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Too many cigarettes, too much black coffee and not enough substantial food. Liquified breath mints and hours’ old toast do shit to quell the queasy, overly acidic hunger yawns in his stomach. Jotaro tongues the inside of his cheek, tapping his foot just to burn through the frenetic energy throbbing the blood vessels in his eyes.
When was the last time he smoked through half a pack of cigarettes in a day? Before he started undergrad, for sure. He used to do it to look cool, to simply do it. Because nicotine has an annoying habit of allowing him to feel good. Smoking used to be simple.
Now it’s just crisis management. A scream for help that’s easy to conceal within his chest, tarring up his lungs and numbing his nose. It is his own ritualistic burning to clear away his physic poison, his toxic anger, the repercussions of all the messes he’s accidentally stepped in.
Fuck. His muscle memory for carrying stress has always been at a depressing capacity. But this?
This?
Jotaro picks up the room phone and dials a number by heart.
Twenty minutes later, Josuke’s with him on the couch, straddling his hips.
Mouth on his throat. Hand already untucking his sweater and petting his abdomen. Weight on his groin, the nudging and squirming of an over-eager, bright-eyed teenager already having him starting to twitch.
“You didn’t shave today,” Josuke moans against his jaw, rubbing himself into his careless, frankly overlooked stubble like the needy brat he is. “I’ve never felt you all prickly.”
Jotaro sighs, hand rubbing circles into Josuke’s back, hoping that it’s encouraging enough to get his smart mouth zipped and quiet.
It isn’t.
Josuke pulls away, smirk so strangely wise in the low light of the hotel suite. He presses their foreheads together. “It’s hot on you.”
Jotaro snorts at that.
“There we go, something.” Josuke laughs, angling his head so they can kiss. Kiss the way Jotaro taught him, all dizzying and teasing and just a bit of teeth that has Jotaro pulling in for more after Josuke backs away. Fucking tease. “You’re so quiet. And moody.”
“I’m not moody.”
“Yeah, you are.” Their lips meet again and Jotaro suppresses the shiver from the cocky way Josuke’s tongue traces his upper row of teeth. “You taste like an ashtray. In my experience,” Josuke nips his bottom lip and Jotaro groans. It’s a sucker punch straight to his dick. “You only smoke when you’re stressed.”
Of course he’s stressed. What isn’t there to be stressed about? The serial killer on the loose? All these Stand Users? The fact that he frequently finds himself babysitting a gaggle of teens, his own grandfather, and a literal infant, all usually within the same twenty-four-hour span? Not to mention his thesis and its deadlines, self-imposed or otherwise. It’s all rewarding, all headache-inducing, all scary.
It’s all reminiscent of memories Jotaro prefers to ignore. Which is fine. Everything is fine.
He attempts to convey that, but Josuke isn’t having it.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Jotaro’s eyes widen at the pet name. When did this brat get so ballsy? Why is it making his cock fill? “I’m gonna help you unwind.”
At that, Josuke rolls his body like the crash of seawater on the Morioh coastline, that perfect ass rubbing up against him just right. Jotaro exhales, grip seeking a more satisfying hold on Josuke’s thick hips. Again. Again, he shifts his weight in a way that can only be described as delicious and Jotaro catches that smart mouth of his because he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get his tongue down Josuke’s throat.
This should be easy to lose himself in. Easy, needy grinding, sloppy kissing. Caffeine disassociations, his soul threatening to break the tether to his flesh. Hands all over his blistering skin, skin he still feels, feels too much. Shared body heat too hot for this time of summer, little sounds eking from Josuke’s lips as he shifts in the most perfect way, grounding Jotaro in himself. It’s lazy Sunday morning sex. It’s a salve. It’s unbothered movements and unhurried pleasure and so self-serving and restorative it should be easy to drown in it. To erase.
His own visceral void, only spacious enough for him and Josuke to slip into.
But he can’t. The caffeine, the nicotine, the hollow buzzing in his blood is a short circuit failure. He’s tense and jittery and Jotaro can’t discern if he wants to run a mile, scream, or both. It’s an overwhelming mess, a bundle of everything he refuses to acknowledge on a daily basis. It bubbles and he hopes Josuke doesn’t get caught up in it.
Josuke knows. Or at least knows something.
Their lips break apart, and those long pretty eyelashes of his rest on the highs of his cheeks as he frowns. Jotaro expects him to speak, to question him, to get him unloading his inner monologue like he’s back in therapy after ten fucking years. Tell me how you feel about this. What are you so angry about? Maybe you’re not angry, you’re simply scared. You’re scared and you’re protecting yourself with something you can control. Your violence. Your anger. Your vices.
But Josuke isn’t a therapist. He’s six-fucking-teen with devilish eyes and a voracious appetite. He leans in to lick Jotaro’s earlobe, curling into cartilage. “I’m gonna suck the stress out of you.”
Damn straight he better.
His belts are undone, his buttons flicked open, zipper down, underwear folded over and his cock springs out. Josuke whistles. His eyes don’t leave Jotaro’s as he spits in his palm. Spits in it again and starts licking the saliva around to coat his skin more evenly. It’s repulsive.
It’s so fucking hot.
“Y’know,” Josuke says into his ear, the soft rumble of his voice between a whisper and rumbly soft-spoken speech making Jotaro shiver, shiver more than the sudden wet grip around his dick. “It’s kinda cool how you called me today.”
“Is it?”
Josuke nods, pecking his ear. “Yeah, it is. You’re wound so tight. All alone in this empty room, wearing yourself thin. And you thought,” and here, that’s when Josuke’s fist starts moving. Up and down. Too fucking slow. Pure venom. “Maybe I should call Josuke to make me feel better?”
Jotaro rolls his eyes. “You’ve got some imagination there, kid.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.” That smile. That laugh. “But is it imagination if it’s got some truth? I mean,” Josuke’s voice digs deep and Jotaro groans because he can feel it like it’s in his ear canal, toying in deeper to tickle his brain. “Look at you, sweetheart. You need me.”
“Cut the sweetheart shit out.”
“You don’t like it?” Josuke’s confidence wavers. “But I thought—”
Oh no, he’s definitely thought correctly. That condescending sugar is making his cock jump in Josuke’s palm. For fuck’s sake, he should feel it. Jotaro needs to be talked down to, because what has he done today to earn Josuke’s respect? Not a goddamn thing. He’s eaten cigarettes for breakfast, coffee for lunch, and he’s expecting a reward for it. What else could he have been begging for when he called Josuke over?
He’s expecting something. Maybe comfort.
Maybe.
“Well, uh,” Josuke starts to discombobulate as his cheeks get hot. “I only ever call you Daddy, but I, uh.”
“What?” Jotaro raises his brown. “I don’t feel like Daddy to you right now?”
“No.”
Jotaro can’t suppress his own mirth. “You’re right. I’m not.” His hand squeezes Josuke’s ass. “You’re in charge right now.”
Josuke’s eyes widen in a half-baked epiphany. “Am… Am I the Daddy?”
Jotaro just stares at him, his brain absolutely and utterly empty. That only turns Josuke’s face hotter in a shade of panic. “Shit, nevermind. Forget I said that, I’m such an idiot for saying—Jotaro?”
And like that, Jotaro realizes he’s laughing. Loud and reckless, doubling himself over to bury his forehead in Josuke’s shoulder, trying to muffle himself. Manic, giddy, he can’t stop.
It feels good to let himself snap.
He can wind himself up later.
Awkwardly, Josuke contributes his own laughter. Much quieter, less in-on-the-joke. A little worried. His hand leaves its spot on Jotaro’s dick, and Jotaro doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t hold the softening cock of a weirdo losing his shit, either. But, still, his saliva-free hand pats him on the back.
It’s not even that funny, but Jotaro takes a beat longer than he expects to calm himself. He knuckles a tear out of his eyes and lifts his head.
Albeit a bit horrified, Josuke gives a smile that’s all teeth. “Can I suck you off now?”
“Absolutely.”
Grimacing at his hand, Josuke wipes it on his own pants. But before he dismounts and gets on his knees, he places a chaste kiss to Jotaro’s nose. It tingles through his cheeks, and Jotaro is grateful he can pull the brim of his hat down while Josuke drops.
Josuke, for someone who has given only a handful of blowjobs in his life, feigns considerable experience. He starts with soft kisses, varying pressure, little tap tap taps from the tip to the seam of his balls. Fraying his nerves from not enough, not even close, until there’s a harsh elongated drag of tongue and then hollow cheeks and then it’s nothing but yes.
“You’re moaning.” Yeah, brat. You’re choking on it, how could I not be? “It’s hot.”
What’s hot is Josuke’s throat. The textured drag of his tongue. Huffy exhales through his nose against Jotaro’s groin. It’s all hot. Whether or not he fails to hold back humiliating sounds is completely unrelated.
Anyone can get head, but not everyone can give it this fucking good.
There’s a blessing in the way Josuke shuts himself up with another swallow down to the hilt. Jotaro’s head tilts back because the clumsy quivers of Josuke’s gag reflex are ridiculous, so pleasurable in the way it makes Jotaro feel like shit. For choking Josuke. For loving how he’s choking Josuke. For Josuke’s watery eyes and runny nose, the determined force in which he keeps Jotaro deep as he works through the little strained gurgling sounds. For a split second, he almost considers pulling Josuke off his cock because he doesn’t trust the brat to not make himself hurl.
Yet, Josuke knows his own limits. He pulls up with a wet smack, a gasp, a cough, a peace sign with his fingers that has Jotaro rolling his eyes. It’s nonsense, it’s everything. A secretive smile twists his puffy pout before Josuke holds Jotaro’s dick steady and works up a smooth rhythm with his bobbing head.
Fuck.
Jotaro’s grip betrays his jittery heart, his patchy brain. A selfish manifestation of what he knows he shouldn’t fucking do but does anyway. Holds Josuke’s head farther down his cock than he’s comfortable with. Like someone flicking a light switch on and off, rapid-fire and too trigger-happy gag reflex activation with how Josuke’s little uh uh uhs clog up his focus every time the brat chokes. Keeps gagging on him because Jotaro loves to press Josuke’s limits. Knows Josuke wants him to test him. Test him over and over and over again until Jotaro comes to the conclusion for the umpteenth time this summer that Josuke doesn’t break from a little pressure. That brat fucking shines under the gun.
When Jotaro decides to be merciful and lets off his hold on his mussed up hair, Josuke pulls up for air. Rolls his jaw with a little crack. “You’re acting like I never put out or somethin’.”
Even with his cock against his cheek, Josuke’s smug tone slices right through him.
“Watch that mouth of yours.”
“Oh, I am, sweetheart.” That smirk, that name. Jotaro’s insides twist up and he feels his fingers start to shake from everything but the drugs. “Watch it for me, too, okay?”
Okay. Jotaro feels stupid when he goes blank from the drag of Josuke licking his blood thick dick. All sloppy, all spit, all lust. Cloying sensation curling up inside him, threatening him.
All that private fantasy pornographic nasty shit he’s ever fucking wanted. A possessive growl rumbles in his chest before he can stop himself. “I’m going to finish on your face.”
“So soon?”
“Not soon enough, brat.” Jotaro yanks him back to his cock, almost feral. “Get back to work.”
And he does. Josuke braces himself on Jotaro’s open thighs and swallows him down. Smooth and burning, as fluid as the most practiced slut, effortless in how brutal Josuke fucks his own skull for the sake of Jotaro’s desperate release.
It isn’t long before Josuke has Jotaro panting, orgasm pulling dangerously close in his guts. Jotaro yanks him off his cock and Josuke is positively tickled as he sticks his tongue out, hand pumping Jotaro’s swollen cock fast and tight until Jotaro bucks into it and grits out a filthy curse. He shoots everywhere but Josuke’s tongue. Nose, lips, hair, chin, left eyelid.
Good grief, what a goddamn mess.
And if only the mess was the visual. It’s in behavior, too. Jotaro, lids heavy, sucking in a deep belly breath through his clenched teeth as Josuke’s lips wrap back around his head and suck every bit of cum out of him. The sticky smack of his lips, the wrecked moan of Josuke savoring it, the pulling off of his softening, sticky cock, and Josuke’s graveling whisper of, “Did it feel good using me like that?”
The ghost of his breath, his pride along his damp skin prickles sweetly in the buzz behind his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says before he can think about lying.
“Good,” Josuke grins, a smear of spunk hiding his pretty dimple. “Felt good for me, too.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Some old creep gives pretty good lessons.”
“Ha ha.”
Planting a kiss to his thigh, Josuke takes his sweet time in standing up. All sorts of alarm bells ring in Jotaro’s too active (too needy?) brain. Is Josuke leaving? With that obvious tent in his pants? “Is that your subtle way of refusing any reciprocation?”
Completely covered in cum, Josuke’s confused brow furrow is almost comical before it relaxes in understanding and then, immediately, mild embarrassment. Cute. “Y-yes—I mean, no. I mean,” Josuke averts his gaze and shifts his weight away from Jotaro, eying the shut door of the suite bathroom. “I’m not that selfish. You kinda look like shit, is all.”
Jotaro blinks. Even though the tremors in his fingers has subsided, he still almost feels dizzy in how alert he is. “You’re right. I feel like shit.”
“Are you, y’know, okay? Do you wanna, uh, talk about it?”
If Jotaro wasn’t so bitter, he’d definitely laugh about how utterly fucked his life is. “No. I want to clean up and lie down.” Even if he’s too wired to sleep, turning off the lights and resting next to a warm body probably is the best thing for him at the moment.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
Jotaro runs a hand down his face as he pulls himself up and heads into the bathroom. When those footsteps don’t follow him, he calls over his shoulder. “Do you want dried semen on your face, or what?”
“Jeez, I’m coming.”
“Yeah,” Jotaro says as he’s joined at the sink, holding a damp washcloth to Josuke’s cheek with one hand and cupping the neglected bulge with his other. “You are .”