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“Jojo,” Dio coos. “How’s Erina?”
Erina comes up as they’re sitting across from one another in their manor’s library, looking at their big textbooks and taking notes from wherever they need them. Jonathan’s paper is half empty and scraggled. He uses a modern pen that sucks and spits out droplets of ink when he’s not careful with its handling. The stack of papers across from his is neat, orderly, beautiful cursive penmanship like artwork covering every single line there is to fill; a pot of ink and an elegant quill meet every once in a while. Dio’s head is still tilted downwards and reading at page two-hundred something from something-something law scripture. His eyes don’t meet Jonathan’s. Thick, girly blond lashes cast shadows over Dio’s pointed cheeks. Dio’s lips are pink and parted and curled up so slightly at the corners that Jonathan thinks he imagines the smile, but then he blinks, and it’s still barely-there. He blinks again and feels his gut twist.
“She’s, fine,” Jonathan mumbles. “Why do you ask?”
The air is almost tense—or maybe it’s just the air that Jonathan’s breathing. Dio is as he is, cool, relaxed, too, too easy, like the silence of a forest when a bear wakes for the hunt. It’s quiet for a while. Then, a gentle little sigh. “You’re dating, right?”
Jonathan’s knee has been bouncing for the past hour and a half. “We are,” he says. “She’s fine.” He’s looking at Dio’s eyes that still won’t meet his. “Why?”
The sound of the quill nib scratching against paper. A minute. Too long. Jonathan is restless. “Why, Dio? Why do you care?”
Some more scratching. It feels like a taunt. Dio is relaxed, and studying. He writes, and writes. Another minute. The scratching stops. Dio cleans the nib with a tissue, folds it into a neat little square, and sets his quill down by his notes. He twists the cap back onto his pot of ink. He picks up his papers, stacks them into order even though they’d been pristine and perfect already, and sets them back down, too. His long fingers take the ribbon at his textbook’s spine and gently drape it over the page. He slowly reaches underneath the book’s heavy leather cover and slowly, slowly lifts it, before pinching at the corner and slowly, slowly, slowly fucking shutting the thing. The ghost of a smile is still there. Dio’s lashes flutter, his jaw clenches for a split-second when he presses his lips together and then the elegant sculpt of his throat bobs as he swallows his own saliva.
Too long. Jonathan’s shitty notes get wrinkled when he clenches his fists, and the sound of the paper scrunching, a randomly loud, sharp and crass noise, makes Dio’s eyes finally look up and see him. Colourful hazel, green and mean. The corners of Dio’s kitty mouth twitches, like he’s fighting the urge to cackle in Jonathan’s face. He licks his lips, they get shiny. He parts them and the sound of his voice is thick like honey, sickly-sweet.
“Your note,” and note, singular, unlike Dio’s do-it-yourself encyclopedia, “you worked so hard on it, Jojo. Why’d you do that to it?”
Jonathan slams his stupid archeology textbook shut. “You’re—you’re such a—“ shouting and jolting up like there’s springs in his shoes, slamming both palms down against the mahogany desk, “I don’t have the mind for you, Dio. I don’t. I don’t. What do you want? What now? What about Erina?” His face is red. Dio’s grin widens, his eyes give a little twinkle. Jonathan’s gaze bolts down to the desk and a scorching internal embarrassment festers and festers and explodes and it burns his throat and snuffs his voice down from that booming thing to a sheepish mumble-jumble. “What do you—want, whaddoyouwant.”
The silence that falls between them is almost shocked. And then it gets long again, and it seems more amused, cat-and-mouse, catch me if you can, and before Jonathan decides that apologizing for being so uncouth and ungentlemanly before taking his exit in a, say, saner and better way is worth it for the sake of escaping instead of just breaking out into a full sprint like he’s dying dying dying to do, there’s the dull sound of the chair moving against the carpeted floor and then he can almost feel Dio looming over him.
“Mmm…” Dio stretches. Jonathan doesn’t look, can’t bring himself to, but he knows by the strained, shuddering noise of that moan. “I want to talk to my brother. Is that such a crime?” It’s a sneer, thick with mockery, another underhanded fuck you.
Jonathan’s blood simmers. He taps his foot, drums his fingers.
“Jojo,” that voice goes gentle and coy again. “Why don’t you look at me? You’re so impolite today…”
Jonathan snaps his head up and meets that stare, finally, a little spitefully.
Dio saunters over to him and sits on the edge of the desk in front of Jonathan. Like a slutty fucking secretary. “Sit,” he whispers. Jonathan listens, sits. Dio cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed upward in faux concern, and he tuts thrice, tch, tch, tch, goldilocks feathering over his shoulders so prettily, so delicately, then he takes his index finger and gently raises Jonathan’s chin up with it, and it’s nice, it feels nice, and Jonathan’s face is still burning hot but he likes this, weirdly, suddenly, instinctually ramming his thighs together and sinking into Dio’s hand. His brother smells like a girl, vanilla and cream, the way he cocks his head really highlights his jugular and something in Jonathan comes to life.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Dio murmurs. “She’s not letting you fuck her, is she?”
“Why are you—“ Jonathan bites his tongue.
Dio knows what his problem is, the same way he knows everything, and more than infuriating is it both a little touching and horrifying to be seen through so clearly. Jonathan is restless and unable to work or study or do a single goddamned thing because he’s sexually frustrated. Not that, Erina doesn’t let him, but it’s nothing he wants to talk about—how shameful is he, having bedded her before even introducing her to his father as a woman he wants to marry—and he has the nerve to be frustrated because sex just isn’t what he thought it’d be. Maybe it’s what he deserves, having given in to a vice, but the thought that he’s being punished for his sins isn’t comforting in the slightest, not like it usually is, there’s no relief from the forgiveness that will come afterwards, only a confused and disappointed resentment. He’s so eager that his brother’s touch makes him melt and when Jonathan takes in his form all he can really think is he’s so erotic. Is he so desperate for fornication that he has homosexual desires?
Dio’s eyes are so lethal, so knowing. Jonathan flushes. “You shouldn’t… ask that, that’s improper, you know that.” He turns his head away from him but he’s brought right back with a gentle push to his chin again, so gentle, so weird, and Dio’s pink lips purse and he aww s at Jonathan so fucking pitifully. “It’s none of your business,” he mumbles. He feels like a child. His knee starts to bounce again, but Dio places his big, warm hand over it, and he stops.
“All this energy of yours, all this antsiness, I know, Jojo, I know,” his thumb rubs soothing circles into the bulk of Jonathan’s thigh. “You’re so pent up. She isn’t letting you, is she…”
So close to his groin. Dio’s stare is blinding, strangely earnest, playful in a way that makes Jonathan want to escape. “She’s good to me.”
A lean, and Dio’s chest is in his face. “Mm, she’s a good girl?”
Jonathan gulps.
“Too good, maybe? Does she let you touch her?”
The warmth leaves his thigh and comes up to grab Jonathan’s hand. Softly, long nimble fingers threading between his thick, meaty ones. He watches their joined clasp rise into the air, getting closer and closer to meeting Dio’s body. The back of his hand is rested against one of Dio’s pecs. Jonathan squirms. When had he unbuttoned his shirt down this far? He can see the way his tits squeeze together, like there’s cleavage, the muscle flexing and tightening underneath his touch.
Then he can feel the tickle of hair feathering gently against his neck when Dio leans in and puts his shiny pink lips to his blushing ear.
“First base? Second base?” That voice is wet. “Hmm?” So fucking warm. Sexy, teasy, like he’s blowing kisses through his breath. “Have you ever touched a woman’s body?” Almost eager, but Dio is never eager. Jonathan’s cock swells. Jonathan’s tongue is in knots. A long, slick lick down the shell of his ear. “I’ll let you touch mine…”
“Nn—“ he shudders. Dio is… no, this has to be a joke. He closes his eyes. “No, Dio, you don’t know what you’re, what you’re,” he falters. Dio’s lips move down to just beneath his jaw. He kisses, a light touch, and then the tip of his dripping tongue flattens against Jonathan’s pulse point and he kisses again, sloppier, loud lip-smacking, keening into Jonathan’s skin.
A very twisted joke. “Dio,” he chokes. “Dio, this is—“ his chest is heavy, trapped full of noises, he bites his tongue and then the insides of his cheeks and closes his other hand into a fist so tight it’s painful. He opens his mouth again, and Dio removes his fingers from Jonathan’s to spread Jonathan’s out over the meat of his pec, whining so softly from it, a damp moan directly into his brother’s neck, ah, mmm… , and instead of telling Dio to lay off him like he wanted to, Jonathan groans, and his hips buck up into the air, and he’s so fucking hard he’s dizzy and he indulges and sinks his fingers into that soft flesh, grabbing Dio by his big, cushy tit and squeezing.
It’s going too far. But it feels so nice. Bigger than his girlfriend’s. The curves on his brother’s body are so feminine, so womanly. He clamps his other hand around Dio’s waist and squeezes it, too. What the fuck is he doing? Like something out of a French moving picture, sinful, banned, sexual and obscene, blatant, a seductress and her victim. Dio makes this little gasp and arches into Jonathan’s touch. Humming, wrapping his arm around Jonathan's neck and sliding off the desk to land in his lap, straddling him close, tight, grinding down against his erection. It’s so quick, it’s so quick—Jonathan’s head lolls back and his hips buck up again, right into Dio’s warmth like he’s already sodomizing him and he’s full of adrenaline, feels like he’s about to explode into a million different glass shards, sacred china ceramics and porcelain cherubs smashing into the floor, something once whole and pure now broken and irreparably tainted.
It’s sudden. It’s regrettable. Is he this desperate? Far from his shiny gentlemanly Christlike ideals, Jonathan realizes he wants to bed Dio, and it’s horrible. Jonathan wants to make love to another man, Jonathan wants to sodomize his very own brother, Jonathan wants to fuck the shit out of him and the only thing stronger than his burning shame is his monstrous, monstrous lust, and Dio, who’s writhing on his lap and throwing his beautiful head back and letting out the most sensual noises he’s ever heard in his life, makes it easy to forget his shame and indulge the beast. He understands how men fall prey to wicked devil-women and their lustful ways. He isn’t better than anyone—he’s worse; not a devil-woman, a devil-man, a male, a fucking homosexual, sitting on his lap and rubbing their erections together. His gut wrenches, instinctually nauseated by his own debauchery, he can’t believe he’s letting this happen, but then he looks up at this siren, this Dio again and sees the little bead of sweat dripping down his Adam’s apple, sees it trickling its way down till it streaks between his tits in a shiny little line before disappearing underneath his pretty blouse and oh, it might be worth it, it might very very very well be worth it.
“Mmm, I know you, I know you, Jojo,” Dio purrs. “I know exactly what you need, when you need it, and why you need it,” rutting his hips, back and forth, back and forth, riding Jonathan through his trousers, “she’s not doing it for you, she’s not doing it for you and she never will, because she’s a fucking prude and she could never give you what you truly need as a man,” he pulls himself close, pretty face hovering inches away from Jonathan’s, eyes squinted sultry and mouth parted, panting, smiling. “Tell me about how you lay her. I know you’ve fucked her, at least once,” he stills his hips into a slow, hard grind. “Being abstinent is easier than being deprived. Because you know what sex is now, don’t you? And you know what you want, when you want it, and how you want it.” Dio presses a damp kiss to the corner of Jonathan’s eye. “But she’s just not doing it, is she? Leaving you in this sorry state, so angry all the time, so unfocused, so disrespectful,” he laughs breathily, “so eager.”
“She, just,” Jonathan’s face flushes red. Dio is so close to him, he smells so sweet. Dio is hard, and pressing into him. “More—than once. I can’t, go all the way inside her. She says it hurts.”
“Has she sucked your cock? Do you like how her mouth feels?”
Jonathan bites his lip, clenches his eyes shut, his face gets warmer. “She hasn’t…” He feels so weirdly pathetic. A shiver of humiliation runs down his spine and he turns his face away from Dio, and Dio just sighs in this long, knowing, wistful way and trails his hands over Jonathan’s shoulders. Jonathan peeks out of the corner of his eye and flinches at the icy glint in his brother’s gaze.
“Jojo,” his hips slow and slow until they still. “My mother was a prostitute,” he says, and his tone is still so light, bouncy, demure, the shape of Dio’s lips hovering over his cheekbone is barely grazing his skin in a tiny, teasing gesture. “Do you know why prostitutes exist?”
Jonathan’s gut churns. Dio’s mother, what a weird thing to bring up. He tries to ignore it. His discomfort reminds him who Dio is as a whole, remembers the Dio that killed Danny and the Dio that kissed Erina before he did, the Dio who was perfect, and evil, and saved all his malicious obscurity for Jonathan alone. “Um, uh, no—yes?” He squirms. Is he being set up for something? His paranoia balloons in an instant. His brother is beautiful, angel-white and glowing on his lap. “But—I’m sorry, that was strange, Dio, but, but, um—“ when he looks down, he gets an eyeful of Dio’s tits squishing against his chest and he sweats, “look, let’s, get up, this was a bad idea, I’m sorry—“
He’s cut through by a sticky, sultry whisper. “Listen.”
He shuts up. “Hm?”
Dio smiles. It’s genuine, real, heart-stoppingly lovely, the corners of his eyes crinkle with it and out comes a soft, sudden giggle from between his pearly teeth. Slowly, slowly. Beautifully. “Prostitutes exist for you. For starved men,” his fingers slither over Jonathan’s cheek and gently turn him till they’re nose-to-nose, “and their prude wives.” Eve and the apple. Like if a swan was a python. He’s so close to him. He’s so fucking gorgeous.
“Starved man will ask his prude wife to lay back and let him enjoy her, and she will tell him no, not tonight, my head hurts. She will tell him no, not tonight, I’m too tired. She will tell him no, I don’t want to.” Dio looks at Jonathan’s lips, lets his stare linger for a moment, so fucking sexy, before lifting off of Jonathan’s lap and lowering himself down to his knees. His hands trail upwards slowly, methodically, naturally, dripping along Jonathan’s quivering calves and over his knees, then over his thighs where he sinks his fingers in and gropes, makes Jonathan stutter and jump and chatter out a gasp. His eyes are darkened, glittering hazel, Dio looks so deep into Jonathan it’s like he’s fawning over his own mirror like he does every morning, that same calculated and self-assured glint, cocky and poisonous and playful. “Starved man will ask his prude wife, then how about your mouth? Does it ache as well? Is your mouth too tired for me? Your mouth does not crave me?”
He rests his beautiful face against Jonathan’s groin. “And she will be offended, and turn her nose up at him, sneering, what do you think I am, a whore? I don’t want to do that.” His open mouth is so close to Jonathan’s cock, Jonathan throbs and pulses and swears he can feel the humid mist of Dio’s breath again, that syrupy shower steam, wild and real, puffing up against his aching dick when those lips part more and more and then his juicy sugar tongue comes out to lick over his zipper, obscene again—it makes him groan loud, guttural and involuntary, and Dio continues, hushed like a secret, “because how taboo! Oral sex? Filthy, what kind of a woman would put her mouth there, it’s too dirty…” and slowly trailing his hand up to cup Jonathan’s tented bulge and that touch making him jump again, has him panting hard, eyes blown wide and crazy and his fingers digging so deep into his palms that it starts to proper hurt.
“The starved man will go to a hooker and say, my wife, oh my wife, is she dead in bed! Frigid, cold as a starfish.” Dio pinches his zipper. “And he’ll take off his pants, and his underpants, and he’ll dive into the bedroom…” deliberately drags it down, tick by tick by torturous tick, “and he’ll say, do me.” He looks back up at Jonathan, twinkling, presses a sloppy kiss over the still-clothed head of his leaking cock. “Do me. Suck it.”
Jonathan is in too deep. He’s scared again, fidgeting. Deft hands undo his belt and unbutton his slacks and pull him out of his undergarments and then Dio’s warm fingers are wrapped around his cock and it’s all too real now, it’s happening, and Jonathan’s chest tightens bowstring-violent and he starts blabbering like a fool, belligerent nonsense, “wait, Dio, wait, maybe we shouldn’t, this is a—a mistake,” and Dio is smiling again, small and wicked, raising an arched eyebrow and cooing out a dismissive hmmm? , so relaxed and easy about it and about everything, like he’s sucked his brother off before and this is nothing new nor anything to fuss about. “My, betrothed, this isn’t—this isn’t right, I can’t do this to her,” Jonathan stammers, stupid excuse, and he moves to get up, lifting his ass slightly off the chair, but Dio leans in and licks a quick, spitty line across his weeping tip and he falls back with a loud, startled yelp.
Dio’s tongue is soft, wet. It feels so fucking good. “Then leave,” he says. And he takes another lick, right at the slit, lapping up his brother’s pre and rolling the little beads down the back of his throat.
Jonathan whimpers. He can’t. But he can. “Dio,” he whimpers again. “I’m—I’m serious, I can’t, do this—“ his knees buckle though he’s sat and Dio’s long, long tongue lingers, tracing around the end of his foreskin, slipping in underneath it to taste the rest of him and Jonathan groans like it hurts him, a struggled, gritty noise, he’s so fucking sensitive it brings tears to his eyes and he sees the way he throbs against Dio’s chin, tapping it involuntarily, twitching and moving, and Dio widens his mouth and drapes his tongue over his lip and then tightens his hold on Jonathan’s shaft, pulls the foreskin down and slaps his dripping head over that quivering pink, piercing through Jonathan with this mean-girl stare and almost laughing at him, wanting to, the corners of his gaped grin straining with it. “Dio,” he hisses, then “Dio,” he moans, and moans some more, shaking, melting into the seat and throwing his face into his hands.
The sight makes him blush. The contrast is filth, the picture alone illegal. His dick is—big, girthy, dark and deepened further by all the blood filling him full and hard. Dio’s pale skin, all smooth milk and honey, Jonathan’s brown chestnut cock, reddened and angry, bulging veins and taut, wrestling skin, eager for touch, leaking and dribbling over and over, his pre globbing thick and wet onto Dio’s gleamy gumdrop tongue. He looks massive when he’s in front of Dio’s slutty face, makes those long fingers look thinner when they’re gripped around him. And Dio’s slutty face loving it. Loving Jonathan’s dick, swallowing Jonathan’s taste down to his stomach and loving it, fucking loving it.
He remembers Erina, and the confusion on hers. Then her disgust. His gut twists, he hates Dio for knowing— you want me to what? I’m not a whore… that’s, unbecoming, to put it lightly. Even her hands, they were too little to feel good wrapped around him, gripped too tight, didn’t know how to please a man. But Dio’s, only a little smaller than his own, big, strangely feminine, experienced, sexual…
But Jonathan can’t. He can’t. “B-but, we’re, we’re brothers, and men, Dio—“
A loud, wet slurp when Dio wraps his lips around his slit and sucks.
“Oh my God,” Jonathan thrashes.
Pop, and Dio pulls off. “As if you care,” giggling, then spitting a fat wad of froth onto his shaft, and taking Jonathan into his mouth properly, and finally, fuck, finally —plush pink stretched around his dick, the touch of an eager tongue wrapped around his underside, Dio’s hand groping him at the root and stroking slick strokes as he slowly moves his head up and down, up and down, a gentle, maddening milking. Dio’s amber eyes pierce right through him, his lashes white under the light fluttering whenever he takes Jonathan in deeper and he almost struggles with it, tearing up a little, and continues sucking him off anyway. Dio struggles for him, for the first time in the seven years they’ve been brothers—weirdly enough, it makes Jonathan emotional, thinking wow, this is the closest we’ve ever been, this is the most he’s ever done for me, he’s sacrificing for me, he cares for me, he actually cares for me, he’s only trying to help me, feeling this pathetic suffocating gratitude for it and biting his lip on both a moan and a humiliatingly out of place sob. Dio feels so good, Dio makes him so happy. Jonathan has the back of his hand pressed against his quivering mouth and it gets pulled down and placed into Dio’s head of blond, fingers threading into spun gold, and he instinctively grabs, hard, bucking his hips into his brother’s face. Dio makes a pained, gurgled noise. Jonathan freaks, “fuck, sorry, I’m so sorry, are you okay,” stammering and loosening his grasp in Dio’s hair but instead of pulling off to cuss him out like Jonathan is half or two-thirds or three-quarters expecting Dio to, Dio just pauses, grabs Jonathan’s grasp and tightens it, adjusts, then slowly, slowly starts to force his head down more.
That pretty hazel gets shinier and shinier. Jonathan’s never seen his brother cry. It’s insane. Breathtaking. There’s a sudden wetness around his cock and Dio’s gagging, making more of those pained noises, desperate almost, his body seizing up and jumping every time he retches, his eyes slamming shut and spurting out from the corners a hefty tear stream, spit bubbling and fizzing out thickly from the suction of his sin mouth and dribbling over his fingers and the rest of Jonathan’s cock. Then Jonathan feels his tip ram into something like a wall, a tight, tender little muscle. It makes him fucking dizzy. He slumps back and runs his other hand through his own hair, doggy panting, vibrating down to his toes.
At the heart of that muscle is a clench, like an entrance of sorts. Dio’s head inches down, he swallows around Jonathan and that little thing contracts, twitches, and then he inches down some more and more until it’s forced open and Jonathan’s dick is inside of something, another part of Dio he’s just discovered, like a virginal cunt hidden away in the depths of that heat—then Dio takes Jonathan’s hand again and wraps it around his own neck, shoving himself down until his pink nose is pressed flush against his brother’s happy trail, gagging so violently he full-body spazzes and his knees bang loudly on the floor, and with that one move, taking the rest of Jonathan’s girth, he can feel a sudden surge and a filling hardness through Dio’s soft swan neck, and oh, oh, God, he’s in Dio’s throat, he’s right there, he’s right fucking there.
“Dio,” he moans, “oh, oh, Dio, Dio,” his tongue feels too big and it makes him sound stupid, voice thickened like molasses or thickened like tar, he wants to tell Dio how good he feels and how good he feels and how good he feels but he can’t and he feels like he’s gonna explode but he doesn’t and wills himself into holding back, wants to stay in that heat and feel this pleasure boiling upwards in his stomach forever and ever until the day he dies and maybe he’ll die from it, maybe he’ll die from this immense, booming pleasure and while he knows he won’t, probably won’t, he thinks it’d be the best way to go and internally accepts his father’s grief and hopes that his daddy would at least know his boy passed a happy happy happy man. Dio’s pretty eyes open and look at him again after what feels like forever and they’re red, so red, and he’s crying and really crying, snot drooling out his prissy nose onto Jonathan’s pubes and slicking them down, and it should be disgusting, but it isn’t, it just isn’t. It’s horrifically erotic, hypersexual, unimaginable. “My brother,” he rambles, “oh, my, my dear brother, oh my God, what wouldn’t I do for you.” He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, blushing hot, but Dio makes this low, wanting sound, vibrating into Jonathan’s cock, and he instantly forgives his own idiocy and starts praising himself instead.
“This, is,” better than anything Erina’s ever done to or for him. “Dio,” he chokes, and Dio’s tongue is quivering, stroking along his bulging veins, like he’s telling him to speak. “Please,” he whimpers, “please, please, please—“
And then slowly, Dio starts to come back up, sliding Jonathan out of his mouth, gagging when the back of his tongue is pressed downward and instinctively slamming his eyes shut, more wetness squeezing out of him, and when Jonathan’s cockhead is just between his lips, Dio sucks at him, moaning, before finally pulling off with a slurp. Spit bubbles, a string of froth connects his mouth to Jonathan still. He’s such a fucking slut but he’s smiling at Jonathan so sweetly, like an angel, stroking his thumb down that girth and peppering messy kisses all over him. “I love your dick,” he purrs, “taste so good, I haven’t had anyone as big as you in so long…” His eyes glaze over the way they do when someone delves deep into thought, like he’s reminiscing, reminiscing about whatever big-dicked low-life he’d been with in the past.
Disgusting. It makes Jonathan’s blood boil.
He’s forced to wonder just how many men Dio has been with. He’s skilled, no doubt, a blessing and a curse, he gives so much pleasure but he’s whored himself out, done God-knows-what with God-knows-who, it makes Jonathan pity him piously and loathe him carnally, something black and rotten, a resentment plague borne from a newborn possessiveness. A whore. Just like his mother, Dio’s a dirty little girl. But he thinks, and thinks, and if Dio had managed to seduce his own betrothed brother, then how easy would it be for anyone else to fall prey to him? Jonathan is an adulterer, an incester, and a homosexual now. He nauseates himself. Maybe he’s not an adulterer, since he’s not married, maybe he’s just a fornicator, and, well, he’s been a fornicator since he’s been with Erina so that should mean he isn’t adding to his sins. Maybe he’s not a homosexual—Dio is only helping him for the time being and he’s feminine, tender, and submissive here, twice the woman Erina is, (and remembering the press of Dio’s erection against his, feeling something delightful twist in his belly, calling it rage,) and maybe he can cross out incester too since they're not bound by blood but he thinks of Dio as his mischievous little brother, the golden egg who has his father’s respect and the world’s love and who is so much better at everything than he is. And that nauseates him more. Dio’s likely even better at sex. Dio kissed Erina, what if he fucked her too and that’s why she hates fucking Jonathan? Dio could be somewhere else with his incredible and wicked mind, someplace better, but he’s here, Jonathan looks at him, and feels his chest burst. On his knees like he’s praying. Dio is so beautiful. In this brutal, terrifying way. His eyes are still so red, slickness down his face, down his nose, his spitty pink chin, his pink fingers which are still wrapped around Jonathan. Dio presses his cheek against Jonathan’s cock and turns his attention back to his brother, eyes lighting up like Christmas. He’s so vulnerable but he’s still got an edge to him, something menacing, unknown, fangs where there should be none. All that intelligence, all that cunning will. It’s unnerving. He has to be up to something. Dio has to be up to something. But he’s on his knees like he’s praying, looking up at Jonathan with this honest want, so pure it feels Godly.
“Come,” says Dio, “come to me.” He rises, leaning into Jonathan, and before he can think more, Dio is kissing him.
It catches him off guard, he freezes. Soft. Not what he’d expect from another man, but Dio is not the average man, far, far from it. He has the same petal-lush touch as his girlfriend, but his lips are bigger so they seem even softer, better, plusher. Slick with saliva, it should be nasty. But it’s like her lipstick. Jonathan shudders, furrowing his brows, wrenching a hand into Dio’s blond, and instead of pulling him off, Jonathan keeps kissing him back. Dio moans into his mouth and it makes him throb. Dio’s eager little tongue slides between his lips and gently parts them, and Jonathan lets it, sliding his around Dio’s, licking up on his front teeth and the backs of them and everywhere he can reach, and he can taste a filthy bitter musk, something undeniably human, pungently masculine, and he knows it’s himself on Dio’s tongue, knows it, he’s tasting his own cock in his brother’s mouth and he should be repulsed, he should be prostrating and begging for forgiveness, he should be praying Hail Mary and killing himself for salvation, but he just isn’t. His guilt is nothing compared to Dio.
Dio is fleeting, the sudden cool breeze in the throes of a sunburn summer, while the Lord is air, omnipresent, always watching, always forgiving. Unconditional, giving. Loving, knowing. Understanding. Dio can’t wait, while the Lord always will. Jonathan can repent later. And he’ll be forgiven, he will, God’s love is paramount, so for now…
“What more, do you want,” Jonathan murmurs into him, low and rough. “What more?” The sound of their kissing is wet, lips smacking, breathy moans, incredible. He licks along the corners of Dio’s mouth then rests his forehead against his. “Tell me.” He slowly flutters his eyes open, and Dio’s, bright scorching amber, are already burning into him. The suddenness of it almost makes him jump. He can see himself in their shiny reflection, a shocked and messy face.
“I want to help you,” Dio whispers. “I want to be your prostitute.”
Jonathan gulps. “Why?”
Dio hums. He traces the tip of finger down the length of Jonathan’s cock and smiles when he groans. “Because you need a prostitute. You do.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t respond for a while. He doesn’t look away, either. His pupils dilate for a moment, then constrict again, kitty-cat. “You’re always such a gentleman… you don’t have to be a gentleman anymore, Jojo. The state you’ve been pushed to is simply unsightly…” So fucking condescending and backhanded, it pisses Jonathan off. But they’re pretty words. Dio’s only helping him. And his voice is warm, a lilt and a trill, seductive still—it’s hard to get up.
His knee starts shaking. “If a prostitute is all I need, why are you bothering? Why not call one? Instead of…?” It makes Dio move with him. For a moment, watching the little chub of Dio’s cheeks bounce up and down fills him with this brutal endearment and before he wants it to, his rage fizzles out and it’s gone and his shaking halts. Dio giggles sweetly and kisses him under his eye.
“Nobody knows my brother like I do. So let me take care of him,” a hot little murr into his ear, “okay?”
Jonathan soars. “Okay. Okay.”
And then it’s quick.
Well, not really. It’s quite slow, but it’s quick, quick, there isn’t much time left before he gets, to, couple… with Dio, and that thought in and of itself scares him, thrills him, delights him, makes his stomach churn and acid come up his throat in sheer fear and excitement, dick standing tall and hefty, leaking as he gets to sit back in his seat and watch how Dio moves as he strips, slowly slowly. So languid, smooth like silk or honey, relaxed and easy, borderline practiced. Dio’s on his feet. Not close enough to hover over Jonathan but close enough that Jonathan can see the way he shivers when he finishes unbuttoning his blouse and his chest is exposed to the cool air. Tits sitting pretty, rosy nipples beaded hard. Dio even whines, mmm… , furrowing his brows in this sexy little pinch and looking at Jonathan actress-sad, like he’s telling him he wants Jonathan to warm him up because he’s just sooo cooollddd. So performative. He lets the white cotton drop off his sweet shoulders and pool onto the floor behind him.
His skin is unnaturally flawless, body built to perfection, and it’s not like Jonathan has never seen him at least partially nude before, he’s snuck secret glances here and there in the lockerroom after practice when Dio’s all sweaty and the blood pumping through his veins has his muscles tripled in size (and in platonic brotherly admiration, of course,) but seeing him like this now, Dio the coy little temptress and not Dio the rival, Dio the menace, it’s so different. Intimate, dirty, your-eyes-only. The definition in his obliques which taper down to form his tiny girl waist, then his abs, lean and impressive, then the tight pull of his belly button and the line that trickles down and disappears underneath his trousers. His hips broaden out, nearly the width of his shoulders, hourglass, erotic. And then his clothed groin, the tented bulge it makes, the way his zipper curves around it then swoops back down and disappears beneath its mass. Jonathan tries to summon disgust at the sight of his brother’s arousal but it doesn’t manifest. His dick just throbs, fuck you, I need him.
Smart hands undo a leather belt, remove it from its heavy silver buckle. A button is unbuttoned. Nimble fingertips pinch the zipper. Pull it down. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Dio’s forearms flex, veins writhing, virile. Jonathan’s mouth waters. When it’s all the way down, the cloth flower-blooms and reveals pink—like the rest of him, every extremity is rosy, bloodful, demurely translucent—girthy, long, springing up against Dio’s toned tummy and touching part of his midsection before gravity pulls him back down and Jonathan can see the heft of his brother’s cock, it weighs itself down, so aroused it looks painful, veiny, weeping, spilling so much, so much, a glistening thread drips down from that eager pink head straight onto the carpet floor. It’s beautiful. Jonathan aches. It shouldn’t be. It’s just a penis, but everything of Dio’s has a weird way of inducing awe, everything about him so impeccably crafted. All humans had been made from mud, but Dio was not—no way was he sculpted from something so simple, so accessible, he had to be sculpted from something much finer, maybe Grecian marble, some ancient stone, something insistent on relentless, unshakeable perfection.
And he wears nothing beneath his slacks. Jonathan’s stomach flutters dreadfully.
They’re still around Dio’s hips, hugging him tight. He slides his thumbs beneath the waistband and teasingly tugs it down, a black-widow thing burning into Jonathan so forcefully he doesn’t have to look up to know he’s being stared at. He watches more skin get exposed, inch by tantalizing inch, all creamy, unblemished, kid-smooth, like hair follicles don’t exist on him neck-down. Erina was hairier. Jonathan gulps and sees himself twitch in his periphery. Dio wiggles them down to his knees, then lets go, lets them drop into a pile and delicately steps out of them before toeing with pristine Oxfords his trousers backward to meet his blouse. Jonathan can see his balls now, heavy and taut, that very same pink.
Black leather garters are fitted just below his knee, holding up white cotton socks. The sight makes Jonathan shy.
He looks up when he finds the nerve to. Dio’s gaze is waiting for his, now gentle, curious, intrigued, somehow all-knowing, all foreboding venom gone. His head is cocked to the side and his eyes are half-lidded. Almost drowsy, gleaming softly, bedtime sexy. His lips are stretched in a tiny smile.
“Dio,” he calls. “Come—come here.”
Dio’s smile widens slightly, nearly unnoticeably. He comes here. Slow strutting, short catlike strides, one foot in front of the other, hips water-waving, cock bobbing in the air. It makes Jonathan’s saliva flood and he has to swallow it down with an audible gulp. Dio stops when their knees brush and Jonathan can see the goosebumps forming over his skin, tiny pebbles forming up, up, up to his belly. Speaking is so fucking hard. Dio’s dick is so close to his face. Jonathan can smell him, this sweetness, a sticky-warm thing, cloying, daisy nectar, and then this underlying dirty musk, animalic, humid July swelter. Dio is still a man.
His hands are shaking. He grabs Dio’s hips with them, tightly, digs his thumbs into bone and shivers when he hears Dio mewl.
If Dio is going to be Jonathan’s prostitute, then that means he can do what he wants, right? Whatever he wants? The thought is dizzying, fairytale-fantastical. Jonathan clears his throat. “My, prostitute, right?” He doesn’t want to be mistaken. He fights the urge to pinch himself, what a strange fucking dream this would’ve been, and what a shame it would’ve been if it was a dream. He’s never been this nervous in his life.
Dio puts his pretty hands over Jonathan’s and presses them down. Voice light and airy, a spritz of powder-puff perfume. “I’m your little prostitute.”
It makes Jonathan’s cock jump.
“Whatever I want?”
He has to be careful.
“Mhm…” a hum, a slow circular hip-wind, “whatever you want.” Burlesque, professional. Jonathan can hear the teasy riff-raff music, Dio wiggling out of a comically small miniskirt.
“Okay,” Jonathan breathes. “Okay. Okay.”
A green light means go, so he’ll go. A man stands before him wanting. Jonathan’s heart is pounding so loud in his ears it’s this-side of deafening. His fingers sink in deeper, till he can see the way Dio’s flesh pillows over them in pudgy white, he’s such a hardbody but nobody is lean enough to be fatless and that overhang looks marshmallowy and Jonathan gets the sudden urge to take a big bleeding bite right out from the side of his hip. He doesn’t, but he feels his mouth flood again, some trickles out the corners of his parted lips. He feels animal even though he hasn’t even done anything. It’s strange. His instincts heighten and he’s as alert as he’s ever been. Maybe it’s because he knows he’s sinning. Maybe he knows Dio’s still dangerous, maybe he feels like this is an act that will fall flat on its fucking face the second Dio gets what he wants from Jonathan, but whatever. They’re in deep—both of them. Sodomizers, incestuous homosexuals, dirty children. Jonathan is here and in the now and all he wants to do is something new.
Jonathan pulls Dio onto his lap. Dio makes himself so light. He flies onto him like a cotton ball, landing artfully in his lap, thighs spread wide and cock eagerly sliding against his own. Dio is smaller than him and wetter than him so when their cocks meet, that drooling pink head presses a wet kiss against Jonathan’s brown shaft and it’s fucking obscene again. He jolts, his head lolls back and he groans and he hears Dio mewl again, so fucking sweetly, it makes more blood rush down to his erection so fast he gets lightheaded.
“I—want,” Jonathan grits, “I want to fuck you.”
Dio grins, nods, writhes on his lap. “Good. Good.” Puts his palms over Jonathan’s chest and fiddles with his collar. “How do you want me?” A hot tongue licks at the shell of his ear, “on my back? You wanna see what my face looks like when you fill me up with that fat cock?”
His breath is sauna steam, floaty.
“Or from the back? Feels good that way… deep, crazy deep. You can pull my hair, too…”
Dirty little girl.
“Or right here. I can ride you, Jojo. Take care of you, let you relax. Real deep, too… feel you in my stomach. You’re so big, you’ll probably bulge me out…”
Erina never talked this nasty. Erina sucked.
“It’s whatever you want, baby. I just need you… need you, Jojo…” grinding their dicks together, moaning wet into his ear, “need you inside me, ready for you, I’ve always been ready for you, Jojo,”
Erina fucking sucked.
“On your back,” Jonathan shudders, “on your back, I want you on your back,” he wraps Dio’s arms around his neck then puts his own over the cushy meat of Dio’s thick thighs and swings them over his waist, carries him and gets up. Heavy, compact, muscle and mass, stretched out on dense bone—Jonathan can’t throw him around like he’s nothing, and really, really likes it. He likes the weight of Dio, that Dio is choosing to let him toy with him like this, that Dio could probably break free from him if he really wanted to. Dio isn’t female-fragile. Dio isn’t a woman afraid of denying him. Dio wants, so he lets. He makes this delighted little noise and grabs onto Jonathan, lion paws sinking into his brother’s traps, ankles locking at the small of Jonathan’s waist and their cocks rubbing together again, more, makes them both puff and pant and moan at each other. He sets Dio onto the desk and watches how Dio leans back, palms flat, coy face pointed down, his eyes staring up at Jonathan with a sharp glitter.
Jonathan’s touch roams and roams, lingers up and down every inch of Dio’s creamy legs. Big, so thick, fat shredded down to nothing. He loves his body. He’ll never admit it. When Dio flexes, that softness turns to stone and Jonathan is in awe, perfectly shaped. Like an anatomical painting. Every thread of muscle, each pull of tendon, the way his quadriceps are proportioned to his hamstrings and the way they’re so, so flexible, he puts his hand underneath a knee and pushes back until it meets a pillowy pec and Dio takes the liberty of extending the rest of his leg out, grinning, his socked calves aligned with his thighs and his Oxford feet pointed to the ceiling. There isn’t the quiver of strain, it’s all easy elastic; look how bendy I am. Little show-off. Jonathan can see his hole like this, pink and slightly gaped, glistening and clenching and unclenching around thin air. (I’ve always been ready for you, Jojo.)
Dio brings his leg back down and keeps his knee to his chest, then gently toes both feet onto Jonathan’s, pristine leather soles against his cotton shirt. “Help me?” Dio’s voice is so sweet. He means his shoes. His socks, the garters. Jonathan’s mouth is a desert. He obliges.
Untying his laces feels sexual. He removes one shoe, then the other, dropping them carelessly onto the floor, thud, thud. Unclips the garter with shaky hands and undoes the little buckle, one, two, clattering them to the side of the desk. Then he grabs Dio’s calf and straightens it over his shoulder. Slips his fingers underneath a sock cuff and pulls it down until it’s off, then does the other one, and for some reason Dio’s heel smells really good, that same vanilla thing, does he really put his cologne there and why does he use such a sissy fragrance?, and then Jonathan’s lips are flat against his ankle, kissing it. Dio likes it. He rumbles, big-cat purring, pleased and lax. To Jonathan’s mind come Egyptian Sphinxes and ancient cat worship and he thinks Dio must’ve been one of them in a past life, some feline Goddess, a holy revered entity.
Dio carries himself with a sense of Godliness. More like he is a God or is God. It’s blasphemous. But it feels right, it feels just like Dio, there isn’t any other way he’s ought to be. Even as he’s whoring himself out that superior-smug thing to him is never out of place, sexual offerings seeming a form of aggression. Long-legged and girl-curved with a low, sultry voice, all aimed like a dagger. Do what I want; I might like you.
“Thank you,” he coos. “I’m all yours now…” he spreads his thighs wide, pulling his other knee to his shoulder, the stretch makes his asshole wink.
Jonathan clumsily grabs his heavy cock and spits on it. He inches closer and guides his dripping head right to the purse of that pucker, and he pushes in so easy. Pink rim grabs at him, tries to suck him in deeper, “oh, fuck.” Dio is loose enough to let him in and then he pushes further, closer, sheathes half of himself into that warmth panting and bleeding sweat and Dio grips, squeezes him, so fucking good, humming so happily and parting his lips to moan deep in a man’s voice when Jonathan moves in more and more and more.
His balls hit Dio’s thighs and they both groan. Jonathan is inside his brother, to the hilt, the hilt, all of him in that wet heat. “That’s it,” Dio gasps, “mmm, yeah, that’s it, that’s it,” he’s never had his dick so deep inside of any hole until today, first his brother’s mouth and now his brother’s ass, he looks down and his cock looks like it’s splitting Dio in half painfully and he looks up at Dio’s face and he looks like he’s in excruciating agony but his own cock is spitting and gushing all over his belly and he’s chanting, “oh, you’re so, oh, my God, that’s it, fill me up, fill this fucking pussy up—“
It rolls off his tongue too easily, too casually, part of his regular vocabulary. He’s getting sodomized and he’s calling it a pussy. Jonathan almost wants to correct him but he looks down at Dio’s hole clamping down around him and thinks pussy and his brain supplies him with the image of a womb deep down in Dio’s guts.
He feels himself throb. It makes Dio gasp again. “You can—you can take me, right?” He hates himself for asking and somehow musters the will to hold still and not move like he’s aching to, grabs the pudge on the side of Dio’s ass and sinks his grip in, throwing his head back—then Dio’s legs come around his neck and those ankles link behind Jonathan’s head and Dio pulls him in close, forces him to move, gritting his straight pretty teeth and hissing, “yessss, yesssss, I can fucking take you big boy, I can take that monster cock, fucking give it to me, come on, come on—“
Jonathan flushes, monster cock. “Oh my God,” he chokes. “Okay—okay, fuck, okay,” he pulls back then shoves himself back in slow, deep, really savouring it, his eyes rolling back at the sensation and red-hot pleasure spiking all throughout his body, “oh, this is—so good, Dio, thank you, Dio,” his voice is slurred and he sounds stupid again and so naïve but it’s good, feels natural, this is what Dio does to him.
Erina says enough when he’s halfway inside her. Jonathan only gets to fuck her with half his dick, the rest of him stays cold, untouched, unwanted. She doesn’t talk or let him talk. A you like that? gets a short, dead-end yeah and when he wants to cum she makes him pull out way before so he can fuck his own hand and spill into his palm or a tissue. She’d been so insistent on taking his virginity and giving him hers just to deprive him so. A fornicator undeserved. Nothing like this. Real, true, eager sexuality. Dio’s meaty calves press around his neck and make it hard to breathe and it’s so fucking good, it makes him fuck more and harder like he’s never touched anything in his life, balls clapping against Dio’s ass with every thrust, the sound wet and embarrassingly loud and a little gross.
Something Jonathan is learning about real sex—it is a little gross. It’s no time for looking pretty or being proper or well-mannered. Dio’s face is red and glistening with sweat and he can see the dried snot formed in a powdery line still under his nose and slightly over his noisy mouth, renewed spit-shiny from when he’d licked his lips. The slobber on his chin’s dried too, coating it in a dull, milky crust. Dio’s tongue lolls out his mouth as he sings and when he bites his lips his teeth sink so deep into petal-pink that they draw a little rosebud red. Unabashed, indulgent, wanton. Dio is always proper with not a hair out of place, blond waves gelled orderly, ruffled button-ups seamlessly tucked into tailored slacks, belt and dress shoes in matching leathers, but sex is animal and this is what it does. A force of nature, the only reason why man exists—and existing in everyone, everything, a visceral beating-heart need, something that allows the pristine to open up and reveal true-form carnal desire.
Something that makes Dio ask him about his girlfriend before seducing him. Something that makes Dio call his asshole a pussy.
“Come on, Jojo, you can do better than this, can’t you, come on, come on,” Dio’s calves flex, tug Jonathan’s head down till he’s nose to nose with Dio and the hungry gleam in Dio’s eyes is so potent it scares him, “I bet you like this, you like when I’m mean to you, huh, you like it when I choke you, baby?” and Jonathan doesn’t know, he doesn’t, and Dio shoves Jonathan’s head back away from him then squeezes his legs together, hardens the long muscled length of them and really presses at the sides of Jonathan’s throat threateningly and more than not being able to breathe right does his vision getting speckled and speckled and speckled scare him more and maybe he likes it a little bit but it’s too new, too unfamiliar, and Jonathan’s hands gripping Dio’s hips tighten and his nails dig deep into that flesh deeper and deeper and deeper and he hears Dio whimper but he doesn’t loosen his chokehold and Dio starts snarling, all the malice in the world, “no wonder she hates fucking you, you’re not being a man, look at you, just gonna let me fucking play with you like this, huh, want me to choke you out you little fucking bitch—“
“No—“ Jonathan slurs, “stop—stop,” he lets go of those hips, drooling. He wrenches his hands around Dio’s ankles and starts pushing them down. He has to use some of his actual strength, Dio’s legs are powerful and disobedient and stubborn, their struggle makes their bodies bounce and jitter and he’s able to keep fucking him as they wrestle, wild and barbaric, Dio groaning, kissing his teeth annoyed when he somehow knows Jonathan is holding back out of his stupid innate chivalry, “you fucking idiot,” teaching him a lesson for it by giving Jonathan his ankles—the sudden ease makes Jonathan’s grip fly to the side with them, pushed by his own force—and Dio strikes his hands forward, wraps them around his throat, giggling maniacally, thumbs pressing into his windpipe making Jonathan cough. He feels real fear bubbling and his stomach dropping through the floor in dread and he doesn’t trust Dio enough not to do it so it suddenly becomes do-or-die and pure instinct kicks in.
Quick, he rips Dio’s hands off him, flips Dio’s squirmy body over and slams him into mahogany with a loud bang!, the sound like a gunshot, so hard he hears the wood splint and break and the desk caves in at its middle—Dio’s lungs empty with a wheeze at the impact, he’s positioned so Jonathan’s huge black fabric thighs are around Dio’s squeezing them together and his wrists are in a mean grasp and his back is in a deep steep arch and he gets fucked like that, a ragdoll, arms like handlebars or reins on a horse, Jonathan tugging with every thrust, growling. He feels like a beast, doesn’t feel real, completely out-of-body. He hears an audible shutter in his ears as he tries to fill his body back with air but it’s hard to catch his breath and he starts hyperventilating, eyes blown wide and crazy. He’s almost panicking. Dio’s delighted moans slowly seep into his senses and he can hear his own belt buckle jingling and he can hear Dio chanting again, chanting, “there you fucking go, there you go, good boy, make sure I can’t run, fuck yeah, you’re not gonna hurt me, you can be rough, I knew you had it in you, come on, come on, pound this fucking pussy—“
He gathers Dio’s wrists to one hand and puts the other right below Dio’s jaw, tilting his head up. The strain makes his voice whittle down to a whisper and when Jonathan slams deep into his ass he squeaks and the sound is girly, high-pitched, adorable. “You’re unimaginable—you’re, fucking crazy,” he hisses into a ear, “what is your issue? What is your problem, Dio? Where’s—“ he gulps. “Where’s my little prostitute?”
Thick ass backing up on his dick, “ oh, ” taking all of him, “‘m here—here,” Dio wheezes. “All, yours, I’m, I’m your, little…“
Jonathan fixes his breath, huffs in a deep lungful. He gets confident. A wicked thing rolls throughout his body. “Speak up,” he grits, and grips Dio’s throat properly, clenching at the sides of it. Dio noises out a wordless croak and writhes, wrists pulling back in the weakest resistance, his nails digging into Jonathan’s palm. Jonathan hammers into him so hard his hips feel bruisy and his dick aches and Dio squeaks more, eyes rolling to the back of his head and mouth gaping, brows furrowed up his forehead in a deep crease. He can’t breathe, and Jonathan expects him to fight like he did, slither from his grasp like he knows Dio can, but Dio just doesn’t. There’s a little upward twitch to the corners of his lips and his body goes soft, easy, his head lolling down into Jonathan’s grip. Like he’s going limp.
It can’t have happened that fast. Jonathan feels this spark of worry in his chest and loosens his grip. Dio breathes, and breathes, stutters as he’s bounced. “So, mean,” hushed, mewling, gasping as he’s fucked. He grabs Jonathan’s hand with his two and Jonathan’s first thought is that Dio is going to break his arm but instead he’s pulled forward gently, till his hand is right by that quivering mouth.
So mean, that Dio reaches over that slight distance and peppers tiny, helpless thank you kisses all over Jonathan’s palm.
“Please,” he sings, “please—like that, oh, you’re so good to me,”
There’s something so sexy about it. Jonathan understands. “Someone needs to rape you to get anywhere with you, huh?”
“Yeah— yeah, fuck yeah,”
“You don’t—like nice things. You don’t like,” pounding into him, pounding, “you don’t like nice people,”
“Wanna hurt,” Dio whines, “wanna get fucking— mmmm— torn apart, get my needy cunt stuffed full of big dick by mean men that hate me—“
Jonathan groans, grabs those hips and props his foot up on the creaky desk and this new angle sends his cock in so much farther, makes Dio gurgle on a moan and claw at wood and his head perks up in this sudden, frantic way, swish-swishing from side to side, goldilocks jumping. Jonathan’s cock stabs into a fleshy wall.
“Oh,“ Dio whimpers, “oh my, oh my fucking—“
Jonathan grinds. “Does it hurt?”
“Wait— wait,”
He pins those wrists down, looms over Dio, feels him twist and buck and a sound like a sob spills out of his whore mouth and as he shakes his head Jonathan can see a rain-like droplet flying off his cheek, splattering, and what he can see of Dio’s face is red like a welt and shining and Dio is crying, really crying, he’s trying not to make it noisy but when he chokes back another sob he hiccups and it’s a much more pathetic sound, tiny and strangled, an auditory surrender.
Jonathan has always wanted to fuck someone like this. A thorough conquest. A complete domination. “Does it fucking hurt?”
“Yes,” Dio squeals, “I can—I can f—“
Maybe all men do. Jonathan pulls out slow until his tip is just hanging off that fucked-out hole. “What? You can what?” It clutches at him, quivering and suckling.
“I can, feel your cock against, against—“ he cuts himself off with his own gasp, “against the table, through my fucking— stomach—“
A heatwave sinks through Jonathan’s body, scorching his head down to his toes. His voice gets shaky too. “Can you really?” Genuine awe. He slowly pushes back inside, inch by inch, until his hips are flush to that porcelain again, experimenting. Dio seizes up and his jaw hangs slack. A guttural, brutal wail flies out of him, freed cagebird—Jonathan doesn’t even recognize it as human at first—so wild, primitive, hurt-animal violent with the same frantic desperation as something caught in a trap, shocking and almost frightening in its nature but Jonathan does it again, curiously, slowly pulls out all the way then slowly pushes back in, and Dio does it again, louder, ear-piercing and pained and thrashing and thrashing and at first Jonathan thinks he’s squirming away but Dio’s ass is only slamming back into him, hard, matching his strength, back arched deep to fit Jonathan inside him snug. He’s surprised he doesn’t feel guilty about hurting Dio so much, but Dio is good at making him forget about feeling guilty.
And Dio likes it. “You’re such a dirty bitch,” Jonathan laughs. Dio can’t even talk back at him, he tries to say something but it comes out as gibberish and melts to a jittery cry and he’s wrecked, so wrecked, can’t do a single fucking thing about anything except lay there and take it.
“All you need is some cock to keep you happy. You’re telling me, if I had—become a faggot sodomizer all those years ago, we would have been, getting along?”
Jonathan feels so incredible. Dio is tamed, for the first time in the seven years they’ve been brothers. Jonathan has Dio’s submission and it makes him feel invincible. The slow drag, in and out of Dio’s used clench, feeling every single ridge and curve in there, the way he deathgrips when it hurts and it hurts Jonathan too and the way he loosens when he’s pleasured. Pure ecstasy. “You’re such a—“ he licks down Dio’s sweat-sheen neck and groans, “such a dirty little girl, you’re so fucking filthy,”
“I’m g-gonna—“ Dio sniffles, “I’m gonna—“
“Wanna cum? Just from getting your pussy fucked?”
“Pl—please, hurt so good, I love your cock so much, ripping me apart,”
So fucking hot. It gets Jonathan close, too, makes him want to stop holding off and just unload balls-deep but he doesn’t, he needs to see Dio come apart first, he pictures it and a delicious chill runs down his spine and he needs to, really, really, really needs to see it. He grabs Dio by the waist and turns him to his side, throwing a quivering leg over his shoulder and steady fucking into him that same long, dangerous way.
Jonathan can see his face like this, the rest of his body, his fist-clenched hands. Pink and moany. Sobbing, glistening, snotty again, his chest heaving, tits and weeping dick bouncing every time Jonathan is sheathed to the root. The tight column of his abs is messy and covered in his pre and it gets slightly distended with every thrust. Jonathan puts his hand over it, hot to the touch, and feels for himself, pulling out, pushing in. “I’m right here…” he murmurs. “I’m right here, Dio.”
How intimate. He’s closer to that black heart than he’s ever been in his life.
Dio looks at him with these watery, reddened eyes, lower lip pushed out in a slight pout, dripping with slobber. “Feel s-so—fucking good.” Almost childlike. So vulnerable. “I need, I need to,”
“I know,” Jonathan pants.
Slow, slow, hip-to-hip, slow, the slick of skin-to-skin noisy and drenched, his ass sounds like a real cunt.
“Please,” Dio chokes, he sobs more. “I need to, I need to.” He writhes and twists and his dick spits more pre, landing on the back of Jonathan’s hand.
“Then cum,” Jonathan quivers. “Cum, then, you can’t cum?”
“More—more—I’m s-so, I’m—“ he shakes his head, blond swish-swishing again, tears flying off his face, “I need, I, need—“
“Not enough for you, this cock in your fucking guts isn’t enough for you?”
“No,” Dio wails, “please, wait, I’m s-so,” his words are blubbered, sad-sounding, “I’m so close—“
“What do you want, huh?” The rim of Dio’s hole flutters around him, doesn’t wanna let him pull out any more.
“Fas—ter, faster, faster,”
“Aw, you can’t cum like this? Too much for you?”
He makes his dejected little sound, tears renewing and spilling more, his teeth gritted harsh, jaw clenched, his balled fists by either side of his face. He’s squeezing them so tight they’re white-knuckled and his forearms are bulging muscle.
Too cute.
But Jonathan can’t hold back for more, anyway. He indulges the both of them, quickens his pace and starts fucking him in that eager animal way, doggy in a rut, fitting his hands around Dio’s little waist and slamming him down on his cock, fast, desperate, groaning mindlessly, beads of sweat from his forehead dripping down onto Dio’s body, and Dio just fucking wailing, sobbing, getting louder and louder and louder and he opens his fists and starts scrambling and grabbing at anything he can, grips onto the edge of the fucked up desk and then he shuts up and his jaw hangs in a silent scream and he seizes up and Jonathan gets to watch his blushing head and taut balls twitch and the first burst of cum that spills out of him, pearl white, streaking all over his quaking abdomen and his bouncy tits, the second spurt reaches Dio’s own chin and lands on his mouth, a thread of cum connecting his cherry lips. His pretty eyes are in the back of his head and they’re still crying.
Such a sight. Jonathan bites his lip, fucks him through it, till Dio stops spilling and his body is empty and he’s all wobbly and sweet and spent. He goes ditzy, misty and distant as a cloud, and then he comes back and it’s unexpected.
Startling.
Some malicious sentience returns to him. Burning hot, still leaking tears and his face is covered in his own cum and drool and his lower lip is still baby-quivering but suddenly Dio is back with that same tiny smirk he wears after he hurts Jonathan and smiles at their father, knife-sharp despite it all, and in an instant Jonathan is small.
It’s quick, too quick. It’s actually upsetting.
It sends him over the edge and it shouldn’t. He’s almost confused. His thrusts grow sloppier and his sight blurs as pleasure boils and boils and boils in his loins and Jonathan wakes up as he’s supposed to be drowning in his vice bliss and then Dio starts speaking again, hastily slithering both his shaking thighs around Jonathan’s waist and burying him in deep, hissing, “fuck yeah, fuck yeah, cream this fucking pussy,” so vulgar, disgusting, ostentatious, already knows Jonathan is going to cum and it pisses Jonathan off, “fill me up, fill your brother’s fucking cunt up, breed this slutty ass, fuck yeah,” and his hands reach around to press into Jonathan’s shoulder blades, tips of his nails digging in just enough to hurt a little. No longer crying and begging. It’s off like a light-switch.
Jonathan has the most frustrating orgasm of his life, and Dio milks him, milks him fucking dry for it, makes him keep fucking and moving until it hurts and he won’t go soft for some reason, like his own body betrays him, and his cum sloshes out from Dio’s wrecked asshole and gets the front of Jonathan’s trousers messy, sticky white smushed into the black fabric. Dio’s cock is soft, squishing against his stomach.
It disgusts him. He starts feeling pathetic. The guilt comes back like a wrecking ball. Dio is toying with him, clear as the eye of the sun.
“You’re still so hard for me… nasty boy. Can’t get enough of your brother’s pussy?”
Brother, brother, brother.
“Let me—“ he mumbles, “let’s stop this.”
“You don’t have to be so embarrassed, Jojo…” Dio cards his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, cooing mockery. “I’m just like you, you know…”
That alone is enough to make Jonathan finally get up from Dio’s embrace and slowly pull his cock out. Dio’s hole squelches, pornographic, they both gasp and sigh at the sensation. He’s almost surprised Dio lets him go so easy. His hands are loose, slip off of him. They don’t put up a fight. Somehow it makes leaving Dio all the worse. Jonathan could’ve just left but he didn’t.
He wipes his own cum off with the sleeve of his sweat-drenched shirt, but instead of wiping it just smears it around. The stain is even worse, somehow more incriminating. His dick is still half-hard as he tucks it back into his underpants. The jingle of his belt as he secures it reminds him how it was jingling when he was sodomizing his brother’s whore asshole.
Dio is spread out over the wrecked desk when Jonathan leaves, a sunbathing cat, smiling small and filthy to himself. Jonathan wants him to say something—anything, anything at all—but he doesn’t.
The dread in Jonathan’s belly grows and grows like a weed.
I’m just like you, you know.
His body is heavy. His button-up sticks to his skin uncomfortably, the collar wet on his neck, fabric scrunched at his armpits, back damp and sweltered.
His cummy trousers. He’s still hard.
Each step out of the library is a kilometer long. Nowhere to turn, Jonathan heads for the Church.