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It is a chilly November evening. A dampness hangs in the air, the sort that sucks the heat straight out of one’s chest. A pitch black sky blankets the English countryside, dense clouds defeating any chance of seeing the glimmering stars. Barren trees sway tiredly on the Joestar estate, as if exhausted from the weather themselves.
Inside, the warm glow from the fireplace illuminates dark wooden panelling, mahogany and keruing.
Jonathan has a fever; some kind of infection has been making the rounds at Hugh Hudson, and despite his ever-healthy constitution and imposing stature, he has fallen deeply ill and become bedridden within a matter of days.
Dio is sat in Jonathan’s room, reading by the hearth, waiting for one of the maids to make her final round at his sickbed.
The wall clock ticks. Dio drums his fingers in wait.
A little after ten, she knocks on the door and enters, curtsying and greeting them both – bringing with her a basin of cold water and a fresh cloth, which she uses to wipe down Jonathan’s burning face. She manages to rouse him enough to have a drink of water, doting on him and tidying up around him; she fusses a bit over Dio staying up so late, warning him that he might catch whatever Jonathan has, before giving the Joestar her well wishes and taking her leave for the night.
Jonathan lets out a ragged sigh and some half-hearted coughs after the door shuts, sinking back into the bed, seemingly exhausted just from sitting up far enough to drink.
Taking his cue, Dio stands, sets his book down, casually walks to the door, and quietly turns the deadbolt shut. He smirks to himself as he turns playfully on his heel; not as if Jonathan would see it anyway, not in the state he’s in.
Dio had noticed his symptoms worsening yesterday, and so had decided tonight was the night to have his fun before Jonathan recovers – which would inevitably come frustratingly soon, Dio thinks. He always did recover unfairly fast from illness and injury, well-bred body flaunting its effortless superiority.
Dio looms over him, watching his face. Jonathan seems to have fallen asleep again already, brows slightly furrowed, lips parted. He has been in a completely delirious, half-conscious state for the past day now; unable to hold a proper conversation and exhausted by simple tasks. It delights Dio immensely to see the proud mountain of muscle that is Jonathan so incapacitated, so powerless and weak.
He could do anything he wants with him.
Dio shakes off his coat and makes quick work of removing the rest of his clothes, leaving him in just his shirt and socks. A cool draft runs from beneath the door to the cracked open window, and he shivers as hairs raise on his milky skin. The fire in the hearth warms the air, casting dancing shadows across the royal blue and ivory white of Jonathan’s bedsheets.
Unfastening his collar as he climbs on Jonathan’s bed, he lifts the layers of woollen blankets and shifts them aside, revealing Jonathan’s body in a simple long nightshirt. Thankfully, it has ridden up enough in his fitful sleeps that it’s easy for Dio to lift it by the hem and expose his member to the air.
Jonathan huffs at the sudden change in temperature, paradoxically too hot and too cold as he swelters in the cool air; his head pounds and a weak scowl twists his face.
Swinging his leg over, Dio mounts Jonathan’s hips and nestles his soft prick between his legs, the warm pressure warming up his own slit as he moves over it gently. He slides the palms of his hands over Jonathan’s stomach and ribs to cup his ample chest, feeling the heat of his flesh radiating through the fine cotton of his nightshirt. He squeezes Jonathan’s tits, pinching and rolling his clothed nipples between nimble fingers for good measure.
Jonathan is sweating and burning up beneath him, nighttime bringing the worst malaise of the day, escalating his fever and his pounding headache; too much, too much for him to do anything at all. He is propped up to raise his head – but low enough that Dio thinks of a wonderful idea.
Carefully, Dio climbs up and straddles the thick feather pillows widely. He primly gathers and tucks the bottom of his shirt into itself at his back, such that his view wouldn’t be obscured, and takes a deep breath in anticipation.
Watching himself as he does it – his almost-brother’s barely aware form trapped beneath him – Dio lowers his leaking cunt directly onto Jonathan’s face.
He feels the point of Jonathan’s nose prod just behind his hole, and smoothly cants his hips to feel it slide between his folds and over his sensitive clit, gasping lightly at the sensation. He moves from side to side to rub against it, before sinking his lips against Jonathan's, letting his thighs relax as he sits his full weight on him.
He exhales and smiles, and thinks this is where Jonathan belongs; beneath him, smothered by him, forced to taste what is fed to him, allowing Dio to do as he pleases.
He has fantasised before about Jonathan drowning beneath him; about gripping his head between his thighs like a vice and suffocating him, feeling him grunting and thrashing and clawing in vain until he becomes drowsy and limp, those huge muscles becoming useless.
This isn't quite that, but it's very much close enough.
And so, Dio rides Jonathan’s face, the wet slide of his folds becoming smoother each time he grinds his hips down, as he coats the lower half of the Joestar heir's face in his slick. He rolls his hips with purpose, looking down to admire the rippling of hard-earned muscle in his thighs and his abdomen; arching his back, basking in his own eroticism, in the beautiful image of lust he knows he must make.
He finds the bump of Jonathan’s chin and pushes into it, feeling it dig deliciously into his hole, groaning freely at the stretch. In that moment, Jonathan is nothing more than a pleasantly warm collection of shapes underneath him – plush lips, strong nose, round chin with some tickling stubble – creating a constantly varying and exciting stimulation on the swollen and slippery flesh of his cunt. He relishes in this opportunity he may never get again, gleefully frotting on the face beneath him with barely any concern for the sick and tortured man it belongs to.
All is quiet save for the gentle sounds of the crackling fireplace, the rustling of feather pillows, and the wet and breathy noises of unwelcome, one-sided pleasure.
Dio thinks this is adequate payback for Jonathan thinking he could start domineering in their sexual encounters, something he had become annoyingly confident in doing lately. (He willfully ignores any reasonable part of his mind reminding him that he did, in fact, enjoy it when Jonathan did so.)
He wants to stain the rest of Jonathan’s pitiful face, and so he lifts himself briefly, only to press his folds down on the smooth plane of his forehead. He gyrates his hips, feeling soft black curls tickling the jutting nub of his dick, until he’s happy with how wet it feels. Slowly, he slides himself downwards, feeling the rising edge of Jonathan’s nose, until the point of it prods at his entrance, and he grinds down on it greedily. He chuckles at the absurdity of it; of feeling Jonathan’s nose poking shallowly into his cunt, and of hearing the ridiculous noises of him attempting to breathe through it.
Eventually, he drags himself down again, moaning when the tip of Jonathan’s nose rides up against his clit, until he meets Jonathan’s mouth in an obscene kiss again.
He can feel the waves of tension in Jonathan’s neck as he tries in vain to turn his head away, and hears more than feels the shuffling of his arms attempting to hold on to Dio’s weight to push him off. He listens to Jonathan's laboured and desperate breathing through his nose, unable to escape being smothered. Dio’s musk is completely enveloping Jonathan's senses, sultry and pheromonal.
He’s giddy from the rush of dominating and defiling him so easily – knowing Jonathan doesn’t want it, but is utterly unable to do anything about it, sends a full body shiver through his spine. It's not as if Jonathan doesn't give himself to Dio willingly on most days – Dio simply wants to feel the searing high of taking him on only his own terms.
Impassioned, he grabs him by his greasy black locks, steadying his head and angling it to maximise his own pleasure. He plays with his toy, feeling the difference between rubbing his swollen clit along pillowy soft lips or the springy cartilage of his nose, feeling his juicy cunt leak right into Jonathan's helpless open mouth.
Dio is no stranger to fever dreams, having fallen deeply ill a couple of times in his childhood; he delights in knowing the nonsensical and maddening torment Jonathan must be feeling in this moment, body paralysed and mind overworked. He uses him, the feeling of his soft swollen flesh shamelessly sliding all over Jonathan’s handsome face continuing to draw soft moans from him.
He has an idea.
Dio reaches deft fingers down and pinches Jonathan's nose shut as he grinds down hard, feeling Jonathan's mouth open wider and his head jerk sideways, powerless against the heavy slippery heat sealing his mouth, starved of air, the heat of everything unbearable. It’s all oppressively stifling; from his own addled and incoherent thoughts, to his overheating sweating self, to the suffocating pressure and heavy tang on his mouth and nose. There is a crushingly heavy stone on his chest and he is drowning in shallow water, thrashing for release –
Dio’s eyes widen in excitement, staring at Jonathan’s pitiful struggle, gasping when he feels teeth through the open mouth under him searching for air.
Showing some amount of mercy, he eventually releases his grip and allows Jonathan to desperately suck in as much air as he can through his stuffy nose. Trying to suck a lungful of air in through his inflamed sinuses, the horrid tightness of negative pressure in Jonathan’s chest spears his mind with panic.
But, ever the hedonist, Dio needs to feel the rush again – so he cruelly pinches Jonathan's nose shut once more, suffocating him with his soaking folds, and squeezes his thighs together hard. He throbs wetly on Jonathan’s face, starving him of what he needs and feeding him what Dio wants instead.
Jonathan thinks his head is going to explode.
Dio thinks of Jonathan dying underneath him, and moans airily – finding himself getting too close to release and not wanting to finish quite yet, he slows and lifts himself, chest heaving, delighting in the obscenely wet sound of their separation. Dio immediately peers down to see Jonathan's face.
He looks awful; black curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face pale and blotchy and twisted in discomfort, gasping for breath. He glistens with Dio’s juices, and instinctively licks his lips to clean them, grimacing when an egg-white glob of cum stubbornly sticks itself between his lips.
Dio thinks he's gorgeous.
The release from the exertion of dealing with Dio’s weight directly on his face, and the rush of air refilling his lungs, allows Jonathan to regain some amount of cognitive presence – managing to grimace and throw his head to the side, weakly protesting Dio’s excruciating pressure, he finds the strength to speak, voice only a hoarse whisper, dark eyes barely cracked open.
“Too much… stop…”
Dio responds by kissing him sweetly and swallowing Jonathan’s words for him. A string of his own juices connects their mouths as he pulls away. He shuffles back and sits himself on Jonathan’s thighs, admiring the view of the Joestar heir looking so pathetic beneath him, begging weakly and writhing in desperation.
“Not yet, JoJo. I haven’t finished with you yet.”
The smooth silk of Dio’s voice does nothing to comfort Jonathan; his thick, heavy arms come up to do something about it, but he exhausts himself again rather quickly. He can do nothing else but fall limp again, heavy limbs sinking into the mattress, consciousness slipping, leaden eyelids and pounding head lulling him into inevitable submission.
Lifting himself again, Dio hovers above Jonathan’s hips and grabs his soft cock. He runs his slit over it a few times, then holds it as steady as he can, and attempts to stuff it inside of himself. It takes some work to get it in past the head and keep it from slipping out; but once he has most of it inside, he sits himself down on it fully to give it no place to go other than to fill up his hole. The feeling of something so velvety soft and pliant inside of him is novel. He sits enjoying it, rolling his hips to see how it feels.
Jonathan is writhing and tossing weakly, everything is too hot, he’s too sweaty, there is a pervasive unease and discomfort everywhere from his head to his stomach; unable to wake and unable to sleep, in a purgatory of sensation, just wanting peace – but Dio is invading every one of his senses and using his body completely shamelessly. Every sensation and thought is both amplified and in a haze, mind digging maddeningly deep into every passing thought and impulse, every second lasting an age, every sound and touch an assault on his delirious mind.
Dio languidly rides him, enjoying the soft slide of the now half-hard intrusion between his lips. It’s intriguing to experience Jonathan when he isn’t fully hard, when he isn’t stretching and splitting him apart with his stupidly large cock. The feeling is captivating to Dio; possessive. There isn’t one part of Jonathan that he won’t claim for himself eventually, he thinks.
He braces himself on Jonathan’s stomach, the heels of his hands digging down into the soft heat of his belly.
Slowly but surely, the slippery pressure of Dio’s cunt stirs life into Jonathan’s prick, the primal functions of his body pressing on despite the illness incapacitating him. Dio finally feels his walls being stretched deliciously slowly, filled to the limit. He moans, and a wave of pleasure washes over him at the thought that Jonathan's body was betraying his own conscious mind, instead following Dio’s command.
“Good boy. You’re still capable of this much…”
Dio sits on him like prize game, chest proud, weight pinning him in his place; displaying his mastery over the subdued beast beneath him to nobody else but himself.
The constricting wet heat on his cock makes Jonathan frown and sweat and moan weakly, finding the strength and presence to think he is pushing Dio away, but he only manages to nudge Dio pathetically as he’s taken to the hilt. A stab of nausea pierces his head and his stomach from Dio’s hands insistently pressing down on his gut.
Jonathan's arm falls limp and his hand ends up smacking softly on Dio’s thigh, so Dio grabs it and uses his thick fingers as yet another part of him to rut against; rubbing them on his sensitive dick, spreading his index and middle fingers and sliding them along his cunt to make him feel where he is stretching him open, covering them with his juices.
He tenses his walls and watches Jonathan moan.
Enjoying the insistent press of his thick cock, he takes his time in sliding up and down it, feeling the way his hole grabs around the head, and the way a dull pain blooms within him as it hits his deepest limit. He takes pride in being able to take the entirety of Jonathan’s thick length inside of him – he's sure not many could. That stuck up girl he used to see would probably cry just at the sight of it, he thinks. He swallows Jonathan up inside of himself, and watches him seemingly lose consciousness again.
Dio angles his hips and leans down to Jonathan's ear, his hushed voice a blunt, tainted knife piercing directly into Jonathan's mind, forced to absorb every last huff and calculated utterance from his wicked mouth, infecting whatever is present of his consciousness.
"I can’t believe you take advantage of me like this, JoJo.
"Could you imagine how stricken, how disappointed, how disgusted people would be, to learn that Jonathan Joestar likes to violate his brother in the most perverse of ways, to treat him no better than a back-alley prostitute?
"You're a terrible brother, JoJo, a disgraceful and depraved young man.
"To so brazenly exploit the secret of my birth in this way… Such absence of integrity and respect. There’s not a shred of decency within you.
"Don’t you know what could happen if you continue to spill your seed deep inside me whenever you please? And yet you keep your filthy cock inside of me, impaling me, dirtying me, battering my cunt with no regard for the consequences.
"What an unspeakable horror you could force upon me…”
He smirks as his mind wanders from one obscenity to another.
“Oh JoJo, the perverse fancies you must dream of…”
Dio inhales – "Stop – " he gives a theatrical whine and his face morphs to match his act, a look of helpless mock pleading widening his eyes.
"Stop JoJo, stop it..." he whimpers, feeling his cunt throb and his cheeks flush as he makes pretend – bouncing on Jonathan’s cock, as if Jonathan is the one thrusting up into him, as if Jonathan is the one assaulting him.
"It hurts, please JoJo, stop –"
He can’t help but break his act to gasp at his own words, heightening the feeling of Jonathan’s solid cock dragging in and out of his pulsing hole. He thinks of Jonathan’s square fingers digging deep into the flesh of his hips, twisting in his hair, roughly covering his mouth to muffle his screams, bouncing him like a ragdoll as he hammers deep into him.
“Don’t do this to me, JoJo, please, stop it –”
He’s not sure how much of the pleasure electrifying him is from the scene he is acting out, or from the idea that Jonathan's feverish vulnerable mind might believe it to be its own sick fantasy. A mind-numbing pleasure mounts in his abdomen, and he chases it, squeezing his arm between their bodies to stroke at his dick with deft fingers.
He thinks of Jonathan finding himself in a nauseating and perturbing nightmare featuring all of the manufactured act that Dio is feeding him, later waking to believe that this imagined scene of rape was a product of his own corrupted, feverish mind, how ashamedly guilty and distraught he must feel, his base instincts and straining cock betraying his morals; and this is what drives Dio over the edge.
He climaxes with his drooling mouth pressed right against Jonathan’s ear, feeding him every erotic moan and gasp, all of his muscles tensing and shaking as the waves of his orgasm crash throughout his body. It lasts and lasts, cunt clenching and thighs twitching as pleasure rolls over him again and again.
Exhausted, he falls limp, body and mind glowing with complete satisfaction and conquest.
He eventually catches his breath and lifts himself from Jonathan’s still hard cock, having left a sticky mess all over his balls as well as his face. Taking a moment to appreciate his handiwork, he smiles, looking very satisfied with himself.
He covers Jonathan up again, still red hot and hard, and gives his cock a patronising pat through his nightshirt.
He takes the wet cloth, wipes off Jonathan’s face from dried and sticky cum, and fluffs up the pillows around his head a bit before dressing himself again and taking his leave; but not before leaving a lingering kiss on Jonathan’s burning forehead.
A couple of days later, Jonathan’s fever breaks. Dio notices that Jonathan struggles to hide a grimace and acts strangely when he pays a visit to him.
“Are you quite all right, JoJo?”'
“I – I had a horrible dream last night. Or was it the night before…”
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
“...I’d rather not.”
“Suit yourself.”'
Even after Jonathan fully recovers, it takes him a good couple of weeks before he allows himself to even touch Dio again.
Despite this, Dio thinks it was absolutely worth it.