own room next door. They share one wall, both boys’ beds with their headboards against it, and Dio strains to catch any minute sound. He closes his eyes and lets himself fantasize about Jonathan, with that sculpted athlete’s body like a sun-kissed adonis, tangled in his sheets, coated in sweat, his rough calloused palm stroking over his engorged cock.
Dio dips his fingers into the jar of oil that he had secreted away. This is what he likes best about the privacy of his room: that he can take his time to wantonly spear himself open. No rapid, secretive jerking under his rough blankets in the dark, one eye on the boys around him at all times, afraid of being found out. Here he can be fully nude, fields of pale skin and firm flesh exposed to the warm light of the sun. He works one finger inside himself, two. The burn is as welcome as always. He hisses through his teeth, imagines Jonathan’s large fingers pulling him open, apart. He pulls back his legs, bites into the flesh of his own thigh, his fingers turning rough with growing desire.
He thinks of Jonathan tackling him into the ground, hands on his hips, shoving him down, holding him there, open and exposed. He folds himself in half until his toes touch the headboard and their shared wall, suckling on his own thigh, marking the tender flesh there. He adds a third finger just to feel the burn and picks up speed, thrusting wetly through the friction, his hole not yet stretched enough to accommodate them but he doesn’t care, likes it like this, with a bit of pain.
He fucks himself fast and hard, no inch of patience left, stroking his cock with his other hand desperately. The image of Jonathan comes back to him. Jonathan’s rough hands around his waist, strong hips pistoning into him, slapping his asscheeks red as he fucks mercilessly into him. The thought of being stretched within an inch of his life on that thick cock brings him over the edge. He keens into his thigh, toes curling, scraping weakly against the wall. He wonders if Jonathan can hear him (wonders if he wants Jonathan to hear him). He trails one wet finger through the mess of come on his stomach, sucks on it, imagining that it’s Jonathan’s finger, Jonathan’s come. His cock gives a tired jerk.
Dio lies back on the sheets, warm now with his exertion, and exhales. This fascination may be rapidly spinning into an obsession. It leaves him unaccountably angry.
On Christmas eve, George Joestar insists that they attend a soiree, where the creme de la creme of British nobility meet and mingle and peddle their children like wares.
They both dress to the nines, fitted tuxedos that hug every muscle and curve, white gloves over rugby-calloused hands, italian leather shoes polished to glistening. As they are about to head out, Dio finds Jonathan in his washroom trying desperately to tame that wild tangle of hair, slicking it back as he pouts at himself in the mirror.
“What are you doing?” Dio teases, arms crossed, leaning in Jonathan’s doorway with a lazy smirk. “Trying to oil a German auto?”
“Isn’t this what I’m suppose to do?” Jonathan scoops up another dollop of hair oil in his large palm and slaps it helplessly through his curls.
“You’re hopeless.” Dio rolls his eyes and takes off his gloves, stretching out his hand imperiously for the oil. Jonathan gives it to him. Dio hops onto Jonathan’s vanity, framing Jonathan’s handsome face between his hands. The casual intimacy sends a shiver down his spine. Jonathan’s eyes track him silently, taking in the graceful dance of his fingers, the sheen of his golden hair, the furrow of concentration on his sculpted face.
Dio combs his fingers gently through each dark strand, slowly taming the wild bangs that curl every which way over Jonathan’s forehead. He enjoys the feel of Jonathan’s soft hair between his fingers, the warmth of his body radiating so close by. The subtle scent of the hair oil permeates the room, cloaking them both in its lavender and sandalwood glow. But beneath all that, Dio can pick up Jonathan’s own natural scent, wants to close his eyes and be ensconced in it—a suede jacket in early autumn; the warm touch of sunlight in the library on a lazy afternoon; the salt of ocean-bathed skin on distant shores. Dio wants to fall into Jonathan, bury his nose in the crook of neck and shoulder, and breathe him in like the last sweet drag of air before he drowns.
“Dio?” Jonathan’s hand on his thigh, a gentle question. Dio blinks open his eyes, doesn’t know when he’d closed them, and tucks a final dark strand over the tip of Jonathan’s ear with one gentle brush of his fingers. Does he imagine the shiver that goes through Jonathan’s entire frame?
There are better uses we can put this oil to, he wants to say. I can make you tremble and quake. I can make you fall to your knees and pray. But there are proprieties to be observed, lines in the sand drawn by men long dead that they dare not cross. So he says instead, “There,” voice more husky than he’d meant it to be, “now you’re presentable. The girls might even consider you handsome.”
“So are you,” Jonathan says.
Dio’s heart skips a beat. He cannot parse the meaning. The girls would consider you handsome too, Jonathan should’ve said. So are you, he says instead. So are you. Dio sways on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge into the watery abyss below.
“Jonathan! Dio! Are you boys ready?” George Joestar calls from below the stairs. His voice yanks Dio back by the scruff of his neck. Jonathan looks as shaken as Dio feels.
“We’ll be right down,” Dio calls, voice shaky. He hops off the vanity, smoothes back his own perfectly coiffed hair, and leaves Jonathan’s washroom without another word or glance. He feels Jonathan’s eyes on his back the entire way out.
At the soiree, Jonathan is, as ever, the star of the show. The girls simper and giggle as he walks by, starry-eyed at the prospect of becoming the next Mrs. Joestar. But Jonathan is as shy a young man as he was a boy; he is unfailingly polite but never anything more. He cannot flirt to save his life. Dio points out the girls that he thinks Jonathan will like best.
“How about that one, Jojo?” Dio asks, with a subtle nod in one pretty blonde’s direction. “Or that one? Maybe her?”
Jonathan nods or shakes his head as Dio names names, with the occasional nervous laugh as Dio waggles his eyebrows to tease him. They have played this game enough times for Dio to know Jonathan’s type: blonde, with a lean but not too petite build, thick lashes, a sultry laugh. Jonathan likes them with a bit of danger. Perhaps this is how he rebels against the genteel discipline of his father, the rigamirol he has to contort himself through to be the perfect gentleman.
Tonight though, the thought of Jonathan’s eyes following a pretty girl stirs something ugly in Dio. He watches Jonathan watch a sloe-eyed blonde in the corner of the room, her bust spilling from her tight red dress, heaving as she laughs. Dio forgets how to breathe. He feels like a violin string strung too tight, anger and anxiety pulsating through his every nerve.
He wants to do awful things to that girl. He wants to make her ugly and broken until there’s nothing that’s worth Jonathan’s attention anymore. He wants to reach out and seize Jonathan by the chin, that strong square jaw with the light shadow of a growing beard—wants to smash his teeth against Jonathan’s teeth, blood in his mouth—wants Jonathan to throw him across this table, in front of the entire scandalized room, and show them how to properly christen a pristine white tablecloth. He wants to spread his legs and welcome the invasion of that hot cock, swallow it, be impaled on it whole. He wants. He wants and wants and wants.
“Are you alright, Dio?” Jonathan looks at him with concern.
“Fine,” Dio tries to say evenly, though it comes out more like a shaky growl. He downs the last of his red wine and crosses the room in large strides. Tonight he wants to play a different game. Jonathan’s eyes are helpless to follow.
Dio approaches the busty blonde. He bows to her, the picture of gentlemanly virtue. He kisses her hand, dazzles with his smile, his falsely modest laugh. He bats his lashes at her, feigning shyness as he asks her to dance. Of course she doesn’t say no.
Dio pulls the girl to the dancefloor, hands on her hips, dipping his head by her ear in a show of intimacy. He takes the opportunity to glance at Jonathan, seated at the table close by, paying no attention at all to the young ladies his father is introducing to him now. All of his attention is on Dio.
The intensity of his unwavering gaze is scalding. It is not anger, nor hatred. He watches Dio dance with some flicker of emotion that Dio can’t identify. Possession? Lust? Something softer even—a yearning that looks almost like love. Does he wish he were in Dio’s place right now, with this sumptuous blonde in his arms, swaying her to the music? Does he wish he could feel her bosom pressed against his firm chest, rub his cock against the sweetness of her thigh?
Good. Let him watch. Let him want. Dio would dance with every tart in England if it meant that he could have Jonathan’s unwavering attention like this. The headiness of Jonathan’s stare sends tremors through his body. His perfectly-tailored tuxedo feels too tight; the crush of the girl’s body against his feels too hot. The girl gasps and giggles when her thigh brushes against his hardness. Let her think that it’s for her then. So long as Jonathan’s eyes are only for him.
If the rugby game months earlier had been Dio’s awakening, tonight is Jonathan’s. Jonathan says nothing to him on the way home, but the air between them is different, undeniably charged. Every glance between them feels heavier with insinuation. Every accidental brush of fingers burns like an open flame. Dio bites his lower lip one night during dinner and Jonathan’s eyes drop to the indent on the plushness there. Jonathan swallows. He catches Dio returning his gaze and doesn’t look away.
When Christmas is over, they return to university, and back to rugby practice with renewed vigour. Now that they’ve conquered regionals, they have a path forward to nationals for the first time in Hugh Hudson’s history. Hope runs high on the team, with all eyes on Jonathan to lead them to victory.
Jonathan falls into the leadership role with more grace than Dio ever expected of him. He mentors junior players with no ounce of impatience, and holds his own against the most seasoned veterans. Hugh Hudson climbs the ranks under his steady hand.
Tonight is their home game against Durham in the semi-finals. Dio arrives in the change room before anybody else. He fucks himself in the shower, one hand braced on the wall, water sluicing over his body to mix with the sweat pooled at the small of his back. Ever since the winter holidays, the tension between him and Jonathan has been growing increasingly unbearable. Sooner or later, the dam will break.
In the last few minutes of a hardscrabble game, Jonathan bulldozes through the opposing team and sails the ball through a gap in their defense straight to Dio. Dio slams the ball past Durham’s goal line. The crowd roars.
Dio does his stretches on the field afterwards, waiting for their teammates to finish celebrating and for Jonathan’s crowd of young admirers to scatter. The sun is low in the sky by the time that Jonathan waves goodbye to the juniors and approaches Dio on his way to the showers.
“You’re still here,” Jonathan smiles, looking tired but genuinely pleased for the company.
“I had to wait my turn for your attention, Captain Joestar,” Dio says in a teasing tone. Jonathan flushes, and ah, there he is, there’s the shy, easily-flustered boy that Dio remembers. He’s still there after all, buried under that mountain of muscle and responsibility.
“Cut it out,” Jonathan laughs, giving Dio a playful punch in the shoulder. “You can have my attention whenever you want it.” He flushes harder, like he regrets the words that just came out of his mouth. “You did great today,” he adds quickly, “I couldn’t ask for a better teammate.”
“You did all the work,” Dio compliments him, because he knows Jonathan likes praising and being praised.
“But I couldn’t have done it without you. Somehow, I always seem to know where you are on the field, even when I can’t see you. Is that weird?”
Dio hums low in his throat. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy lashes casting delicate shadows. “I too find myself constantly aware of your presence.”
Jonathan says nothing. The blue of his irises look black in the dying light, like pools at the bottom of an abyss, deep and dark and unknowable. Dio has teetered on a razor’s edge for so long. He’s ready for the plunge.
There is something special about tonight, and he knows they can both feel it. The change rooms are abandoned. The tension between them ratchets even higher, a taut string vibrating so violently it frays every last nerve in them both.
They strip down to nothing in the change room, fully exposed. Dio watches Jonathan openly, brazenly. He should feel ashamed, but he’s not; he feels hot, flushed to the core, ready to combust at the smallest spark. Tonight is the night. This is what he’s waited for, gagged for, fucked himself open for. He expects to play the seducer tonight, the devil corrupting poor innocent golden boy Jonathan Joestar. He expects Jonathan to blush, to stammer a hundred excuses—his father, his virtue, his god and queen and country—but Jonathan seems calm. He watches Dio watching and doesn’t look away.
Finally, Jonathan is the first to break their stare, turning his back to head to the showers. “Are you coming?” he calls behind him. Dio hates that he can’t do anything but follow.
The water sluices across the firm planes of Jonathan’s body and Dio lets himself soak in the sight. Jonathan’s body is a grown man’s now, the lines of every muscle chiselled to perfection. His is a body that would have made the greek sculptors weep with wonder, that would have inspired Michaelangelo to paint a thousand frescos. And now here it is, its full glory just feet away, bared fully to Dio’s hungry gaze. He feels a twist of satisfaction as he watches Jonathan’s cock stir under his gaze. There’s no room left for pretense now.
“Jojo,” Dio whispers, husky and slow, talented fingers running over his own taut stomach, stroking gently downwards to the focal point of his own desire. “Captain Joestar. So virtuous and perfect and kind. Do you ever fantasize about what it would feel like to be a little less perfect, a little less clean?”
Jonathan doesn’t respond, but Dio doesn’t need him to. Dio has his attention now, his interest, and the knowledge of that alone makes Dio feel powerful.
“I can show you how to please a lover. Let you cut your teeth on me.” Dio bares himself with no shame. He knows the power of his own body: the dips and curves of his muscles, lean and supple, the picture of youthful beauty. He turns his back to Jonathan, showing off the graceful arc of his back, curving inwards into that narrow waist, then out again lasciviously into the plushness of his ass, those perfectly shaped globes that bounce softly under the ministrations of his own hands. Dio bats his lashes at Jonathan under the shower spray, beckoning him over with inviting eyes.
Jonathan’s breath catches in his throat. His cock twitches between his legs, already at half mast as he watches Dio put on this salacious show. But he doesn’t fall over himself to run towards Dio, nor does he run the other way. Instead he stares evenly into Dio’s eyes and says, “Come here,” in a tone that brokers no argument.
The unexpected hint of dominance is both arousing and frustrating. The proud part of Dio wants to snarl and bite and fight back. Every other part of him wants to drop to the floor and arch his back in submission, wants to pull himself open and present himself for the taking. He bites his lip and bites back his pride. But two can play at this game, and no matter how much he wants to bare his neck and roll over for Jonathan, he won’t do it without a fight.
Dio drops to his hands and knees. He looks at Jonathan through his heavy lashes, the thick tangles of his silky wet hair. Jonathan startles at the sight, as thrown off by Dio’s brazenness as Dio was a second ago by his dominance. Dio’s full lips curve into a dangerous smile. He’ll win this game yet.
“Come here,” Jonathan says again, voice rough. He palms his cock, nearly fully hard now, weighed down by its own heft. The sight of it sends tingles down Dio’s spine. He has ogled that thick cock many times out of the corner of his eye in the showers, but never has he seen it in its full glory. He feels himself salivate just at the thought of it.
Dio crawls slowly and sensuously towards Jonathan on hands and knees, swaying his hips and ample ass, never breaking eye contact. Jonathan stands stock-still and waits. When Dio is close enough to touch, Jonathan reaches out and runs his fingers through those wet, silky locks, pushing them back from Dio’s face.
Dio mouths along Jonathan’s thigh, breath hot against hot skin. He knows where he wants his mouth to be, where Jonathan wants his mouth to be, but he enjoys this game too much, this teasing denial. One of them will beg first, and either way, really, is a victory.
Jonathan strokes Dio’s cheek, his chin, the bow of his lip, running those large fingers so gently across Dio’s gorgeous face. Dio puckers his lips and presses a kiss against the pad of Jonathan’s thumb, with just a hint of teeth.
“You’re beautiful,” Jonathan says, in a low rumble that makes the sweetest words sound like sin. “So gorgeous. Every inch of you.”
“What do you plan to do about it?” Dio breathes against Jonathan’s thigh. He wraps his hands around Jonathan’s muscular calf, pressing the swell of his pecs against Jonathan’s leg, rubbing one nipple and then the other tantalizingly against it.
Jonathan tightens his grip in Dio’s hair. He holds Dio’s jaw with the other hand, pressing his thumb into Dio’s mouth, until Dio has no choice but to let it inside, let it force his mouth open in a lewd display. Dio pulls against Jonathan’s grip just to feel Jonathan rein him in, the pressure of Jonathan’s hands forcing him to be still. He salivates over Jonathan’s hand, unable to stop himself, feeling like a whore, like a pet to be manhandled and tamed. Jonathan’s cock is so close that there’s nothing else he can think about, just that heady scent and the weight of it on his tongue, in the back of his throat.
“Keep that beautiful mouth open for me,” Jonathan says. Dio obeys mindlessly, eyes half-lidded and mouth open, waiting on Jonathan’s every command. Jonathan thrusts his thick fingers inside, first two, then three, exploring the dips and crevices of that sinful mouth, finding every pressure point that makes him gag and gasp and drool.
“Good boy,” Jonathan breathes, rewarding him with a gentle pet of his hair. But there’s another reward that Dio wants, and he mewls softly under Jonathan’s hand with the want of it. He presses himself harder against Jonathan’s leg, rubbing his aching cock there, like a dog begging for its master’s favor.
“Do you want this?” Jonathan asks. He strokes the head of his cock against Dio’s cheek, his nose, his eye, his forehead, leaving smears of precome sticking to Dio’s long lashes.
“Jojo,” Dio whines, ready to beg, but not without making a wreck of Jonathan too. There are talented things he can do with his mouth other than suck a man’s cock. “I want it, Jojo, want your cock.” He nibbles at the knuckles of Jonathan’s hand, thrills at the breath that Jonathan sucks in at his words. “I want you to shove your cock down my throat, fuck my face till I gag and cry on it. Make me take it all the way, hold me down till I can’t breathe. I want you to come down my throat and make me swallow every last drop.”
Jonathan lets out a shuddering breath and jerks Dio’s head back by his hair. “I told you to keep your mouth open,” he says, “I didn’t tell you to talk.” But Dio can tell that Jonathan liked it, that he’s at the end of his rope. Dio opens his mouth wide, and Jonathan wastes no more time shoving his cock inside. The heady scent and heat of him rushes through all of Dio’s senses.
Dio closes his eyes and moans around the thick shaft of Jonathan’s cock, sucks desperately at the cockhead, slurping over it like an animal, coating it in his saliva and heat. He feels the head jab once, twice, against the inside of his cheek before finding its mark straight to the back of his throat.
For all Dio’s bravado, he gags at the heft of it, choking back drool and tears immediately as Jonathan forces himself inside. But he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t let Jonathan pull back either, wrapping his arms around Jonathan’s leg and rubbing himself achingly against him.
Jonathan’s first few thrusts are slow, gentle despite the urgency thrumming in his veins. Dio takes the time to remember how to breathe through his nose, to relax his throat so he can take a fucking as hard in this hole as the other. His reprieve doesn’t last long: soon Jonathan has picked up speed, one hand on the back of Dio’s head to keep him from moving away, thrusting himself inside like he belongs there. He pulls out just long enough to let Dio gasp desperately for air, smearing the drool and come on his cock across Dio's face, before shoving himself back inside again.
Dio chokes and moans around it, feeling his own drool on his chin, his tears down his cheeks. But his cock is aching hard. He humps the air desperately, trying to rub himself on Jonathan’s leg, but the angle isn’t right, he can’t reach while Jonathan is fucking his face. He whines with frustration. If Jonathan notices his plight, he doesn’t seem to care. He slides his cock down Dio’s wet, pulsing throat, hissing with pleasure each time Dio chokes and whimpers. He brushes his fingers through the tear tracks on Dio’s face, the mess of him.
“I’m close,” Jonathan growls, grip tightening in Dio’s hair. “I want to come down your throat.” Dio moans his approval, tries to bob his head back and forth to show Jonathan how badly he wants that too. With one brutal thrust, Jonathan shoves himself down the back of Dio’s throat and comes, holding him there, fingers locked like iron in Dio’s hair, Dio’s nose buried in the coarse hair at the base of Jonathan’s cock.
Dio flushes as he struggles to swallow Jonathan’s come, spurt after spurt like a stream, thick fluid filling up his throat and mouth. Jonathan seems to come for an age. Dio swallows load after load, struggling and choking more by the second, imagining the weight of all of Jonathan’s come heavy in his stomach, bulging beneath his abs. He feels his eyes roll back as he runs out of air, but he doesn’t put up more than a token resistance against Jonathan’s iron grip.
When Jonathan finally pulls back, shooting the last spurts of his thick come over Dio’s face, Dio coughs wretchedly, spluttering drool and come on the tiled floor. His face is blotchy and flushed, a mess of come and drool and tears. His cock is still rock hard with need.
“That was so good,” Jonathan breathes, panting like he’s run a mile. “You’re so good. Such a good boy for me, Dio.”
The sound of his name in Jonathan’s voice like this, so full of dark promise, makes his cock throb desperately. He rubs his face against Jonathan’s leg, begging wordlessly for attention, because his throat still feels too raw to speak.
Jonathan pets him warmly. He turns off the forgotten spray of the shower behind him and squats down to hold Dio’s face between his palms. He brushes his finger over Dio’s bruised lips, red and puffy from the abuse. Dio licks a stripe across his palm.
Jonathan narrows his eyes, losing whatever battle within himself between propriety and sin, and smashes his mouth against Dio’s mouth. Dio gives as good as he gets. He bites Jonathan’s lip, tongues the sharp edge of his canine and the inside of his cheek. He wants everything, everything that Jonathan can give him and more. Only when Jonathan pulls back, the both of them gasping for breath, a string of Jonathan's come between their lips, does Dio realize with a huff of laughter that he’d sucked Jonathan off before he’d kissed him.
Jonathan gives him a lop-sided smile, that silly boy coming back to the surface. He kisses Dio’s nose, his cheek, his come-splattered eyelashes. The affection is gratifying, but Dio needs more than this—he still hasn’t come, and his cock is so hard it aches between his legs.
Jonathan sees Dio’s struggle. He runs his fingers lightly against Dio’s cock. “Tell me what you want, beautiful,” he says, just to be cruel, because he knows what Dio wants, can read it in every desperate, shaking inch of him.
Dio wants to hump himself on Jonathan’s leg like a dog, wants to present himself like a bitch in heat. Now that it’s possible, now that Jonathan is his for the taking—he wants. He wants so many things all at once.
“I want your cock,” Dio hisses. “I want you to fuck me. I want to come. I want to come. Jojo—”
“You’ll come when I say you can come,” Jonathan says. He gives Dio a final kiss and stands, gesturing for Dio to follow. When Dio ties to stand up from his shaking knees, Jonathan pushes him down again with one firm hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t say you can get up. Stay on your knees.”
“Fuck you,” Dio spits, indignant. His knees are aching from the hard unforgiving tiles.
“You’ll stay on your knees,” Jonathan says plainly—not an argument, not even a command, really, but as though he were just stating a fact. “And you’ll follow me.”
Dio snarls and spits. He considers disobeying for the sake of his pride, or just to see what Jonathan will do. But his heart pounds harder in his chest and his cock twitches as Jonathan watches him. He puts his hands on the floor and starts to crawl slowly towards Jonathan.
“Good boy,” Jonathan says, rewarding him with a soft pet to his hair when he gets close. Jonathan turns and walks back into the change room, Dio following at his heels like a well-trained dog. Dio’s cheeks burn with humiliation.
Jonathan seats himself at a bench, his well-muscled thighs spread with no shame, his still-softening cock valiantly stirring again at the sight of Dio on his hands and knees. He watches Dio the entire way as Dio crawls between his feet.
Dio drops his head, playing at demure, and presses himself against Jonathan’s leg again. He almost purrs when Jonathan strokes his hair.
“You’re being so good today,” Jonathan praises him. “If only you were always this obedient. Following at my heel, so I could show you off to the world.”
“You want to show me off, Jojo?” Dio breathes with a laugh. “Want to put a collar around my neck and let everyone see I belong to you?”
Jonathan hisses in air between his teeth. Dio feels in a mood to tease.
“What if someone sees us now? Our teammates, walking in through those doors, what if they see me now, on my knees for you, holding myself open for you. Would you like that? Like them to see me hanging off the end of your cock, begging for more?”
“No one gets to see you like this but me,” Jonathan says, an edge of possession creeping into his voice. Oh, how interesting, who knew sweet Jonathan Joestar had this side to him, this dark dominance, this possessiveness? Dio wants all of it and more.
“You think you’re the only one to see me like this?” Dio teases, voice dark. He brushes his lips softly against Jonathan’s cock, puffing warm breaths on it as it stirs back to life. “You don’t think I’ve done this a hundred times before, with every boy on the team?”
Jonathan’s eyes narrow. His hand in Dio’s hair turns hard.
“What if I told you I’ve been fucked here more times than I can count. Bent over every bench, slammed against every wall, spent hours here with my legs in the air, taking each and every cock I’m fed.” Dio sucks softly at Jonathan’s cockhead, smearing the precome over his reddened lips. “Want me to tell you more? Tell you about Dean forcing me down on my knees, shoving my face into the floor, fucking me fast and furious from behind? Or Hudson picking me up in those thick arms, folding me in half against the wall, fucking me hard and deep with his massive cock?”
Jonathan jerks Dio’s head back by his hair, sudden enough to hurt, making Dio hiss at the sting. But Dio keeps talking, because Jonathan is staring at him so intensely, the burn of his gaze scalding him from the inside out. He feels raw and exposed and he wants more of it, more of that unbearable intensity. “Or how about the time I whored myself out to Page, Jones, Plant and Bonham, all at once, right here on this bench—how they took turns filling me up to the brim, shoving their cocks in every hole. Want me to tell you how I screamed and moaned and begged, how they fucked me for hours and hours, breeding me full, and their come drooled out of me for days after?”
He wants Jonathan to slap him across the face for his insolence, spit in his mouth like a cheap whore not worth kissing. But Jonathan is quiet, calm and controlled. He thumbs Dio’s face gently, spreading the come there, and it feels far too loving for something so obscene.
“Not going to ask me if it’s true, Jojo?” Dio asks, genuinely curious. He nibbles at Jonathan’s fingers.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s true,” Jonathan says, “because no matter how many men have fucked you, in the end, you’ll always come back to me. You belong to me.”
Jonathan’s words twist a knife inside him far more painful than the grip in his hair. It’s just dirty talk, Dio reprimands himself viciously, it doesn’t mean anything. But the words hit a little too close to home, because even if Jonathan doesn’t mean it, Dio knows it’s true—he’ll always come to heel at Jonathan’s call.
“Do you trust me?” Jonathan asks, soft and commanding all at once.
If there’s one mark that Dario Brando has left indelibly on Dio’s soul, it’s that he can never trust anybody.
This is the boy that has been his rival since boyhood—his best friend and worst enemy—the one immovable object to his unstoppable force, the Apollo embracing his Icarus back to shore. Jonathan is watching him with the same intense stare from the Christmas eve dance, those inscrutable emotions that look so strange on his normally boyish and playful face. Possession? Lust? Something softer even, like...
Dio can’t keep the intensity of Jonathan’s gaze. He feels more exposed under the heat of it than he’s ever been. He just wants Jonathan to fuck into him, but Jonathan rips his chest open and chokes the air out of his lungs till he can’t even remember how to breathe.
“Jojo,” he whispers instead, hoping that Jonathan understands, “Jojo.” He can feel the tremble in Jonathan’s bones. No one else calls Jonathan by his boyhood nickname anymore, he’s much too big, too grown—but Dio has always been different. Jonathan will always be Jojo to Dio, always belong to Dio as much as Dio belongs to him.
“Come here,” Jonathan says, and pats his thigh. Dio bites his own lip and goes. He drapes himself over Jonathan’s knees, showing off the sweet dip of his lower back, the sweeter plushness of his round rear, just the right amount of soft and firm where Jonathan kneads into it with one large palm, rough calluses against smooth flesh. Dio grinds his cock against Jonathan’s half-hard one, delighting in the friction. Jonathan forces him to be still.
“This isn’t a punishment,” Jonathan whispers in his ear, one hand wrapping around his throat—not hard enough to squeeze, just firm, just letting it rest there, so Dio can feel the strength behind it. He guides Dio into a heated kiss. “This is just to remind you that you’re mine.”
Dio keens into the kiss. Jonathan’s hand comes down on his ass, firm and unforgiving, the smack so loud that it echoes in the empty room. Dio startles.
“How many do you think you need?” Jonathan says, rubbing his hand gently over the slightly pinkened flesh.
“As many as you’ll give me,” Dio says, trying and failing to grind himself against Jonathan’s thigh. “I can take it.”
“Twenty,” Jonathan says. “Count.” Before Dio can do anything more than wiggle petulantly, Jonathan’s palm comes down on his ass again, the same cheek, staining it pink and flushed. Dio gasps.
“Count them,” Jonathan commands again, “from one.” His hand comes down once more, the other cheek this time, harder now, a hint of all that restrained strength behind it.
“One,” Dio breathes, shaking. Jonathan spanks him again, harder now—
“Two,” Dio hisses, “th-three—” There’s real force behind Jonathan’s hand now, but not enough, not nearly at his full strength, and Dio wants it, wants to break that careful restraint, those rules upon rules of etiquette and morality that shackle Jonathan’s beast inside. Dio wiggles his ass, nails biting into Jonathan’s leg, and chokes out a laugh on the next stroke. “Nnnh-four! Come on, Jojo, hurry it up before I fall asleep.”
Jonathan chuckles, on to Dio’s game. The next smack lands squarely on the same cheek, twice as hard as the one before it, jolting Dio’s whole body on impact. Dio yelps. That really stung.
“Did you forget how to count?” Jonathan teases him. “Should we go back to one?” Another slap, as hard, or even harder; Dio whines against the sting.
“N-no! Five!” Dio loses track of things after that. All he can feel is the sharp sting of Jonathan’s hand, the subtle swish of Jonathan’s palm cutting the air before it lands on the soft flesh of his ass, the impact so loud that Dio thinks anybody walking by in the corridor must hear it.
By the time they’re on ten, he’s squirming helplessly, tears stinging his eyes, pathetic whimpers escaping his throat. But he counts, he counts because Jonathan told him to count—eleven—twelve—ahh! thirteen!—and he’s openly crying now, kicking at the bench, scrabbling at Jonathan’s thigh, the heavy weight of Jonathan’s hand around his neck—nnngh fourteen! fi-fifteen!—he doesn’t recognize his own voice anymore, so desperate and keening, and he thinks they’re on seventeen now but he can’t be sure, it’s all just a blur, a heavy fog in his brain, and the only thing he knows is the throbbing ache of his cock and the raw sting of Jonathan’s firm hand.
“Did you hear me, Dio?” Jonathan’s voice, so impossibly gentle, breaking through the fog in Dio’s brain. “I said hold yourself open.”
Dio isn’t sure how he manages to obey Jonathan’s command, isn’t even sure what Jonathan is asking. But somehow he maneuvers his hands onto his ass, pulling his own cheeks apart to expose his twitching hole to Jonathan’s gaze. His plush ass burns in his hands, too hot, too sensitive to the touch, but he does it, he pulls them apart, splays himself wide open, because Jonathan told him to.
“Good boy,” Jonathan whispers, a second before he spanks Dio right on his hole, between his pulled-open cheeks, not nearly as hard as he’d smacked the flesh of his ass, but still hard, so hard on such sensitive flesh that Dio screams. Dio burns with humiliation as he feels his climax rip out of him, nothing he can do to stop it, his neglected cock spurting desperately where it’s trapped between Jonathan’s thighs. Jonathan doesn’t give him a break—he follows it up with two!—three!—four! more, in rapid succession, against Dio’s twitching, exposed hole, nowhere to flinch away from the pain, while Dio’s untouched cock keeps coming, each spurt forced out of him with every merciless slap of Jonathan’s hand.
Dio’s sure he doesn’t count, too much of a sobbing mess by this point to do anything but moan and cry incoherently in Jonathan’s arms. Somehow Jonathan scoops him up and lays him out on the bench, wraps his own hot body against him, cradles him in warmth and safety, peppering him with kisses and sweet words of praise.
“You did so, so good. So good for me. I’m so proud of you. You're beautiful. Gorgeous. Absolutely breathtaking.”
Dio gasps and shudders, sucking in air, shaky and sensitive and overstimulated. He doesn’t know how long they lie there, Jonathan showering him with gentle affection, while Dio drags air into his lungs and relearns how to breathe.
Finally, when Dio’s breaths come slower, less shaky, Jonathan kisses the back of his ear and nuzzles his face there. “Are you okay, Dio?” he asks softly.
“You didn’t fuck me,” Dio complains, sounding petulant even when he can barely breathe. “I wanted you to fuck me.”
Jonathan huffs with amusement. “We’re not finished. I’m still going to fuck you.” He grinds his hips against Dio’s ass, so Dio can feel his hardness there. The touch feels like fire on Dio’s still-too sensitive rear.
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” Jonathan continues, whispering filth into his ear, “where anyone can walk in on us and see you getting the pounding you deserve. I’m going to fuck you into this bench, and every time you get changed here from now on, you’re going to remember exactly what it felt like to be fucked open like a whore.”
Dio chokes back a moan. When he’d set out to seduce Jonathan, this isn’t what he’d bargained for. Since when could sweet, perfect gentleman Jonathan Joestar talk like this? Jonathan Joestar, who can’t flirt to save his life, who blushes when a girl asks him to dance, who can’t even cuss without crossing himself for taking the lord’s name in vain?
An ugly thought comes to Dio—this can’t possibly be Jonathan’s first time. Who has he fucked before this? One of their teammates, maybe in this very room? One of his boyhood friends, secreted away in his bedroom at the Joestar estate during the summer? Or one of those preening girls at the dances George always makes them go to? Dio imagines the blonde in the red dress, being pressed into Jonathan’s bed—her legs wrapped around his hips, his rough hands ripping her out of that tight corset—the idea of it is enough to make him seethe. Jonathan may not care who Dio has fucked, but Dio is not so generous a lover—he wants everything to do with Jonathan Joestar. He wants to take each and every one of Jonathan’s firsts, and each and every one of his thereafters—because no one else is good enough, no one else deserves to have him.
“You think you can give me what I need, Jojo?” Dio says, predatory and sinuous, teeth pressed against Jonathan’s jugular. “Think you’re good enough?”
Jonathan doesn’t deign to answer. He gets to his feet and manhandles Dio’s still-shaken body into position, on his back, pulling him by the legs along the bench, as though he weighs nothing. Jonathan pushes Dio’s legs back, until he’s nearly bent in half, his knees by his ears and his already abused hole fully exposed.
“Hold them there,” Jonathan says, and Dio does, his hands slipping beneath his knees, keeping himself splayed open for Jonathan’s gaze and touch. Dio’s ass is still smarting, the flesh bright red and raw from Jonathan’s hand, and he hisses with pain when Jonathan kneads one asscheek, pulling it aside.
“You’re gorgeous,” Jonathan whispers. He runs the flat of his tongue across Dio’s thigh, just an inch away from his hole, and Dio’s still-soft cock gives a weak twitch. Jonathan presses two fingers into Dio’s mouth. Dio sucks on them obediently.
“Do you have oil, or should I fuck you dry?” Jonathan asks, as he prods at Dio’s sore hole with one spit-slickened finger. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten you came without permission. I let you get away with it because you’ve been so good otherwise. But what a mess you made. I should make you clean it up. With your tongue, maybe—” Jonathan twists his finger inside, Dio’s hole spasming helplessly around it, and Dio throws his head back with a pleasured groan. “—or maybe I should coat my cock in it and fuck it back inside of you. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” Dio chokes out, because yes, he would like that, he wants Jonathan to fuck him dry, with just his come and spit slicking the way, each thick drag of that massive cock like torture, scrapping against his raw insides as he screams and cries. But there is a time and place—when they’re back at the Joestar estate for a break, when they can get away with lounging idly for days on end, not when he has to drag himself back to his dorm and sit through hours of classes tomorrow.
“My bag,” Dio says, breathless as Jonathan thrusts one finger lazily in and out of him. “There’s—there’s oil, inside.”
“Always prepared,” Jonathan praises him. “Did you plan this from the start?” He pulls his finger out, circling it teasingly against the bruised rim, before crossing the room to retrieve the jar of oil that Dio had prepared.
“Of course,” Dio says haughtily. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone all day. I fucked myself before the game. In the showers, before anyone else arrived. Fucked myself back on my fingers, thinking about your cock inside.”
“I can tell,” Jonathan says, still patient despite his cock hanging fully hard between his legs. “You’re so soft and open. So ready for me.”
Jonathan coats his fingers in a generous amount of oil and goes back to playing with Dio’s hole, feeding him one finger, then two, then pulling back to one again, twisting and turning them inside, scissoring him open. Dio feels like he’s being fucked already, stretched around the girth of those thick fingers, but he knows there’s more (so much more) just out of reach. It’s enough to drive him mad.
“Hurry up and fuck me,” Dio snarls. He glares at Jonathan from between his spread-wide knees, but it’s hard to look threatening when he’s holding himself open for Jonathan’s use.
Jonathan huffs with laughter. “No. We do this at my pace. And I want to take my time with you.”
Dio groans with frustration. He wants it so badly, and he’s not even hard yet, his spent cock curled against his thigh. He imagines Jonathan fucking him while he’s soft, his neglected cock bouncing helplessly from each hard thrust, both of them focused totally on Jonathan’s pleasure alone. He mewls at the image and nibbles at the flesh of his thigh.
The hot touch of Jonathan’s tongue against his rim makes him jolt. Dio moans like he’s going to die, and he might yet, at the feel of Jonathan’s mouth against his sensitive hole. The heat of Jonathan’s breath is unbearable against skin still red and raw from the spanking. Jonathan kisses his hole like a lover, like an apology for the earlier abuse, pressing the flat of his tongue against the opening, laving it with spit, sucking and nibbling the soft skin there, tongue jabbing inside like a slick cock.
Jonathan’s thick fingers are still prodding and stretching him, playing him like a toy, stretching the rim wide open until it gapes, twisting and screwing inside like a corkscrew to scrape against his walls, then thrusting fast and forcefully until he’s stretched around Jonathan’s knuckles.
It doesn’t take long to work Dio up again, his cock hardening against his abs, as he strains towards Jonathan’s fingers and mouth, wanting more, wanting to be full.
“Jojo, enough, enough,” Dio growls, toes curling in the air, every muscle tensed with anticipation. “Hurry up and fuck me! Fuck me, Jojo!”
“I said we do this at my pace,” Jonathan says, as Dio whimpers with need. “But I’ll go faster if you beg me.”
“Please,” Dio spits angrily.
Jonathan hums. He strokes his own cock slowly, looking unrushed, and Dio curses every ounce of his saintly patience. “You can do better than that,” Jonathan says.
“Please!” Dio begs, more plaintively this time, ready to throw out the last dregs of his dignity for a taste of that thick, thick cock. “Please Jojo, please. Please fuck me. Fuck me like a whore. Fuck me till I can’t stand anymore, fuck me till I cry, please, please, god, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”
“Even when you beg, you’re demanding,” Jonathan teases, but he levers himself up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and presses the wet tip of his cock against Dio’s entrance. Dio is so wet and open and aching for it that he thinks Jonathan will slide right in to the hilt, but with the first push of Jonathan’s hips, he knows he’s wrong—fuck, the head of Jonathan’s cock spreads his sore hole wide open, stretched to bursting around the massive girth, feeling cleaved in half and impaled. Jonathan rocks his hips forward, shallow thrusts as he works himself deeper and deeper inside.
Dio whines between his teeth, feeling every inch of Jonathan’s cock as it rams relentlessly inside him, each excruciating drag against his walls as Jonathan thrusts in and out. Each time he thinks that Jonathan’s bottomed out, Jonathan feeds him another inch, so deep inside him now that he swears he can feel it in his stomach, under the muscles of his abs, stretching him open more deeply than he’s ever been stretched before. By the time Jonathan’s hips are snug against his ass, Dio is panting and sweating, toes curling, fingers slipping on the backs of his knees as he struggles to keep himself open for more.
“You okay?” Jonathan asks, sounding as breathless as Dio is, that vaunted calm and control a hair’s breadth from shattering. He wraps his large hands around Dio’s slender waist, stroking his thumbs gently there.
“Yes,” Dio chokes out, because it seems to be the only thing he can say. “Yes. Yes yes yes. Fuck me, yes.”
For once, Jonathan obliges. He rocks his hips in slow, steady thrusts, testing the tight pull of Dio’s ass, the wet suction as Dio’s hole spasms to keep him inside. He keeps a steady but relentless pace, each thrust long and deep, making Dio feel every agonizing inch. Every pull back makes Dio suck his breath in with anticipation, and every thrust forward knocks the air out of his lungs with the force of the impact.
“Jojo, Jojo, Jojo,” Dio chants a litany of Jonathan’s name.
Jonathan picks up pace, the rhythmic slapping of his hips against Dio’s ass sending ripples of pleasure and pain through Dio from his bruised-red ass to his curled toes, to his rattling teeth, to his blissed-out brain. With every thrust, Jonathan’s cock jabs and drags over that sweet spot inside, that spot that makes Dio’s eyes roll back in his head, his tongue loll out, fucked mindless with pleasure. His legs bounce back and forth, his whole body jolted helplessly by Jonathan’s powerful thrusts. One hand slips in the sweat in the back of his knee, and Jonathan grabs it, shoves it back for him, holding him there.
Dio scrabbles at Jonathan’s bulky shoulders with sharp nails, pulling him down for a bruising kiss with more teeth than lips. He scratches red lines across Jonathan’s back, making Jonathan hiss and shove into him even harder; he sinks his teeth into the firm flesh of Jonathan’s shoulder and neck, wanting to mark him, wanting the world to know.
Jonathan growls when Dio bites down hard, and snaps his hips forward hard enough to make Dio scream. Dio’s teeth leave a red-raised ring around Jonathan’s birthmark, that silly star that Dio has dreamt so often of tracing with his tongue and teeth.
“Fuck,” Jonathan growls. He seizes Dio’s arms and pins him down at the wrists, Dio’s legs slung over his shoulders, thrashing futilely in the air. Dio snaps his teeth at Jonathan and Jonathan holds him down, the sheer strength in his imposing form leaving Dio light-headed with want.
“You like this,” Jonathan states, more a fact than a question, “like writhing on the end of my cock like this, screaming so loud everyone in this building can hear you getting reamed?”
“Yes, yes,” Dio gasps, breathless, can’t think.
“Tell me,” Jonathan says, slowing down, teasing, hard even thrusts with each rhythmic grind of his hips.
“I like it, like it when you fuck me.” Dio licks his lips, tastes the salt of his own tears and the bitterness of Jonathan’s come there. Jonathan is staring into his eyes inches away, and it feels humiliating, eviscerating, being watched so intently as he’s forced to beg for his own surrender. “Your cock feels so fucking good. Fuck me, Jojo. Wreck me so no other cock will ever fill me up again.”
Jonathan fucks him harder as a reward. Dio’s moans echo through the room, each desperate choked-off grunt as Jonathan slams into him over and over and over again. His asscheeks are burning from the relentless assault, so sensitive that it feels like fire each time Jonathan’s hips slap against them, making them bounce from the force.
“I want to come,” Dio cries, so hard it hurts, his cock trapped between their bodies and still untouched. Dio wants to stroke himself rough, strip himself raw, but his wrists are still held down in Jonathan’s firm grip and he can’t touch himself at all, straining achingly to rub himself against Jonathan’s hard abs.
“You already came today. You think you deserve another?”
“Please,” Dio whimpers, out of his mind with lust.
“No,” Jonathan says, pistoning his hips, and Dio cries at the frustration boiling beneath his skin.
“Please, please, Jojo, please!” Dio’s not above begging anymore, so strung out and wired, so desperate he’d do anything, anything Jonathan wants—he’d kneel at Jonathan’s feet, kiss his boots, lick the dirt off his heel and thank him for the opportunity—if only he could come, come—!
“No,” Jonathan says. “Not until I do.”
Dio lets out a guttural wail. He feels like he’s dying, like his body is exploding at every wrung-out nerve, so sensitive and overstimulated he can’t even think or speak or see. All he knows is Jonathan’s hard body over his, Jonathan’s hot cock spearing him alive, burning his insides like fire in its wake. He gives himself over completely to Jonathan, to those strong arms, that hot body, reducing him to nothing but a hole for Jonathan to fuck and fuck and fuck—
Jonathan growls, his hips stuttering as he slams into Dio brutally—savagely—losing all sense of rhythm—just wanting to bury himself so deep that Dio fucking gags on it—
“Fuck, Dio—!” It’s the only warning Dio gets before Jonathan is coming inside him, so hard and so long that Dio can feel it, feel the streams of hot come splattering against his too-sensitive walls, breeding him full to bursting.
Jonathan moans like he’s in pain. He pulls out slowly, the entire rigid girth of him, leaving Dio feeling carved-out and hollow, and watches the trail of his come oozing out of Dio’s loose, battered hole.
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” Jonathan gasps. He stabs himself back inside, so unexpected that Dio screams, stuffing his come back into that sloppy hole. He pulls out, stabs back inside, again, again, each hard breach like a punch against Dio’s gaped-open hole, the ridge of his cockhead grinding over and over against the tender insides of Dio’s red, swollen rim.
“Jojo please,” Dio shudders, too weak to try to get away from the pleasure-pain sensation, each drag of Jonathan’s cock too much for him to take.
“You want to come?” Jonathan stuffs himself back inside, his cock still rock hard, and wraps his arms around Dio’s waist. He picks Dio up, the muscles of his biceps bulging, and sits on the bench, seating Dio’s bruised ass in his lap. “Let me see you come, gorgeous, just like this.”
Dio reaches for his own neglected cock, but Jonathan slaps his hands away. "No," Jonathan says, "you'll learn to come on my cock or you won't come at all."
Dio wants to scream. He bounces himself desperately on Jonathan’s cock, grinding his own aching, trembling cock against Jonathan’s abs, feeling Jonathan’s come seep out of his stretched hole no matter how well he’s plugged. He kneads at Jonathan’s pecs, grasping at firm muscle and flesh. He’s close, so close, but it’s not enough—he can’t get there on his own and he could cry—
Jonathan takes mercy on him at last. He pulls Dio’s head down for a hard kiss, before moving his mouth to Dio’s nipples, sucking and tonguing and biting at the sensitive nubs, rolling them mercilessly between his teeth, until they’re as puffy and swollen and sore as Dio’s hole. He grips Dio by his slender waist and slams him down on his cock for each stroke, the oil exhausted now so that only his come slicks the way. His cock feels twice as massive with the friction, the gravity, stripping Dio raw from the inside out, hard and fast and brutal with an edge of pain just the way Dio likes it.
“Jojo Jojo JOJO!!” Dio comes harder than he ever has in his life, seeing stars explode behind his eyelids, screaming Jonathan’s name. Jonathan rocks him through it. Dio thinks he must pass out for a few seconds from the sheer overstimulation of it, the wreck of his nerves, because when he blinks his eyes open again, he’s lying on the bench in Jonathan’s arms.
Jonathan’s cock is still buried inside him. Jonathan pulls out slowly, gingerly, and he’s so large that it takes an age. It’s torture no matter how gentle he is, the hard shaft of his cock rubbing against Dio’s clenching walls as Dio whimpers and shudders through each agonizing inch on the slow drag out. But when he’s empty again, he wants it back immediately, feeling incomplete now that Jonathan’s cock has reshaped his insides to fit it, his wet gaping hole clenching and unclenching obscenely for the want of it.
Jonathan dips his fingers in Dio’s wrecked-open hole, squelching in the pools of come inside. He feeds his messy fingers to Dio, who moans around them weakly, suckling obediently at Jonathan’s come. If Dio had the strength left, he’d get on his knees and suck Jonathan’s cock clean, lap up all that come and their combined juices, open his mouth wide to show Jonathan what a good boy he is before he swallows it all down. But his body refuses to move, so he just lies there, submitting himself to Jonathan’s gentle ministrations.
Jonathan spends the next while stroking and petting Dio’s body, dropping tender kisses on his shoulders, and smearing the come that oozes steadily out of him across his abs, his nipples, his face, marking him with come like Dio had marked him with teeth.
“Quit it,” Dio says at last, once he has his wits about him again. He smacks Jonathan’s inquisitive hand away from his abused ass.
Jonathan gives him a lop-sided smile. Dio thinks it should be illegal for him to look so bashful and sweet, when Dio himself is still drenched and dripping in his come.
“I like seeing you like this,” Jonathan says.
“Like an unholy mess?”
“Like you’re being honest. About who you are, what you want. Like you have nothing to hide from me.” Jonathan’s eyes bore into Dio, so soft and intense all at once that Dio feels stripped raw all over again.
“Don’t get sappy on me now, Jojo,” Dio says. Now that the fog of lust has lifted, he retreats back into himself, every barrier he’s learned to put up in his life coming back up again. “This was just practice, right? Just cutting your teeth for your future wife. It means nothing. Now get out of my face, we’ve been here so long it’s probably past curfew.”
Dio goes to stand and his shaky knees immediately buckle under his weight. Jonathan catches him, holds him steady in his arms like he’s something precious. Dio hates it. He hates Jonathan’s soft sentimentality, and he hates the stupid swooning of his own traitorous heart even more.
“It means something to me,” Jonathan insists, so sincere it hurts. “You mean something to me.” He runs his fingers through Dio’s wet locks, combing them softly, tucking the errant strands behind his ear. “And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving that to you, Dio, then so be it.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Dio pulls his knees to his chest, still ensconced in Jonathan’s heat, trying and failing not to nuzzle his face into the crook of Jonathan’s neck, take in the rich fragrance of his skin there.
“I know exactly what I’m saying. I mean everything that I say.” Jonathan tips Dio’s chin up, kisses the words into his mouth, filling up his lungs like air. “You’re mine.”
Dio would chafe against such a declaration from any other man, but dropped as kisses from Jonathan’s lips, he hears the words Jonathan yearns to say: I will cherish you, I will shelter you, I will worship and love and adore you, because Jonathan Joestar doesn’t know the meaning of loving halfway.
Jonathan takes Dio’s hand and places it against the star birthmark on his shoulder, the indent of Dio’s teeth still clear in crescent-moons around it. “And I’m yours too,” he says.
In a few moments, Dio will have to untangle himself from Jonathan’s arms. He’ll have to wash the come and Jonathan’s scent off of his skin, sneak back into his dorm, and sleep alone in his bunk, dreaming of Jonathan’s warmth. And tomorrow he’ll have to face the world again, the vicious schoolyard politics and rigid shackles of genteel morality. But for now, none of that exists. None of that matters. For now, he can kiss Jonathan’s soft lips, touch his warm skin, drink him in like an ocean he wants to drown in.
“Jojo,” Dio whispers. And it sounds like I want you—I want every last inch of you—because you belong to me, with me, in me. He thinks Jonathan understands.
He learns how to breathe again. In and out.