☆ Nothing ☆ Bizarre ☆ Here ☆

Enrico Pucci had prayed for hours. His rosary dug into his fingers, each bead a reminder of the vows he’d taken– discipline, purity, devotion to God. The crucifix loomed above him, stern and watchful. He clasped his hands so tightly that the skin along his knuckles blanched white. His lips whispered the same refrain over and over: Deliver me from temptation. Deliver me from weakness.

And yet, each invocation only summoned the same image– Dio’s eyes, bright and merciless, burning like two suns that refused to set.

Enrico had always prided himself on discipline. As a seminarian, his life was measured in ritual: morning prayers, theological studies, confessions, and the steady effort to live in accordance with God’s order. His faith was not merely belief, but structure. It was the scaffolding on which he had built himself. But Dio, Dio was chaos, magnificence, something that devoured boundaries rather than observing them.

At first, Enrico told himself that his admiration was strictly theological. Who would not marvel at such a figure, a being who seemed to transcend humanity? Perhaps he was meant to learn from Dio, to study him as one might study the mystery of saints. Perhaps that was God’s plan for him. But the thought collapsed whenever Dio leaned in close, his voice low and silken, words dripping with both revelation and mockery.

“Your devotion is beautiful, Enrico,” Dio had once murmured, his hand grazing Enrico’s shoulder. “But tell me, does your God not desire all of you? Even that which you deny yourself?”

The touch had lingered like fire.

It was not merely desire that shook him; it was a deep-rooted sense of betrayal. To want Dio was to violate everything he had sworn himself to: chastity, purity, obedience. Yet the hunger coiled tighter each day, and worse still, he feared that what drew him was not simply physical. It was Dio’s vision, the terrifying conviction that heaven and earth could be remade by will alone. Enrico wanted to stand beside him, to believe as he did, to be consumed in that brilliance.

But was that devotion to a man, or idolatry? Could his yearning to be near Dio’s flame be reconciled with the vows he had taken before God?

The chapel candle sputtered, threatening to extinguish. Enrico pressed his forehead against the pew and whispered a desperate plea. “If this is sin, then strip it from me. Tear it out,” his voice trembled.

And yet, even as he begged for deliverance, he could not help but imagine Dio’s hand lifting his chin, forcing him to meet that inhuman gaze.

Between God and Dio, between sanctity and longing, Enrico knelt in torment. He prayed for clarity, but he knew deep down that he did not truly wish for the fire to leave him. The fire, after all, had become his faith.

Days blurred into nights, and nights into endless hours of prayer, but peace never came. Enrico had once believed that prayer was an anchor; now it felt like a chain dragging him deeper into contradiction.

Fellow seminarians took note of his distraction, assuming perhaps that he’d been fasting too harshly. Enrico could only plaster on a fake smile and wave them off. What could he confess? That he was starving, not for bread, but for a forbidden closeness that left him hollow?

And then Dio came again. Enrico had not heard the heavy door open, but when he lifted his head from prayer, there he was, standing before the crucifix as though mocking its dominion.

“You pray with such desperation,” Dio said, voice low, smooth. “Does your God not answer?”

Enrico’s breath caught. He rose slowly, clinging to the back of the pew as though it could steady him. “He answers in silence. It is for me to endure, to resist.”

“And what is it you must resist? Speak it.”

The words burned Enrico’s throat. To name it felt like profanation. Yet, he could not lie, not before him. “You.”

A smile curved Dio’s lips, cruel and radiant. “So honest. So pure, even in confession. That is why I favor you, Enrico.”

The name spoken with such intimacy sent a sickening warmth through his chest. He wanted to turn away, but Dio’s presence was gravity itself– inescapable.

“Tell me,” Dio pressed, circling him like a predator. “Do you think your God gave you this longing by mistake? Do you think it is error to crave the divine when you see it before you?”

“It is sin,” Enrico whispered. “It must be.”

Dio’s hand brushed his chin, lifting it with imperious tenderness. Their eyes met, and Enrico felt the foundations of his faith tremble.

“No,” Dio said. “It is revelation. Desire is proof of devotion. You could cast it aside in shame, but I tell you, it is the seed of a greater truth. You long for me because I am closer to God than any priest or pontiff. To embrace me is not to betray heaven, but to ascend beyond it.”

Enrico’s heart pounded, torn between terror and rapture. He wanted to recoil, to flee, but his body refused. Instead, he remained still, as though his soul itself was caught between altar and abyss.

The crucifix remained, mute witness to Enrico’s fracture. He whispered one last prayer, not for deliverance, but for clarity: Lord, if this is sin, then let me burn for it.

And Dio’s smile told him that he already was.

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The room was silent, save for the ticking of Jotaro’s lighter as he flicked it open and closed, eyes never leaving you. His hat shadowed most of his face, but his gaze burned through.

“You were talking to him again.” His voice was deep and calm, almost too calm. On the table beside him lay a glinting switchblade—its reflection catching the dim light.

“You think I don’t hear you,” he said, his voice low, gravel dragged over stone. “Every word. Every laugh. Every little secret you think you can keep from me.”

The knife clicked softly as he pulled it from the table and flipped it in his hand. You flinched at the sound, and his eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

Jotaro leaned forward, his height swallowing the space between you. “I don’t like it when you look at people like that,” he muttered, the weight of his stare crushing you in place. “I don’t like when they look back.”

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, tracing the knife’s edge with a single finger. The steel whispered under his touch, almost like it was listening.

He turned it in his hand, now pointing toward you. He hadn’t raised it yet; he didn’t need to. The possibility of it - sharp, waiting - was enough.

“Am I not enough for you?” He clicked his tongue. Surely that wasn’t it, it couldn’t be. He was yours, and you were his; that was absolute.

He finally lifted the blade, the light tracing its edge as he tilted your chin up with the flat of the knife. “You can’t hide things from me. Not your thoughts. Not your feelings. I’ll carve every secret out of you if I have to.”

The metal pressed a little firmer against your perfect skin, though not enough to cut. His lips curved into a dangerous smirk. 

Without warning, his hand replaced the knife under your jaw, his grasp firm and possessive with a quiet strength that left no room for escape. His thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Proof you’re still mine. Beating only because I allow it.” His tone didn’t waver; it was fact, not desire.

Jotaro’s grip lingered for a second longer before he pulled back, letting his fingers rest on the knife again. He stared at it, expression unreadable.

In his mind, the world narrowed to you. It always did. They didn’t understand, the people who stared, who whispered, who thought they could just take things from him. They didn’t see the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. They didn’t hear the way your voice cracked when you said his name, like a secret slipping free. But he did. Jotaro heard everything. He always had.

You wander because you don’t understand. You look because no one has taught you yet.

“You don’t see it,” he muttered. “The world out there isn’t built for you. It’s got teeth and claws. People pretending they’re harmless while they wait for a chance to use you.”

His thumb tapped the knife’s hilt, a slow, steady rhythm. “I’ve seen it. Over and over. People break. They get used up, thrown away. I won’t let that happen to you. I’d rather be the one who holds the blade than the one who watches you bleed because someone else got there first.”

It turned slowly in his palm, the edge flashing like a heartbeat. “And, I don’t care if you hate me for it right now. Hate is still attention. Hate is still proof you’re thinking about me. What I can’t stand - what I won’t tolerate - is you drifting away. Thinking you can build a life out there with people who’ll never understand you the way I do.”

His eyes flicked back to you, hardening again. “You don’t need anyone else. Do you know how I know that? Because you’re still here. Even now. You could scream, you could run, you could fight. But you don’t. Because somewhere inside, you know I’m right.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The knife dangled loosely between two fingers now, spinning in a lazy circle. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You think I’m obsessed. Maybe I am. But obsession is just another word for clarity. I see what’s real. I see what’s dangerous. And I see you - every flaw, every impulse - and I choose you anyway. Don’t you see how rare that is?”

For a moment, he stopped spinning the knife. The blade stilled, pointing directly at you like a compass needle finding its true north. “I won’t let anyone take you. Not him. Not the world. Not even you, if you’re stupid enough to try.”

He reached out to cup your jaw once more, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the spot where the blade’s reflection had been.

“Say you understand, darling,” he whispered.

The room felt smaller now, the shadows longer, the knife no less bright. And for the first time, you realized he wasn’t threatening you out of anger, not really. He was threatening you out of a sense of certainty — certainty that you were already his, whether you wanted to be or not.

The knife gleamed on the table like a shard of moonlight. His thumb was still against your pulse, steady now, the pressure just enough to remind you he could feel every beat.

Something inside you shifted. Not a decision, exactly, more like instinct, like the way an animal lowers itself to avoid the predator’s teeth. You swallowed hard and nodded once, the smallest motion.

“I understand,” your response came out as a choked whisper, and your stomach churned as you appeased him.

Jotaro’s eyes lit up, a warm smile pulling at his lips. “There you go,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be afraid when you do what’s right.”

He leaned closer, his breath a slow drag of smoke and salt, the brim of his hat shadowing you both. “You’ll see,” he whispered, almost tender now. “I’ll take the weight of the world off your shoulders.”

He set the knife aside completely this time, the steel flashing one last time before disappearing back into his coat. Both of his hands framed your face now, strong, unyielding, like a cage disguised as an embrace.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, the words more final than a threat.

You knew this wasn’t love, the way he thought it was; it was a trap disguised as devotion. But his touch, his certainty, all of it told you that for now, for your own safety, you had to let him believe it.

So you nodded again and whispered back, “Yes… I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours,” his honeyed voice rang truer to him than you as he captured your lips in a soft, almost reverent kiss. “Always. Forever.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, the way his touch was so precise and calculated, the way he feigned gentleness. You felt sick.

He pulled himself back only enough to peer into your eyes for a moment longer, his hand raking through the length of your hair before lifting the ends to his nose and inhaling deeply. He never wanted to forget this – your scent, your warmth – and now he wouldn’t be forced to.

Days bled into weeks after that night. The first few mornings, you woke up with the imprint of his hands still on your skin; not bruises, but a ghost of pressure, like fingerprints burned into memory. The knife didn’t always appear anymore, but its absence was worse; you never knew where it was, only that it was near.

Jotaro’s routine was your routine. He rose early, silent as a shadow, his hat already on, cigarette already burning. When you tried to follow him, he told you to wait at the apartment. When you asked where he went, he didn’t answer; he only stared until you stopped asking.

He began to “take care of things” for you. Groceries, bills, laundry. He cooked for you. He cleaned for you. Domesticity was never quite his style, but he did it without fail, for you. “You don’t need to worry about that stuff,” he’d say. “I’ll handle it.”

The strangest part was how he softened at the same time. Without the knife, he spoke more gently. He’d press his fingers to your temple and mutter that you looked tired, that you shouldn’t think so hard. He’d drag his hands across your body, touching wherever he pleased, cooing that you were too pent up for your own good. He’d draw orgasms out of you effortlessly, despite the bitter guilt and shame it brought to the pit of your stomach. “I’ll take care of it.” Always that phrase.

“I’ll take care of it,” when he’d place careful open-mouth kisses along the length of your neck.

“I’ll take care of it,” when he’d caress your hips as he pulled you in closer.

“I’ll take care of it,” when he’d wiggle his fingers up into the sweet spots he’d come to know so well.

“I’ll take care of it,” when he’d turn you into a drooling, babbling, tearful mess beneath him.

And sometimes, when you called out for him in those moments, it wouldn’t feel so forced. That’s what you hated most. Sometimes it’d feel as natural as breathing, living like this.

“You understand why I can’t let you leave, darling,” he’d say.

And by then you’d learned the only safe answer. “Yes, I understand.”

In the rare and fleeting moments you’d been left alone, you thought about running. But the memory of the knife rose like a phantom in your mind. You’d sit back down, hands folded, waiting for the door to open again.

You’d become complacent; the fight had drained from your psyche entirely.

The small part of you that still vaguely remembered freedom had come to accept the terrible truth: that he was right. This was the safest you were ever going to be, as long as you never stopped letting him love you.

And god, how he loved you.

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It was late. Not criminally late, but late enough for Jotaro to know he should’ve called a cab about an hour ago. He stared at the bead of sweat rolling down the side of what was soon to be his fourth drink of the evening. 

“That’s three too many,” his wife’s voice rang in his subconscious, and he let out a faint sigh as he tipped the rest back.

“Is this seat taken?” He heard a voice interject his brooding state from over his shoulder.

“Hmm?” Jotaro turned, his gaze falling to meet your shorter frame, sporting a short black dress that cut off just below your hips and hugged your figure enough to leave little to his imagination. 

“No,” he found himself answering, blinking away quickly.

“So, what’s your story?” You spoke after a short bout of silence.

“What?”

“Low on your luck tonight?”

“Excuse me?” His eyes shot back to meet yours once more.

“Decent looking guy alone at a bar on a Saturday night…” you started. Jotaro’s grip tightened on his empty glass.

“You’re married,” the tone in your voice was less accusatory and more factual.

“So?”

“You’d probably have better luck without the ring.”

Luck. Luck with what, exactly?

Jotaro knew what you were implying, and he didn’t appreciate it one bit. But who was he kidding? If everything was fine at home he wouldn’t be there.

“And yet you’re still talking,” Jotaro slurred, and you paused. As if you hadn’t considered what you were doing in the slightest.

“What about you? What’s your deal?” He raised his hand to flag down the bartender as he spoke.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Come here to pick up guys like me low on their luck?” He fought a smirk. “Can’t be more than, what, twenty-something and you’ve wound up in a place like this? Aren’t there better bars on campus?”

You stared at him blankly for a moment, as if rendered speechless, and Jotaro felt an odd sense of satisfaction in that.

“Is that your theory, then?” You finally spoke again, resting your chin on an upturned palm.

“My theory?”

“That I’m just some twenty-something year old seductress preying on lonely men,” you laughed, catching Jotaro’s gaze for a moment.

“Your words, not mine.”

“Oho, okay, so what if I am, huh?”

Jotaro chuckled slightly at the thought.

“Well, you certainly know how to strike up a conversation,” he muttered, attempting to mask the not-so-subtle glance he stole of your cleavage.

“I guess so,” you let out a breathy laugh, though Jotaro didn’t take time to discern whether it was out of nervousness or something else.

He gave a slight nod. “I don’t think I caught your name, by the way.”

“You’re right, you didn’t,” you crossed one leg over the other and Jotaro tried to keep his eyes glued to something, anything else but the soft exposed flesh of your thighs. “But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it? Does it really matter?”

Jotaro frowned, a part of him knowing you were right. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t.

“But buy me a drink anyway.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Before Jotaro knew it, the two of you were stumbling your way out of the bar and hailing a cab. The ride wouldn’t be long, but even still, he couldn’t seem to keep his composure.

You’d sat so close that he could practically taste you; the scent of your perfume meshed with the mixed drink you’d thrown back only moments prior and the concoction was intoxicating. His hands wandered across your thighs, squeezing gently as a silent plea for permission. As if reading his mind you nodded, leaning in close to speak.

“Guess you’re not so unlucky after all,” you whispered as you grabbed his hand and slowly slid it further up your thigh.

Jotaro let out a faint groan, squeezing and kneading the delicate flesh as he pulled you into a passionate kiss. In that moment, he could give a fuck less who you were or how you’d ended up in that shitty bar, he just wanted to taste you.

The drive back was short lived and it wasn’t long before you were making your way back to Jotaro’s hotel room, entwined in each other’s grasp. It played out cinematically, Jotaro thought, the way they film sex scenes in those cheesy romcoms that his wife seemed to be obsessed with; the couple stumbles into their apartment, unable to keep their hands off each other, struggle to remove their clothing as they make their way down to the hall, one thing leads to another and before you know it the sun is shining oh so delicately on the female protagonist’s face, and the man takes a moment to take it all in, realizing “oh no, maybe I do have feelings for the main character”...

But life is messier than that. Jotaro would be lucky to wake up without a splitting headache, much less remember your name.

He fumbled with the zipper on the back of your dress, craning his neck to bridge the distance between your heights as he continued to place careless kisses along your jawline. You took a moment to step out of the fallen fabric, then eagerly resumed, standing up on your toes to lean into him further. You snaked a hand up the back of Jotaro’s neck to tangle your fingers in his hair, and his hat came tumbling to the floor. His hands wandered, his feather light touch raking over your sides before settling on your hips.

“I swear I’m not usually like this,” you panted between kisses, your cheeks flushed and heart pounding. “I’m not interested in being someone’s mistress.”

“You’re not,” Jotaro tightened his grip on your hips as he led you further into the room. “This is just a one time thing.”

You gave a simple nod in response, the two of you settling onto the bed in a tangled embrace. Jotaro swallowed thickly as he hovered over you, his eyes fixed on your exposed figure. The dim lighting accentuated every dip and curve of your body, and though he’d like to blame it on the booze, the sight alone left him breathless and yearning for more.

For a moment, Jotaro was too stunned to speak. He was no stranger to the anatomy, hell, he had a kid for god’s sake, but something about the way you presented yourself in this moment sent him reeling.

“Is everything okay..?” You asked softly, almost innocently.

Jotaro’s jaw clenched as he struggled to find the right words. Stunning, beautiful, angelic– none of those words felt right, not for a moment like this. But he could tell that his silence was leaving his temporary partner more embarrassed as time went on.

He let his free hand drift across your body once more, his breath danced across your exposed chest before he leaned in to place one of your nipples in his mouth. Your breath hitched at the sensation, and he tightened his grip to keep you in place as he swirled his tongue around the petal-soft flesh.

You shuddered, unable to suppress a moan as Jotaro tweaked and sucked at your delicate peaks. The sound alone drove him crazy; he was utterly addicted at that moment.

“Fuck,” he muttered absentmindedly, pulling back to remove his shirt and toss it aside.

He traced a hand down your abdomen to dip between your thighs, biting his lip to stifle a groan as his fingers brushed up against the source of your arousal.

“God, you’re so wet…” He whispered. He sat back on his heels, his hands spreading your thighs to gaze at your lower half. He knew he was moving fast, but Jotaro couldn’t help himself. It’d been far too long since he’d seen someone so turned on for him.

“Shit,” your back arched into his touch as his fingers drew slow circles on your clit.

“So sensitive,” he chuckled under his breath, “you seem so desperate.” Without warning, he tightened his grip on one of your thighs, lifting it slightly to adjust the angle as he pulled himself in closer. He slowly inserted two fingers and curved them to hit a particularly sensitive spot, eliciting a slew of pornographic moans.

“There it is,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath caressing your ear.

He kept his eyes locked on yours, watching your face contort in pleasure as he worked. His mouth watered at the sight of you, your body trembling and tense as he massaged your inner walls, your hair splayed out across the pillow cases.

“Please,” your voice came out as a desperate whine.

“Oh? You’re already losing it, huh?” He smirked as he withdrew his fingers, and it left you shaking at the sudden emptiness.

“You want more?”

“God, please…”

“More than just my fingers?” He traced his tongue along your earlobe as he reached down to pull at the waistband of his underwear, his thick length springing free.

“Fuck, yes.”

Your admission was his undoing. He could barely contain himself as he slid his hands under each of your thighs, pushing them back to rest your knees on your chest. He ground his hips into yours with a deep sense of urgency before pulling himself back slightly to drip a slow string of saliva onto the junction of your bodies.

He paused as he noticed your gaze shift down to his hand, or rather one specific place on his hand. He followed your eyes, noticing the overhead lighting bounce and reflect off of his wedding band, and it brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, his thumb moving to circle your clit again as he spoke. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

Jotaro watched you blink down at it for a moment longer before your eyes snapped back up to meet his. He tightened his grip on your thigh as he finally pressed the head of his cock into you, stilling as it slowly sunk into your warmth. “Better.”

“You like me better,” you whispered back, your voice low and soft as velvet. Those words felt foreign as they left your lips, as if your own voice had become disembodied and your tongue moved with a mind of its own. But for some strange reason they felt true.

He froze momentarily, his breath catching slightly at your words. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you let out a breathy moan.

Jotaro’s dick jumped at your confidence, despite the obvious distaste he’d held for your statement.

“Don’t you dare,” he said gruffly, his voice like gravel. “You don’t know anything.”

He expected you to apologize, to shy away and back down from such a disrespectful approach.

“Maybe you’re right,” a smirk played at your lips as you continued, “but you wouldn’t be seeking the company of a ‘twenty-something year old seductress’ if everything was peachy at home.”

Jotaro gritted his teeth. He loathed the effect those words had, and worse, how you seemed to read the situation like a book.

Without warning, you leaned in further, your lips brushing against his ear. “Seems like someone’s been neglected.”

“Shut up,” he grunted.

“Tell me, doesn’t the missus give it up anymore? Or has your love for her run cold?” You stuck your tongue out to trace a slow stripe along his jaw. “How long’s it been since she’s made your cock ache with need?”

A low groan rumbled in Jotaro’s chest, his fingers digging into your thighs roughly as he found himself pressing another inch into your heat.

“A year? Two years?” You continued to tease. You moved to bite and suck at his neck, only to pull away moments later to leave behind a dark purple mark.

Jotaro’s hips jerked forward involuntarily.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” he snapped, but his voice was strained, his breath unsteady. He hated the way his body betrayed him.

“I bet it’s killing you,” you sighed, leaving another hickey further up his neck. One that you knew he wouldn’t be able to hide. “I bet it’s been so long since you’ve gotten your dick wet that you would’ve jumped at any opportunity…lucky me.”

He felt weak. Something churned in his stomach, and he couldn’t figure out what emotion was tugging at his heart. He buried his face in your neck to muffle another groan as you marked him up.

“Fuck, don’t talk like that,” he said roughly, finally sheathing himself fully.

You let out a breathy moan, tangling your hands in his hair as you resumed your trail of kisses down his neck and across his collar bones. The embrace was as lustful and intense as Jotaro signed up for, yet, there was something more that pulled him in. It was strangely gentle, like there was a sense of longing in your touch. It did something to him– something he hadn’t felt in years, and he didn’t know whether to hate it or…

“Stop marking me,” he protested.

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to,” you murmured against stubble.

Jotaro’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, his cock throbbing as he remained idly bottomed out inside of you. No one had touched him like that, with such careless affection. His wife hadn’t bothered to kiss his neck since their honeymoon, back when intimacy actually meant something.

It was driving him insane.

His arms instinctively released your thighs, coming up to wrap around your waist as he slowly started to move. His thrusts were surprisingly gentle, slower than he’d imagined they’d be when he played through the scenario at the bar.

“Stop kissing me…” He struggled to say.

“Don’t you want it?” You asked. That velvet voice brought a slight warmth to his cheeks and he worked hard to maintain a steady, slow rhythm.

“No, I mean… yes, but… stop. It’s too much…” He felt himself getting dangerously close to losing control, to leaning into this newfound gentleness. It sickened him. “You’re making me forget…”

“Forget what?”

“Forget who I am, what this is. That this is supposed to be wrong. That this is supposed to be passionate. Messy…” He murmured, his hips snapping forward.

You let out a faint gasp, but nodded understandingly. You knew he was right, that you should be clawing at his back, that it should be licentious and lustful, not sweet and sensual. And yet, every move you made seemed calculated and soft, your embrace tender.

“Please, baby,” you placed another soft kiss on his jaw, “just one more…”

The pet name made Jotaro’s stomach drop. It felt personal, almost affectionate.

“Don’t…” His voice was quieter now, his hips slowing their movements even further.

“What?” Your lips were feather light, your breath warm. You were too inviting for your own good.

Jotaro’s eyes darkened as he suddenly gripped onto your hair to hold you in place. “Don’t call out to me like that. Don’t kiss me like that. Don’t hold me…” He trailed off and started to move again, harder this time, his frustration clear in his body language. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to feel. He just wanted a quick fuck.

“You’re telling me you don’t like it?” Your voice came out softer, shallower. You knew what you were doing, and he could tell.

“I hate it,” he lied through gritted teeth. He thrusted into you with increased intensity, your breasts jiggling with every sharp movement. “I hate your mouth, I hate your kisses, I hate…” He broke off into a groan.

“You hate that you want it,” your chest rose and fell with vigor.

“I hate that you’re right,” he growled low in his throat, a sound that was half frustration and half… something else entirely.

Your body arched into his. Even while he handled you roughly, the softness of your skin found a way to make it feel intimate, despite his best efforts. There was reverence that lingered behind your eyes amidst his harsh treatment and it left him feeling exposed. Vulnerable.

He fell forward to bury his face into your neck once more, inhaling deeply. “Fuck…”

With that, he’d finally begun falter. He’d blame it on the alcohol, he decided.

His calloused hands felt softer, one moving up to cup your cheek gently while the other remained tangled in your hair. His thrusts slowed again, becoming deeper and more deliberate.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he pleaded in a choked whisper.

“Baby,” your voice was sickeningly sweet.

“Stop,” he moaned quietly, but there was no heat behind his request.

Don’t stop.

“Darling,” you cooed, placing a hand on his.

Jotaro let out a low, pained groan. He desperately searched your eyes for something, anything that might’ve given him the excuse to pull away. But you made him weak.

“You don’t have to be mine,” you murmured into his neck as you placed yet another soft kiss, “you don’t have to love me.” And another. “Just pretend for a night. Just this once.” Something in your voice was almost pleading, almost as desperate as he felt in that moment; like you needed it too and it nearly broke him.

He decided to move with purpose, his hips rolling against yours. His hands ran over your curves, as if they were working to commit them to memory.

He was pretending, that’s what he told himself. Pretending that those soft kisses and gentle touches meant something. Pretending that you were his.

He pretended so well that he’d almost believed it himself, placing delicate kisses along your neck as you’d done for him countless times. He felt your fingers rake through his hair once more, holding him at the nape as if you never wanted to let go.

“Pretend that you need me,” you whispered, nuzzling into his shoulder as you took in the scent of his cologne, the vibration of his staggered breaths.

“I need you,” he whispered back hoarsely, his movements becoming more urgent. He was pretending so well that the lines between fantasy and reality had begun to blur.

“God, Jotaro…” you called out for him.

His heart stuttered. It was starting to feel more real than it should, and he could tell by the look in your eyes, by the way you desperately clung to him that you felt it too. He tried, in vain, to tell himself that he’d go back to being cold and distant. That after tonight he’d forget your touch, your smell. But deep down he knew that a part of him didn’t want to.

“Pretend you love me,” your voice was strained, almost emotional.

He’s fucked, he’s so fucked.

He felt like he might cry if he kept it up, his heart aching at your request. You were asking for something he’d learned not to give. Something he was sure he wasn’t able to feel anymore. But in that moment, when he lied, he almost felt like he might.

“I love you,” his voice was raspy and broken, hung on by a thread.

“I-I’m close,” you almost whined as you neared your release.

“Me too,” he said, surprisingly soft. The errotic symphony of you falling apart could’ve killed him. “Come for me, baby…” He cringed at the words internally, but he couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. He needed it.

Your orgasm destroyed him completely. The way you squeezed around his cock, the way you cursed desperately under your breath, the way you held onto him like he was your lifeline forced him over the edge, and he came with a quiet choked back moan.

The two of you laid still, Jotaro’s body atop yours as you both slowly came back down to Earth. For a moment it felt amorous. Picture perfect. Like love was supposed to. For a moment Jotaro felt content, something he hadn’t felt in years. But then reality slowly started to seep in, alongside guilt and a sinking, bitter pang of shame.

His eyes met yours one last time before he finally freed you from his grasp, their appearance hazy and fulfilled. You pressed a thankful kiss to the bridge of his nose before sliding out from under him to dress yourself. You wouldn’t be staying the night. It was probably better that way.

Jotaro sent you off without a decent goodbye, watching you walk out the door from where he’d collapsed on the bed. He closed his eyes, not bothering to move as the room spun around him. He felt something eating away at the pit of his stomach. His heart ached. Why did it have to feel so real?

“Need me.”

“Love me.”

…Fuck.

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