Archive of Our Own

Allowing Josuke to come with him to the lab in Tokyo had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. There had been a look in his young uncle’s eyes, like he was haunted, one that Jotaro recognized. The fight had left Josuke more shaken than he was likely to admit, so Jotaro packed away the strange slime sample from the (still at large) Stand user into a biohazard container and stuffed it in a cooler for the four-hour trip during which Josuke was surprisingly quiet. Jotaro had expected to have his ear talked off the whole damn time but mostly Josuke just commented on Jotaro’s taste in music and kept to himself, staring out the window at the passing scenery. Jotaro would never admit to being disappointed by this strange reticence, but after being crammed into so many vehicles when he was barely older than Josuke, traveling across the desert, he’d become almost fond of idle chatter within the context of a road trip. Something to pass the time, to keep the mind engaged, a rare chance to sit one on one with nothing but a stretch of time and asphalt ahead. But Jotaro is horrendously bad at starting conversations so he let the silence reign. 

Occasionally Jotaro found his eye drawn away from the stretch of the highway ahead of them and toward Josuke’s profile bathed in golden light. He only ever spared fleeting glances, ones Jotaro wishes he was better at avoiding the temptation to indulge in. Josuke has matured since Jotaro’s arrival in Morioh. Trauma will do that to a kid; Jotaro knows that better than most. He’d wanted to avoid Josuke getting wrapped up in the worst of it. He can’t help but feel that he’s failed Josuke in that regard, letting him help, hell, even asking him to. He’s fallen into the same trap that Joseph Joestar did more than a decade ago. He roped a teenager into life or death Stand shit and now they’re driving to a Speedwagon Foundation lab in Tokyo to contain and analyze a sample of what appears to be sentient slime as if that’s a completely fucking normal thing to do. 

For Joestars, it basically is, but Josuke should have never gotten pulled into this shit. He just… deserved better. 

Upon their arrival, Josuke doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself. This is his first real exposure to the magnitude that is the Speedwagon Foundation. As they stride through the main offices, past cubicles full of people typing away, sipping coffee, and talking about weekend plans, he half jogs to keep pace with Jotaro’s purposeful strides. It’s not until they reach the elevator and descend to the lower levels where the laboratories are that Josuke finally speaks up. 

“I feel like I’m in a James Bond movie or something. You just… Do this kind of thing? Like, all the time?” Josuke sticks close to Jotaro’s side and for a moment, their knuckles bump together. Josuke’s cheeks are tinged pink when Jotaro looks at him. He tightens his grip on the handle of the cooler and shakes his head. 

“Not all the time. Most of the time I’m dealing with my education. My thesis, reading papers, traveling for research, attending lectures…” Jotaro is not usually one to discuss his personal life. Not with anyone. He’s rarely found himself in a position where he felt comfortable doing so, but Josuke is easier to talk to than most. For a teenager, he’s a good listener, attentive, almost as if he’s hanging on Jotaro’s every word. 

“Right. I forget sometimes that you’re like… Still doing school stuff. You just seem like you’re…”

The elevator doors open and Jotaro lingers, arching a brow at Josuke.

“Like I’m what?”

“I guess older than you are? Like you’ve already got life figured out. Not like a grad student.”

“You know many grad students?” Jotaro moves to stop the doors from closing with the toe of his boot as he leads the way into a long, blank corridor. Josuke shakes his head, which isn’t a surprise. 

“PhD programs take years off your life,” Jotaro’s bland tone doesn’t convey the severity nor the humor of his statement but Josuke laughs just the same. It’s almost as if he’s come to understand Jotaro, and knows better than before when Jotaro’s joking. 

“I mean. I’ll keep that in mind if I ever make it that far. I dunno if I’m cut out for it,” Josuke follows along as Jotaro leads him through the labyrinth of hallways toward the lab that’s been reserved for this strange slime sample. Their shoes echo, a percussive click that rings out in the emptiness of the lower levels. They don’t pass many Speedwagon employees on the way, and those they do merely tip their caps or give a small smile and wave. Jotaro knows most of them by sight but can’t recall their names. 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Jotaro finds the correct door and digs around in his pocket for his key card, “You’re smart.”

Josuke stalls in the hallway as Jotaro taps his card to the reader and opens the door with a loud, metallic ‘click’. The lights flicker on as soon as he steps over the threshold, the motion sensors picking up his presence as he passes. Josuke follows behind, a cautious pace or two between them. Jotaro makes his way toward a sterile steel counter and sets down the cooler with an ominous, hollow clunk. 

Jotaro's transported and stored samples of all kinds through the years. It's a fairly straightforward, if a bit tedious process. He flips open the lid of the cooler and. Well.

Everything goes to shit basically immediately. 

The sample they'd acquired had been small, maybe four inches in diameter at most, but the blur of oily, partially translucent gel that leaps from the cooler is about the size of a softball and Jotaro barely staggers aside to avoid getting a faceful of it. Which is his first mistake. The first of many to come. Josuke throws up his arms to guard his face and the ooze wraps around his forearm and soaks into his clothes.

"This shit's got teeth!" Josuke growls and Jotaro has no choice but to stop time, tear Josuke's jacket to pieces, and pry the hunk of sentient slime off his uncle before it can do any further damage. Tissue comes away with the ooze and Jotaro's stomach twists with guilt as he throws the ooze right back into the cooler. Slam dunk. Ora. Wonderful. Desperate. Time resumes and Jotaro quickly uses Star to snap the lid shut again. 

"Are you alright Josuke?" Jotaro asks while Star clutches the cooler to its chest, holding it tightly while the irritated slime inside smacks itself against the (mostly) airtight sides. Josuke's still a little dazed from the sudden change in his condition, his jacket in tatters, his arm sluggishly bleeding from a dozen pinprick holes in his skin. Jotaro is pretty sure that doesn't bode well. He hadn't anticipated that the slime could replicate its cell structure that quickly, enough to more than triple in size in just a few hours. If it kept at that pace it would be Josuke's size by nightfall. 

"Yeah.. Uh. Yeah I'm. I'm good. Little shaken up, but it's alright," Josuke looks at his arm as he speaks, eyes watching tiny droplets of red hit the floor. It's been a very long fucking day. 

"Use the intercom to call for a medic. I'm going to get this cooler down to airlock containment. This lab won't hold it." Jotaro's instructions take a few seconds to sink in but Josuke nods his understanding and blearily turns toward the doorway, fumbling with shaking fingers for the intercom, smearing red across the silver buttons. Jotaro has no choice but to leave him behind. He's not sure that cooler is going to last much longer. 

The airlocked containment chamber is two levels down and then there’s a long stretch of hallway between Jotaro and said airlock. That’s where he needs to get. He should have just gone there in the first damn place. He hadn’t considered rapid cell generation as a possibility, but sure enough, it’s happening, and more rapidly by the minute. Exponential growth. What a pain in the ass… The cooler jostles in his grasp, like something is banging against the inside of the lid. He sprints for the stairs, calculating time stops to jump the flights down in the cold, concrete stairwell. 

As he bursts into the hallway, the lid starts to lift. Jotaro tucks it under his arm and squeezes as shapes start to wriggle through the seal. Shapes that look like– 

“Fuck.” 

Fingers . Those definitely look like fingers. Is the Stand trying to replicate itself in its entirety? His lungs burn with the strain of these last several meters to the airlock. He slams his keycard against the reader and tumbles through the metal door before it even fully opens, wedging through the gap and bearing down on the cooler with all his weight as a gurgling noise from the inside echoes off the pristine steel walls. Why is that damn door closing so slowly? There’s not enough time. He uses additional force from Star to try and keep the damn slime trapped inside the far too flimsy cooler. It’s a near thing. He watches the door close while the Star keeps its eyes locked on the cooler. He can ‘see’ the fingers become a hand and then an arm, just as the airlock finally seals. 

At once, the cooler bursts, chunks of heavy-duty plastic scattering, cutting Jotaro’s hands and cheek. He’s just glad nothing got in his eyes as he hits the floor with an undignified smack , right into a puddle that’s rapidly spreading. His hands slip through the viscous pool that’s becoming more of a lake, scattering and sliding up the walls, dripping from the ceiling, coiling, the translucent blue liquid reminding him far too much of Aqua Necklace for his liking. There’s no way he can get this all ushered into the containment chamber on the other side of the airlock. He’s going to have to fight in here. An airlock roughly five meters long and 2.5 meters wide. It’s cramped and while there is an emergency oxygen supply from a closed system that he can rely on, he will run out eventually. This is only part of the Stand. A no-win situation. Not the first, but one in a long line of many. 

Hopefully last one like it but not Jotaro’s last fight ever. 

The airlock hisses as the room pressurizes and is sealed off from the rest of the facility.

Trapped .

He should have never brought Josuke with him. Josuke might be the only chance Jotaro has of making it out of this alive. He can’t let something like this out if it can replicate like this. The Stand user needs to be found and dealt with as soon as humanly possible. Jotaro scrambles gracelessly to his feet, legs nearly sliding out from under him entirely as the oozing fluid spreads over every inch of the room. He rushes to the intercom system and jams the button.

“This is Kujo. We have a serious threat in containment Airlock 1-A. I will not be opening the ducts to minimize the possibility of escape by the substance I brought in. I need any and all available agents to get Higashikata Josuke back to Morioh and locate the Stand user. Whatever happens… Do not open this airlock.”

He doesn’t listen for a response. He really doesn’t have time. He twists, trying to find some kind of stability on the slippery floor as he braces for a fight. Star materializes in font of him and he watches the shifting ooze creeping across the walls, slowly receding to a single point on the ceiling and drip in large, heavy globs onto the floor. But it doesn’t just spread again, no. It’s piling up, taking on shape, mass, things that look like fingers and limbs, all sliding together. It doesn’t take long for Jotaro to realize that the substance is taking humanoid form. How is he supposed to hit something that can slide and slop around like a fluid? He anticipates an endurance test. He needs to protect his face at all costs and try to minimize the chances of that shit getting on him because he might just get suffocated just like the victims they found in Morioh. Drowned but nowhere near any water…

Fuck fuck fuck …

He stares down this menacing shape as it fully takes form as a person. But not just any person. No. The features are meticulously crafted, even though they’re slick and reflective, bearing the same bluish hue the slime has had since the beginning. The height, the hips, the posture, the hair –

No fucking way. 

The slime has taken on the form of Josuke . 

Was it because it drew Josuke’s blood? Was this a DNA replication? How much of the slime was Josuke? Just the shape? Or maybe more than that? If he hurt this thing, would Josuke feel it? Stands did weird shit and Jotaro was now staring down a massive risk he wasn’t sure he had the guts to take. He stands stock still and waits, scarcely allowing himself to blink as the Slime-Josuke flexes its jaw and makes a few warbling sounds, testing its vocal cords. After a few unnerving attempts, the tone is almost exactly right, save for a strange wetness that makes the hairs along the back of Jotaro’s neck stand on end. 

“Jotaro-san.” It says, calmly, like it’s just getting a feel for the name in its mouth. And then again, dragging, drawling, like the simple act of speaking has a tangible flavor that it enjoys:

“ Joootaro-saaaan .”

The expression it wears is calm, eyelids half mast, lips curled, plump, shining, and wet. It’s all so uncanny, how much like Josuke this thing looks while also being nothing like him at all. Is this some kind of ruse? Is it trying to get Jotaro to let his guard down? The smell in the air is sweet, like agave syrup and cherry blossoms, an overpowering saccharine and floral blend that makes Jotaro feel queasy the longer he breathes it in. This tin can of thick, humid air has him feeling like a mouse in a fucking microwave. Small, trapped, hot, death feels so inevitable and imminent. There’s a subtle squish with its footsteps as the Josuke slime approaches, leaving notable bluish footprints behind that slide across the floor to catch up and rejoin the whole of its form. There’s not much space between them and it’s closing deliberately until the Stand creature is within arms reach. 

“Do you think they’re watching us, Jotaro-san?” The continued use of his name, the sound of it tumbling from this Not-Josuke’s lips, is an affectionate purr. It’s as if this thing can’t get enough of the sound, the feel, rolling the syllables around on its tongue as it reaches for him. Star Platinum swings to slap that hand away but the slime merely spreads in a suspended splash and then snaps back to form as Star’s touch passes right through. The phantom feeling of warm, wet gel across Jotaro’s fingers sends a shiver down his spine. 

Does it know where they are? Who should be monitoring the feed? The Josuke slime blinks slowly, eyes lazily rolling upward to look at the camera in the corner of the room beyond Jotaro’s shoulder. He has no idea what to expect. This thing hasn’t turned violent yet. Yet, being the operative word. It’s only a matter of time. He doesn't know how he's meant to answer. It seems like either way, he's pretty much fucked. 

If only he'd known this morning just how fucked he was going to be, he might've thought better about bringing this stupid sample to the lab in the first place rather than letting it get away. He chews the inside of his cheek, letting the sudden sharp dose of pain help keep him focused and present in the moment as he stares down the oncoming fight. This Josuke-Shaped slime moves fast, too fast in fact. The next time it lashes out, Jotaro barely has time to react. Star Platinum can stop bullets but those have a different kind of mass, one that can't change trajectory mid path like this syrupy shit can, weaving away from a punch as a limb stretches and then curving back around to splash against Jotaro, dead center mass. If it was using more force, it could have broken Jotaro's sternum, maybe even stopped his heart, but instead, it merely makes him lose his footing, stumbling back a step as the ooze wraps around his torso, sinking into the fibers of his clothing to his skin. 

Jotaro has experienced a fair amount of unsettling shit over the years but nothing could have prepared him for what it would feel like, to have this slippery substance crawling up his skin, rolling around, sliding, warm, eliciting a feeling that is almost tingly as it moves, spreading up his chest beneath his now sopping and sticky black turtleneck. Star swings at the stretched out tendril of slime extending from the main body. The one that looks like a very gleeful, semi-transparent Josuke . Jotaro is grateful this isn’t the first time he’s seen a Stand wearing the face of an ally. It makes acting easier. The punch, unfortunately, just creates a hole that snaps back into place with a faint splish . Right. Fighting this shit sucks. Especially without Josuke for backup. It's too malleable. It's definitely like fighting Aqua Necklace but somehow worse because of the way it's wetness is spreading downward, too, creeping beneath his belt line. What is this thing trying to accomplish? And how the fuck is he supposed to beat it without an actual user to pummel? 

"How sentient are you?" Jotaro barks across the far too meager space between them as he feels the warmth begin to swirl around his pecs and across his nipples. His stomach flips with the sudden sense of violation that feeling brings. Warm, rippling, a tension that ebbs and flows against an erogenous zone as if it's pulsating. Sucking. He suppresses the urge to flinch but he feels his cheeks flood with frustrated heat. He wants to make it stop but there's nothing he can do. He can't think of a way to defend himself when he can't physically harm this thing. He has to hope Josuke can beat the user and that whatever automatic pursuit is keeping it upright will simply cease to be. 

The Foundation has a helicopter and he really hopes they're using it right now. 

"What do you mean?" Not-Josuke murmurs, as if he's truly confused. No. Not he. It. This isn't a person. It's just a mass of semi-solid matter that has been given some kind of intelligence, but how much and of what kind Jotaro can't be certain. Automatic pursuit Stands are such a pain in the ass…

"I mean , are you operating on the orders of your user?"

"User? Wait that guy we fought?" Not-Josuke steps closer, his footsteps sounding like wet, bare feet across the cold steel floor. If it's trying to pretend to be Josuke, it's doing a fairly good job of mimicking. His manner, expressions, his cadence, although strangely congested, it still sounds like his young uncle. This, unfortunately, makes the sudden gush of warmth and wetness that surrounds Jotaro’s groin so much worse. It’s like slipping into a bath, prickling and pleasant, dragging bloodflow southward and making Jotaro feel a little light headed. It’s… It’s good but. Fuck. No. He needs to Not engage with this thing. Not like this. 

"Stop–"

"Jotaro-san… Don't think about him. Think about me… Look at me. Do you think I'm attractive? Do you really think I'm… Smart?" The sudden apprehension, the breathlessness of the Not-Josuke's words that call back to their recent conversation as the slippery substance that's soaked into Jotaro's clothes squeezes and slides around, over his cock, like a well lubed fuck-toy, sets off Jotaro's fight or flight in a way he's never felt before. He's not one to run but this? This makes him want to throw caution to the wind and flee the airlock. Not because it’s threatening but because he doesn’t know how to respond to it at all. He has no idea how he should deal with the stimulation and those familiar doeful eyes peering up at him. His breathing is shaky at best and his knees start to tremble beneath his weight as the slime gushes and contracts around his cock. It's a slow blossoming warmth, like the kind of pleasure he feels when deep in a dream, a throbbing in the pit of his stomach that spreads down his legs, into his toes. They curl in his boots and he tries to push this thing away, but his hands slip against the strangely firm surface of the Not-Josuke's chest. Can it dictate how solid it wants to be and where? Is there no end to the malleability of this thing? 

"What the hell… are you doing?" Jotaro grits his teeth as he speaks, the tension so sharp he can feel it in his temples. The Not-Josuke tilts its head, peers up at him through lashes that glimmer, crystalline and unnatural. It’s beautiful and that’s really not helping Jotaro’s current situation. Is it beautiful because it looks like Josuke or in spite of that fact? He hadn’t accounted for possible moral ambiguity and philosophy regarding incest when he rolled out of bed this morning and he can barely hold onto the thread now as his body twitches toward that silky sweet sensation of being stimulated by this incredibly weird Stand. It’s not incest. But also it kind of is. He feels so wrong on an atomic level for feeling aroused at all given the shape this slime has taken. If it had at least looked like a stranger Jotaro could detach from the feelings he’s buried in the deepest recesses of his mind. 

But now here they are, dripping in beautiful blue, forcing him to confront that oh so horrible thing he sometimes thinks about when he looks at his young uncle.

"I want you so bad, Jotaro-san… It's making me crazy. It's wrong but I can't… Stop thinking about you. About what it would be like. If you touched me. Or kissed me… Or f–"

"Don't." Jotaro doesn't want to hear it. If this is a battle tactic it's the weirdest one he's ever encountered. The sincerity and desperation of every successive word stabs at Jotaro's skull. Where is this coming from? What could this Stand hope to accomplish with this behavior? Is this a distraction? If it weren't for the feeling of tightening, sucking wet heat sliding up and down his rapidly swelling cock he'd think that he was about to be killed. There's too much input. Too much data. It's all so fucking confusing, feeling good and bad and insane all at once– He pushes at the Not-Josuke's chest again, trying once more in vain to make some kind of space. His hands only sink into the slime beneath them a few centimeters and he yanks them back, stumbling a few paces away. There’s no real reprieve or escape for him.

" Are they watching us, Jotaro-san? Do you think… They'll try and stop us?"

Us? What does this thing mean by 'us'? As far as Jotaro can tell he's being molested by silme right now, he's not a participant, he's a victim isn’t he? He must be. His mind spins as he tries to consider his options. Roll over and play dead? Keep it occupied until Josuke can put down the user? The suction at his chest and between his legs intensifies as Jotaro tries to back away; he quickly realizes this is an utterly pointless and desperate action to take while watching the stretch of blue between himself and the Not-Josuke grow again. He keeps backing up until his spine hits the airlock door and there's nowhere else to go. He has a feeling he knows what will inevitably happen. Is that terror or anticipation jolting up his spine? It’s anyone’s guess but Jotaro hopes for his sanity’s sake that it’s the former. He’s not sure how he’ll sleep at night if it’s anything but fear he’s feeling.

"I'm cutting the feed. Don't try to interfere. Just help Josuke get this guy," Jotaro grunts to the room, to the camera above him, hoping that whoever is watching respects his wishes. He doesn't see much other choice. If this kind of shit is going to happen to him he doesn't want any witnesses and he really, really doesn't want any recorded evidence of it. With a loud 'ORA!', Star Platinum swings for the camera and destroys it with a deafening crunch of metal and mechanics. Now, he is ostensibly alone with the slime Stand that's taken Josuke's shape. 

For better or worse. 

"Listen… You.” Because no way in hell is Jotaro calling the slime-being currently suctioned to his dick Josuke. Right? Right?? He takes it all in again, how eerily dedicated this rendition is. “I don’t know what your endgame here is, and I don’t really care. Regardless of what happens to me, you’re not getting out of here.” 

It’s a feeble attempt at asserting his control over the situation which he knows is tenuous at best. The steady, pulsating of wetness around his groin and against his chest is a dull, embarrassingly pleasant distraction. His face feels flush and he doesn’t want to give this thing even a little bit of satisfaction. He can’t let himself crack. He absolutely can’t show any weakness–

The sudden feeling of being tugged by the slippery presence in his pants forces Jotaro to stumble forward. The sensation tears a sound from his throat that leaves nearly none of Jotaro's dignity intact. His own ragged groan bounces off the cold and impersonal steel walls of the airlock and reverberates inside his skull as the gap between himself and this– Thing… shrinks to arms length. The wet smack of the extended, gelatinous limb withdrawing sounds like a chorus of mouths separating from his skin. He feels it, almost like the last laps of tongues against his chest and his cock as the slime pulls free, leaving him sopping wet from collar to groin, his clothes laying heavy against his skin, irritating and overstimulating without the buffer of watery warmth. The outline of his erection is profoundly upsetting to look down and see, weighted down as it is by his sopping slacks, it’s such an obvious tent. His skin is still humming with the ghost of pleasure, whispers of it in every minute move Jotaro makes as wet fabric drags across his swollen glans. He ehxales a shuddering, weary sound and tries to hold as still as a statue and will the traitor in his pants to just calm the fuck down this is slime shaped like a blood relative for crying out loud.

In his brief moment of disorientation, hands touch his face, sliding over his skin, like fingers drenched in lubricant and the smell is stranger now. Like Josuke's skin, his hair care products, the cloying musk of sweat, but there's still an underlying sweetness that, at this range, reminds him of antifreeze and alarm bells that were already going off begin blaring in his skull. Danger. Toxic. Do not consume. But no sooner has the thought passed his mind that there are fingers on his lips, pushing into his mouth, and flooding him with that crawling, body-warm substance the entire Not-Josuke is comprised of. 

Jotaro can't breathe. 

"You're so fucking hot Jotaro," it's not Josuke but the juvenile phrasing, the way his translucent lip gets caught in equally transluscent teeth makes Jotaro's chest seize. It sounds so much like him. Like the kind of stupid thing a teenage boy would say. Or maybe that's just the oxygen deprivation. The feeling of those fingers stretching and sliding, pushing against his soft palate, along the back of his tongue, slipping against his teeth, filling him up, brings to mind all the victims in Morioh. Drowning nowhere near water. Was this how it happened? Jotaro shoves feebly, hands uncoordinated, sinking and squishing into semisolid mass, feeling his coat start to get heavy around the sleeve cuffs as they soaked up residual dewiness. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you, man. Relax," Not-Josuke laughs, and it's a little manic, a little high-pitched and it gurgles slightly with the damp of its vocal cords. Jotaro's vision vignettes, the encroaching black doing nothing for his blood pressure. Oxygen deprivation is not a fast way to go. The movies always make it seem like people lose consciousness in seconds but it's so much longer. Agonizing minutes while struggling for breath and it's so unbelievably dangerous and damaging to the brain. Some people simply don't start breathing again. Don't wake up. He feels the knee jerk need to fight against this but there's a sudden bloom of tingling effevesence like a shot of whiskey down his throat and the intrusion withdraws all at once, leaving him gasping and dizzy, stumbling back a step. In seconds the whole room seems more vibrant, the lights overhead too strong, and his skin is feverish. He almost drops to the floor in the wake of this new sensation; he feels at once enervated, over-sensitive, and jittry. 

His swaying is steadied by a hand at the small of his back. Not-Josuke draws him flush, into the clinging, slippery grip of an embrace. The feeling of a tongue gliding against the hinge of his jaw stabs at his senses, another input, more data. Too much. The raw and overwhelmed state of his nerve endings sends every signal from that point of contact straight through his blood stream like he’s just taken a hit of MDMA and it’s ecstatic and blissful despite the awful situation Jotaro is in. His mind chugs along, struggling through the mucky, overwrought state he’s found himself in. Should he just let this happen? Play the pascifist role and try not to invoke whatever wrath might be waiting in the wings. (Worse still. Is that desire an excuse because he likes this? Or does he like it because of the drug-like quality of it all, so he’s not to blame for his thoughts at all?) The intentions of this thing are hitting Jotaro with stark clarity he neither wants nor can he ignore. Whether it's going to kill him or not, Jotaro can say for certain that this silme Stand wants to toy with him first.

It wants to have sex with him.

That feeling might be mutual…

"G-Get off me–" His words are stammered, wheezing, a little congested after having his throat filled with the stuff that seems to leave a slick film in its wake. Wherever it touches, living wetness lingers, clinging to him, making him feel like he's trapped in a sauna gone rogue, surrounded by sweet smelling steam, his skin getting dewy from the cloying atmosphere. He feels so goddamn light headed. Is that from the lack of oxygen or did that slime really drug him with some kind of crazy sex pollen? He never did get a chance to study the sample that's now become a full humanoid shape. He wishes he understood this. That he could count it as simple research and then maybe he’d feel less crazy about how his body has begun to ache and yearn.

Hands . 

Wet hands dig their way into his clothes, tugging at them, a soft, simpering noise passing Not-Josuke's lips, like it's anxious and desperate and doesn't have Jotaro completely at its mercy. He can't fight what he can't hit in here and he can't waste precious oxygen when it could be several hours before Josuke is able to find and subdue the Stand user. Jotaro sucks in a shaky breath and lets it happen. Maybe he'll find some kind of chance, an opportunity to get some space if he plays opossum for a little while. Provided he's not being actively harmed, he can allow himself some indignity. The way this thing is groping at him through his clothes while also seeking ways beneath them that aren't simply leeching through the fibers of the fabric, is uncoordinated. It's inexperienced. Like a horny teenager feeling up their partner for the first time. All shaky hands and rapid breaths (except in this case he's not sure this Stand even needs to breathe at all) chased by feeble noises of wanting. 

"Jotaro-san… Jotaro-san please…" Not-Josuke grabs at his belts, tugging at the buckles as it stares up at him. Jotaro is still fighting to catch his own breath, Star Platinum hovering over his shoulder, inert and appalled, reflecting the kind of helpless irritation Jotaro himself is feeling on its galaxy colored face. Jotaro reaches, and decides to try something. Rather than push or shove or fight, he simply encircles the Not-Josuke's wrists with his hands and grabs. He finds that there's less give this time around. He slowly applies pressure to what feels solid and the second he does his fingers start to sink and slide around. If Not-Josuke notices, it shows no sign of it, totally focused on Jotaro, looking at him with watery bedroom eyes that strike every single button Jotaro has like taking a sledge hammer to a keyboard. 

It looks so goddamn genuine that Jotaro doesn't know how to respond. 

Were this the real Josuke, solid flesh and blood, he'd try and talk him back from the ledge he was teetering on, absolve him of this trespass and tell him they could both pretend it didn't happen if he wanted to. But that it couldn't happen again. It absolutely couldn't. This thing isn't Josuke, no matter how alike it is in appearance and manner. Or at least, what Jotaro assumes Josuke might be like in this particular situation. 

And then something occurs to him. 

The Slime snatched part of Josuke's tissue. Was this personality… Based on Josuke? The appearance of course makes sense to some degree but emotions and mannerisms are not coded in the DNA. So… Is this really a shade of Josuke built from information that could be gleaned from the brief amount of time the slime was latched onto him by some stupid bullshit Stand Magic? How different would this situation be if Jotaro had simply taken the hit instead of dodging it? That was such a stupid thing to do. A pointless reflex. It would have been better to be trapped down here with himself. But he isn’t. He’s with Josuke. So… So maybe…

" Josuke ." Jotaro says the name aloud, addressing this being as if it is Josuke even that’s not the case. Some part of it might believe itself to be Josuke, so maybe it can be reasoned with. Maybe. As much as any horny teenager can be reasoned with. The Not-Josuke flinches, hands stilling, dripping excess viscous liquid to the floor. Despite the strange distortion of being less than opaque, it still looks like Josuke's nervous face, his trepidation forming in the same way it always does. Everything about the expression is just as Jotaro recalls seening it every time it’s crossed Josuke’s features before. The same but different. If it's an act it's flawless . The subtle scunch of his nose, the divot in his brows, the way his lower lip pokes out in a pout that Jotaro could take between his fingers and shake him by… Fuck. This is bad. This is really bad. 

"We shouldn't do this. You need to stop." It's an attempt. A ballsy one because one wrong move might see him added to the current drowning victim list. The slime blinks at him, taking this information in and lifting its shoulders toward its ears. It looks ashamed. All that nervous knock-kneed wallflower uncertainty, all that demure charm, it's right there, real as can be on a face that it doesn't actually belong to. A face that doesn't really exist but was simply pulled into form by what? Bits of dermal tissue and wishes and fairy dust? 

Fuck this fucking job.  

Jotaro hates Stands. And Stand users. He hates all of this he just wants to study fish and hopefully not lose most of his dignity or his daughter in the impending divorce. He never asked for this kind of nonsense, having to talk a slime creature out of pseudo-incestuous sexual advances. He loathes this stupid bullshit– batshit insane job and yet he keeps going the fuck to work because who else would put up with this? No normal or reasonable human being that’s for damn sure.

"But… Don't you want to?" Not-Josuke asks like he might cry or break if Jotaro says no. It sounds fragile and shaky and it sears Jotaro behind his ribs, branding his heart. Could he say no even if this was the real Josuke? Jotaro barely has time to think through the hypotheticals about what he's being asked before his belts are torn like tissue paper and his pants yanked open. What little recovery he’d gained from being fondled and suckled by all that wetness just a few moments ago is undone in an instant as the slime spreads again, more ardent in its advances this time around, diving into his boxer-briefs and completely enveloping him. It slips over his sack, up against his perinium, between his cheeks, probing in places that it has absolutely no business being and he’s suddenly reminded of just how strung out on slime-sex-pollen he is because it makes his knees quake and his cock ooze precum in an instant. Jotaro sucks in a sharp breath through a clamped jaw, bearing his teeth as he struggles to get space that he knows will amount to nothing because this shit just stretches to keep pace. 

He backs up anyway. He backs up, stumbling as he feels like his soul is being purposfully sucked from his cock by a vacuum of relentless, slippery satisfaction. It feels humiliating and incredible and god he really really fucking hates his fucking job so fucking much. It's not even really his job more like a side gig. A favor. And this is what his hard work and dedication gets him. The weirdest approximation of a handjob he has ever, and probably will ever, receive in his entire life. Fuck . Can he think the word Fuck more? He feels like he’s about to reach a lifetime quota.

His spine hits the sealed door. 

Nowhere to go. 

"Don't you want me? I can make you feel so good, I know I can." Not-Josuke is clamoring for his approval and Jotaro can feel the pressure of a slithering, phallic shape, tapered at the tip pressing into his ass, stretching him open the barest bit. Not-Josuke plants his other hand against Jotaro's chest and from there his fingers stretch and warp until a dozen tendrils of this thick, dripping slime is all over his chest, curling like little tentacles around his nipples and squeezing, sucking. The sensations are everywhere and all encompassing. 

"Stop– You have to stop." Jotaro's words are little more than grunts, breathy, wavering, his eyes rolling back of their own accord as the feeling around his cock only grows more intentioned, like being ridden by a warm wet body, the feeling of waving, rippling motion moves through all the slime coiling around his groin, along his cleft, and snaking down his legs. It's a rhtyhm. A pulse. It feels like fucking and Jotaro's just standing there, unable to think his way out of this. Maybe saying Josuke's name was the wrong move. Jotaro bites his tongue. He bites it so hard that he feels like the tissue beneath his teeth is crunching and crackling, veins ready to burst. He tries to keep his head on straight as the breach behind him continues. Slow, probing, thrusting, a tentacle of this substance– Jotaro can feel the thickness increasing with every inward thrust as it gets just a little deeper, slurping its way inside him like it’s trying to turn him inside out in the most salacious way it possible can. He moans. He hates himself for it but he moans because he feels every push and pull all the way to his toes, his legs feeling about as stable as the puddle he’s standing in.

"This is insane," Jotaro finds himself blurting it more out of reflex than anything else. There's no purpose to voicing the reality he's found himself in as he feels fuller and fuller while his cock is milked for all its worth. While he's still fully clothed. That feels like the most absurd part of all of this– he’s still in his coat and hat and standing there. Just standing like a jackass while his body moves in a totally devastating for his ego kind of way, moving toward that stupid tentacle, pushing it deeper with every twitch of his pelvis.

"I know… Fuck, you make me so crazy, Jotaro-san. I keep… Dreaming about this," Not-Josuke speaks while pushing up onto it's toes and Jotaro barely manages to get his muscles to cooperate enough to turn his head to avoid the oncoming kiss. What little self preservation instinct he has left he clings to with both hands in a white knuckle grip. His actual hands press to the cold steel door behind him, grappling for purchase but sliding with the residual lubrication left behind from how many times he'd touched Not-Josuke. He can feel all that wetness dribbling down his body, along the contours of his muscles beneath his clothes. It's still puddling at their feet. Is this thing still growing? How long will it keep replicating? How much of what it says came from Josuke? Jotaro is not prepared to deal with this kind of thing. He's only twenty-eight for godssake. 

He can't put this kind of life experience on his resume and he sure as shit wouldn't tell this anecdote at a party. Every second he spends wrapped up in the soaked clutch of this thing the bad gets worse and worse and worse. His head is reeling with way too many conflicting trains of thought as he tries not to focus too hard on how good those walls of rippling slime feel as they pump up and down his cock while sinking further and further inside him. He hasn't considered it until it starts to become rapidly apparent that it's going to happen, but he feels close to cumming right there. Standing, fully dressed, soaked clothes clinging to him, suffocatingly heavy, while no part of him is left off limits to the seemingly endless stretch of slime as it explores every soft crevice it can touch. It's creeping up his spine now, rippling around his throat, tickling the shells of his ears like a flicking tongue and Not-Josuke is sucking at his neck and jaw and moaning like a whore against his skin. 

"Don't… You don't have to do this…" What does he even mean? Jotaro's losing the thread and fast as the tight coil of impending orgasm tugs and throbs, harder, wave after wave, a beautiful, pleasurable warning that he's about to spend himself all over the place. He really doesn't want to cum and maybe if he were of clearer mind he'd be able to absolve himself of the shame he feels as it all crests, his core and balls drawing tight as he spasms, cock jerking in the sentient fluid surrounding him.  Not-Josuke moans as Jotaro cums in heavy spurts. One after another, every drop sucked from him by the intensity of this monstrosity that's got him plastered to the wall and fighting to keep his balance. 

"See… I told you I could make you feel good." Not-Josuke doesn't withdraw. Hell, he doesn't even really let up. Nothing stops. If anything, the slime now seems more eager and Jotaro feels the ecstatic high of cumming quickly tipping toward discomfort as it all becomes too stimulating. 

"You proved– f-fuck stop! You proved you point Josuke, you have to stop!" His desperate plea comes out jumbled and falls on deaf ears; Jotaro's teeth grind together as he tries to keep his footing. His boots slide in the puddle of pearlescent blue beneath his feet. As weary as Jotaro is, as much as he protests with squirming and grunting and words, Josuke doesn't stop. Doesn't listen. When he speaks there's a tone now, slightly different, darker, pointed. 

"Oh no. I'm not even close to being done with you yet." 

It sounds accusatory . 

Jotaro feels a cold lead weight drop into his stomach. 

Fear. 

At once he's yanked away from the wall and sent skidding, slipping, crashing to the floor, onto his hands and knees, unable to keep himself stable at all and slamming flat on his stomach. The wind is knocked from his lungs by the impact and Jotaro's chin cracks into the floor so hard he tastes blood. Disoriented. Pain. He blinks but his eyes struggle to focus. The sudden jolt of pain through his jaw into his temples makes his eyes water and sting. He’s still delirious, coping with the high of his recent orgasm on top of the other bizarre high that’s still coursing through his system and the shock of being tossed around so easily. This is all too fucking much. Not-Josuke’s weight descends– a slippery collision like being splashed along his spine and the feeling of being touched by hands is everywhere . Sliding up his sides, down between his legs, prying at his clothes and tearing fabric without regard or hesitation. It’s so much all at once to take in and he laments his wounded pride because he cannot deny how damn good it feels. He shouldn’t feel anything good at all but his nerves are singing, overly tender from the endorphin rush of violence and sex in almost equal measure. There are teeth dragging across his trapezius muscle as his coat is yanked down and his turtleneck is ripped open. 

“I need you so fucking bad,” Josuke– No. No it’s not Josuke. He wishes his mind would stop conflating this thing with his uncle who is hopefully several miles away. “I don’t think I could hold back if I wanted to. You have… No idea how long I’ve thought about this. Since the moment we met, Jotaro-san.”

He feels the slimy descent of hands, lips, tendrils like tentacles, all along his spine and down, down, down…

There is a bruising grip along his backside and a dripping mouth between his cheeks. 

“W-Wait–” Not Don’t . Wait. What the hell is he thinking? He hasn’t fought this at all and he wants to blame his sudden bout of complacency on having his drugged-out, sex-addled bell rung but he knows that’s not entirely it. There’s something far too thrilling about being without fault here, at the mercy of someone else. Or in this case, something else. The probing tongue lapping at his hole, pressing inside him, reaching deeper than any human tongue could ever hope to sends a sudden gush of warmth up his back and over his scalp. It tingles through his nerve endings, spreading like wildfire through his senses. It feels good and it feels hot. There’s a pressure and a prickling heat building there, like there’s more to this Slime Stand than simple viscosity or ample wetness. It is as if the slime itself is soaking into his pores and he’s starting to feel more than a little drunk on it. The sensation of an open, eager, sucking mouth and a thick, smooth, slippery tongue fucking its way inside him makes getting a full breath impossible. Jotaro claws at the floor, trapped in the slime soaked remnants of his clothes and a rapidly growing pool of sweet smelling liquid. It reeks of sex and arousal, as if arousal could have a scent like this but Jotaro doesn’t have another word for it. His body shakes as that tongue curls against his prostate and presses, relentless in its assault and Jotaro’s jaw stretches around a sound of satisfaction it really should not be making. 

It’s normal, isn’t it? To respond to such stimuli? He can’t be blamed for the way his body reacts, how his muscles flutter and then relax the more fervently he is tongue-fucked while he feels the ripples of the slime-puddle beneath him begin to paw and probe at various parts of his body. It waves across his nipples, like a watery wartenburg wheel, pricking at the hyper-aware erogenous zone. It slides and curls around his spent cock, caressing, wave after wave, making him shiver with how over stimulated he’s become in such a brief amount of time. (But just how long has it been, really? His perception is totally screwed.) And the Slime Josuke moans. It moans low, licentious, uninhibited, like it’s never experienced anything more satisfyingly erotic than this. Taking everything it can from Jotaro and leaving none of his dignity intact. It’s as torn and tattered as his clothes. 

The wet slurp of separation is so fucking vile and lewd and it makes Jotaro’s cock twitch where it’s trapped against the wet floor. Jotaro feels drenched from head to toe in the stuff now it’s hard to tell where his own perspiration ends and this substance begins. Slime doesn’t need to breathe but it gasps for breath just the same, heaving and whimpering as those semi-solid hands drag down Jotaro’s back, the hint of nails digging into his skin, sending a fresh wave of sparks across his body that dance their way down to his pelvis. 

“Can I… Fuck you, Jotaro-san? Please… Please say yes.” The begging makes it impossible not to picture Josuke, not to imagine that this thing believes itself to be Josuke and Jotaro isn’t so sure he doesn’t believe that himself. In some respects it must be, for all the eager, anxious, cloyingly sweet but clumsy attempts its making to get Jotaro to simply say ‘ yes’ before taking what it wants anyway. Jotaro can’t bring himself to say ‘yes’ because he is reminded too heavily of his young uncle, of his big doe eyes and endearingly unpredictable personality. Underneath everything, including that big hairdo, Josuke has a good heart.

Is this the kind of darkness that lurks in it?

Does Josuke himself feel this way?

One crisis at a time, Jotaro. 

Something hard and slick is sliding up against him, between his cheeks, rubbing in the cleft of his ass. Jotaro doesn’t have to look to know what it is. The insistent pressure of hips grinding against him makes his own hips tilt to get closer. An ingrained reflex and in a way he wasn’t intending, it is this little indication of interest that Not-Josuke takes as permission. The blunt pressure of a cockhead pressing into his wet, thoroughly lax hole makes Jotaro tense from head to toe but his body can’t tense enough to force resistance. That thick cock glides inside him like it was made to fit there and Jotaro’s toes curl in his boots at the feel of being so damn full. It’s a pressure in his guts, a weight in his pelvis, that he can’t ever admit to himself he enjoys as much as he does. He’s experimented enough in his life while he’s had the time that he knows just what kind of things he craves and how ashamed he feels about them. He’s been to college for fuckssake. He’s definitely had worse. Or is it better? 

The snap of hips pulling away and crashing into him again feels like a body. There’s no give to it, only hard angles and the slap of flesh and bone coming together. Like wet skin on wet skin and Jotaro’s eyes roll back, fluttering shut. His cheek slides against the floor as nails dig into his hips and pull him into the next thrust, merciless, tactless, all of it is sheer force and voracious lust. The way an idiot teenager with no experience would absolutely fuck. His head is swimming in a cocktail of adrenaline and oxytocin and god only knows what else. It feels fucking great and he can’t really deny it. He can’t pretend he doesn’t like it. He does. He just wishes he didn’t.

This is not how his evening was supposed to go. 

The pace that’s set is relentless, thrust after thrust railing away at Jotaro’s slime-slick hole. He feels himself dripping everywhere, every pass of that cock over his prostate milking him when he feels like he shouldn’t have anything left to give. He swears that cock is getting bigger, too– he can feel it, that the size of the Not-Josuke behind him, buried inside him, is intensifying with every passing second. Every thrust makes Jotaro feel fuller than the last until he is sure that if he looked, he could see the massive intrusion from the outside, rearranging his guts, using him like a toy, but every effete moan from above him reminds him of Josuke. Jotaro shouldn’t imagine Josuke fucking him. It’s too far. All he knows is that it wouldn’t be like this. And while that isn’t a bad thing or anything at all, really, Jotaro finds himself panting and pushing, trying to keep his knees beneath himself with his chest pressed to the floor, open and presenting like a bitch in heat for a cock that seems endless and unstoppable. Can this thing even cum or is it just going to fuck him until he passes out? 

This is nothing if not novel to experience. 

Jotaro heaves for breath as his cock stirs to life. How long as he been like this? Ass in the air, face to the floor, letting himself be fucked open wider and wider until he’s sure his body can’t stretch any farther. Josuke’s hands are so solid against him, but there are other sensations, other things coming to join the cacophony of feeling. A slithering, warm, wet coil wraps around the base of his cock and strokes upward. It’s very much not a hand but Jotaro bucks toward it anyway, only to be snapped back into another insatiable thrust. His ass feels bruised and that sense of intoxication is getting worse. Jotaro feels himself drooling, mind going numb, blank, very little beyond the desire for more rising to the surface through the white noise static that everything has become. He can taste the slithering slime on his lips, prying its way into his mouth as Josuke bends over his back and groans in his ear. 

“You feel so good… Jotaro… Feels so hot. You’re so tight–” He sounds completely enraptured, the strained but dulcet tone of his voice snaring Jotaro’s sense of reason. Josuke has him by the brainstem and is shaking any thought that isn’t about more right out of his skull. He needs more. He needs to feel fuller, to cum again, to taste and to not think about anything at all. Jotaro groans around the finger-like shapes stroking across his tongue, wetness dripping from his chin to join the ever growing lake of saturation of the floor. Everything is moving, touching him, filling him. And not in any way he’s ever experienced before, this is so all encompassing, all consuming, he feels like he’s so full that the essence of who he is has been forced out of him one molecule at a time. His head is empty, his dick is throbbing, and his body is so fucking heavy with the weight of this thing– This Josuke thing…

Jotaro lets out a brittle noise, something between a whimper and a groan. It’s not a protest. Not anymore. He doesn’t even have the mental space to find hate for himself as he gives in and just lets this take over every bit of his being. His consciousness is shattered and all that’s left is the gnawing greed to keep feeling the ever-present ambrosia that is being forced upon him. He doesn’t have the strength, nor the desire to fight it at all. He exhales a sigh as he feels the drag of that thick, impossible cock inside him again, the pace slowing to something more deliberate. It’s as if Josuke is trying to memorize the shape of him from the inside while taking him right to the brink. Jotaro feels the tight, sparkling sensation of his core tensing, muscles in his legs jumping weakly, his groin feeling tighter, twitching and convulsing. He’s going to cum again and there’s nothing he wants more than that. 

In his head he’s begging for it, completely beholden to his own desire to chase down fruition please, please, please let me cum– But nothing comes out. He can’t form words, only sounds around the fingers in his mouth. Every noise he makes is reedy, plainative, shaking, and anxious. Josuke groans above him, kisses his skin, and slams into him, hips to ass, like he’s trying to break more than Jotaro’s spirit, but his body too. He feels so fucking wrecked already but he welcomes feeling undone beyond his comprehension. He wants that nothingness of total breakdown more than words could ever hope to express; he feels drugged and drunk and euphoric and his entire body is alight. He feels so very alive . It hits him in sudden electrifying shocks, wave after wave as his cock pulses in the clutch of slithering wetness. He scrambles to stay upright as his hips jerk toward that sensation and ropes of cum spill from him. It feels like it goes longer than should, like this one orgasm is stretching out for miles and that he’s spending himself more heavily than his body ought to be capable of. Is it his imagination? Or is there something in his veins as much as there is all over his skin? He whimpers his way through it, absolutely pathetic and he knows he’ll find it in him to regret this later. 

As he shakes and shakes and shakes some more while his orgasm tips from pleasure into agony he can’t find a single steady thought. The fingers in his mouth hook beneath his tongue, into his jaw, prying his mouth open, and everything shifts. From the puddle, beneath him, a new form starts to take shape and his eyes are so unfocused, so bleary, he just opens to accept it. Another thrusting tendril of mostly solid matter, clogging his throat, and again he feels a shot of something doping him up and his cock grows more rigid and painfully engorged with blood than before. It’s maddening. Even so, Jotaro just takes it, eagerly, sucking on instinct at what’s offered to him like this is all he was built for. Just a plaything. For Josuke? Or was it Not… Josuke…

His eyes roll back and flutter shut as he listens to the sound of what Josuke’s moans could be like. That tentacle shape thrusts past his lips with abandon and Jotaro’s throat feels pleasantly numb, allowing it to stretch past a point no cock has ever been, curling its way into his throat and up again, coiling against the roof of his mouth, dragging out over his teeth. Jotaro sputters and coughs and his eyes water or is that just more of whatever this is dripping down his face? It doesn’t fucking matter he’s hopelessly addicted to it. This Stand is more dangerous than he ever could have imagined and for a brief, world-ending moment, he has a clear thought. 

Thank god it’s him in here with a Josuke Double and not the other way around. 

“I need… I need more,” Josuke warbles, there’s something frantic about it. Jotaro tries to twist around, to look at him, but all his muscles feel sluggish from the combination of exhaustion and intoxication. Jotaro shares that need. He needs more too. He opens his mouth to speak as those fingers finally release him but all the words he could have said are snatched from him as the thick, overbearing weight of Josuke’s cock inside him is yanked out and away, leaving him gaping and empty and so fucking unfulfilled. It steals his breath and any sense of the Japanese language right from his skull. It is all so clumsy and unceremonious, the way Josuke flips him to his back sends his shoulders flat to the floor. He feels like he’s laying in the wake of an ocean, waves lapping at his skin, splashing up against his cheeks as Josuke rends every bit of fabric left from his limbs, throwing them aside where they slap against the floor. Jotaro is naked, save for his boots, and vulnerable and so is this Josuke… The shape of his uniform is gone and what’s left is an all too alluring glimpse of what he must look like beneath it. The curvature of his body is beautiful, an androgynous hourglass, and Josuke takes a seat astride Jotaro’s hips–

The sudden sink of a warm body around Jotaro’s cock, the feeling of hands planted against his chest– it’s so solid. Even with that slippery quality that Josuke has he feels so unnervingly real. He feels like flesh . Thrust deep inside him, it’s tight and it’s hot and it feels more true to life than Jotaro’s mind can really make sense of. Even some of that translucence seems to have faded. He’s more opaque than he was at the start. Jotaro doesn’t have two brain cells left to rub together. He can’t even begin to understand what’s happening here, he’s just along for the ride. Josuke’s hands feel like iron on his chest, compressing every breath. His cock stands proud, bobbing as he wiggles his hips and croons his satisfaction at the feeling of Jotaro buried to the hilt in his miraculous body. Jotaro wonders very briefly if he’s going to die like this. If this is the end for him. Death by fucking. It’s not what he would have expected.

He’s not sure he can take another orgasm.

He also thinks he might not have a choice.

Whatever this slime keeps feeding him has Jotaro hard enough to cut diamond and it burns so brilliantly through every inch of his body; this unnatural state of arousal and heightened awareness has him completely transfixed, at Josuke’s mercy, and gagging for whatever wil be offered to him next. Josuke’s fingertips curl against Jotaro’s pecs as he lifts his hips and comes crashing back down. It knocks the wind from Jotaro’s lungs and the sound of them both exclaiming some kind of noise of approval echoes off the steel surroundings, vibrating back at Jotaro so aggressively he feels like his bones are going to rattle right out of his skin. He bucks up into Josuke, grinding his hips in a shameless display of just how debauched his become since this began. It feels like time has lost all meaning and there was nothing before and there will be nothing after. The hazy, dream-like quality of his head is completely contrasted by the palpable carnality he feels in his every cell. Josuke wails and arches his back, blue skin glistening, dripping, his hands sliding against Jotaro's chest as he rocks back and forth, this supple and indulgent undulation that drags Jotaro around inside him. And when Jotaro looks he can see it. He can see himself and how deep he reaches, just where he rests within the semi-transluscent body above him. He feels a startling jolt shoot through his core and up the length of his cock as he realizes how much he likes the look of it. 

It's fascinating to watch every movement, like a glimpse of slipping inside a partner but so much more vulgar in its revealing intensity. He reaches, hands unwieldy, and somehow his grip makes itself at home on hips that give just enough to mimic the suculence of body fat and muscle and the ridge of bone beneath skin. Everything feels so clear when he touches it even if his mind is contending with its own limitations every time he tries to make sense of it. He urges Josuke up and down again, another bounce, another sloppy, wet smack of them coming together, sending a cascade of droplets off Josuke's form and all over the room. The airlock floor is completely bathed in the ever stretching presence of this slime, it's moving like its breathing, like every bit of it can feel what Josuke is feeling as he starts to find a rhythm. He curls his hips with Jotaro's guidance, he digs his nails into Jotaro's skin, his jaw hangs open and his tongue lolls across his lower lip as he starts to pant and groan in a percussive way, a little exhalation of ahn-uhn-ahh-hnn that varies in volume and breathlessness with every single meeting of their bodies. 

He is so fucking pornographic Jotaro doesn't think he'll ever be able to unsee or unhear any of this. It's so damn sinful and while he's struggling to maintain any kind of coherence or rhythm himself, his thoughts slipping away like the every present marshy substance slips across his skin, Jotaro is committing every single glittering, wet inch of Josuke to memory. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to look at the boy the same way again, if at all. This is a replica of his uncle. His young fucking ward or whatever. Mentee . Ruined by Jotaro’s own ruination. Jotaro groans as he thrusts a little more unevenly up into Josuke's gushing, pliant hole. He's so wet and there's no resistance, only the snug satisfaction of being surrounded every time he pushes in again. 

"Jotaro– F-Fuck… You feel… So big. So good. I didn't know… It'd be this good." Josuke's clumsy words are followed by a sudden forward collapse. Josuke bends at the waist, chest colliding with Jotaro's while he reaches to sink his fingers into the wet strands of hair sticking to Jotaro's forehead, temples, and cheeks. Jotaro doesn't turn away this time when Josuke's mouth seeks his own. The feeling of those glossy lips, so plush and perfectly pliant against his own, the taste of his saccharine tongue, the drip of wetness into his mouth like Josuke is drooling into the kiss, smothering him with his arousal-driven salivation– It tastes so satisfying and it's so over-eager, nipping teeth, excitable and explorative tongue. Josuke mewls into his lips as Jotaro closes them against his slick tongue and sucks at it like a man possessed. He's lost now, swallowing down the nectar of Josuke's mouth, of his kiss, and savoring the way it makes him feel warm inside like he's sipping on mulled wine at family Christmas gatherings.

Family .

Jotaro's hips snap upward. He can't quite plant his boots on the floor, his tread is good but not that good. His feet just slide and the leverage isn't enough to slam up against Josuke like he really wants to. When did he lose the reality of his situation? He's half in and half out of a wild fantasy, thinking of the being that has him wholly devastated, completely vulnerable, as Josuke. Maybe it'd be this good to let the actual Josuke have him like this. That has to be the aphrodisiac talking. What else could it be? It doesn't matter. Right now, all that matters to Jotaro is making the Josuke in front of him, on top of him, consuming him– scream his name again. Every thrust sends another squelching splash of thick, wet slick all over Jotaro's groin, it's the most bizarre and incredible sensation and he never wants it to end. 

"J-Jotaro… I think I… I think I'm…" Josuke's eyes are crossing and his cheeks seem to have taken on an almost purplish hue, as if to mimic the flush of exertion from so much unhinged sexual engagement. Jotaro slides his hands up the length of Josuke's back and it feels a bit like skimming his hand across the surface of a lake, all rippling and watery, the slime passing over his knuckles until his hands come to rest on Josuke's shoulders, hooking against him. He digs deep to find the strength he needs to thrust inward, at an angle that jostles Josuke's see-through tummy. Jotaro is transfixed on the way it bulges to accommodate his flushed and swollen cockhead. It's obscene. It's disturbing. It's really unbelievably hot. He wants Josuke to cum. He needs it. He needs it like he needs oxygen. The satisfaction of seeing him melt and writhe with that pleasure Jotaro has already gorged himself on. 

"Touch yourself." What the fuuuuck is wrong with him? As he tells Josuke what to do a sudden thrill rips through his veins; an electric shock. He feels like he's got fucking brain damage from how out of this world the whole encounter has become. Josuke whines and he wedges a hand between them to clumsily pump his cock and the sight of that is almost enough to send Jotaro himself over the edge right then and there. He lets out a low and appreciative groan he's only half aware of and Josuke shivers, casting more droplets across Jotaro's face and chest and everywhere the fuck else; the whole airlock is murky with this sloshing, sweet-smelling, blue ooze. Jotaro's breaths feel so clogged with it, damp like he's in a sex swamp and it's downright heavenly.

That being said he's definitely going to hell.

Josuke's moans reach a fever pitch, rapid, cracking, congested and needy as he shakes and goddamn does he look young. Overwhelmed. Inexperienced. All of it. The picture perfect image of a teenager losing his virginity, in stark, pearly blue relief. Josuke jerks and then sits up, Jotaro's grip on him impossible to hold when he's just so damn lubricated. When Josuke cums his cock jumps in his grasp, shooting out thick fountains that cascade up across Jotaro's chest and hit him across the chin, his cheeks, clinging to his brow, sinking into his hair, making a further mess of him, as if such a thing is even possible. He cries out and his body clamps down on Jotaro as if it's trying to crush a permanent imprint of the shape of Jotaro's cock inside him. The boy is practically sobbing with relief as he cums and cums and fucking cums an impossible amount, tremoring and shivering and Jotaro's never seen anything so incredible or devestating in his life.

He wants to see it again.

Josuke rolls his hips against Jotaro but his legs are trembling with the strain. Jotaro needs relief of some kind. He needs it like an itch beneath his skin. He snaps his hips upward, boots sliding across the floor, sloshing through the lake of slime around them that's only getting deeper as time passes. He's going to drown at this rate. Hell. Maybe he already has. He feels so damn waterlogged, like his head is full and his brain is sloshing around in the stuff. Josuke gasps for breath after ragged breath and slowly stoops to kiss Jotaro again, this time with a kind of shy tenderness that's way too charming. He stills and a small quiver runs through him, nervousness pinching his brows.

"I don't want this to end," Josuke whispers. Jotaro doesn't know what he should say. Or even what he wants to say. He never gets the chance. "Jotaro-san I think I lo…"

The funny thing about Stands, in Jotaro's opinion, is that they are merely a projection. In so many ways they only are what any Stand User can perceive them to be. How real they are, truly, is defined by perception of what they are observed to be and the projection of their user, how their user would view their own soul's fighting spirit to take shape. Which begs a lot of really uncomfortable questions that Jotaro doesn't want to ask and doesn't think anyone has answers to anyway. And, Stands, like any other projection, simply cease to exist when the projector is unplugged. 

Which is why, in the blink of an eye, Jotaro finds himself laying among the tattered remains of his own clothes, sweaty and covered in cum, bare ass against a cold steel floor, entirely alone. The effects he was under end immediately and that makes for some of the most disorienting and un-fucking-pleasant post nut clarity he's ever had. He lays there on the floor, staring at the space that Not-Josuke, the slimy projection of another Stand user, once was. He feels cold and his body aches in ways it hasn't since 1987. His slimy companion has simply vanish. Which means that either the user is finally out of his impressive range or Josuke… The real one… Has subdued him.

It takes an unbelievable amount of effort to sit up, to will his shameful erection to go the hell away ( you're not welcome here anymore you traitor ), and to get his feet beneath him. He stumbles forward on wobbly legs to the intercom and presses the button.

"Has the Stand User been apprehended?" He lets go of the button and rests his forehead against the cold steel wall, letting his eyes slip shut while he waits. A few moments later, the crackle of the intercom speaker buzzes to life.

" Affirmative. "

Jotaro breathes a heavy sigh of relief. It doesn't feel particularly well-earned. He has a lot of questions for the user and even more of those for himself. He grinds his teeth together and feels a headache coming on. He has to leave this airlock and confront Josuke eventually. It's not something he's really looking forward to, considering all that's occurred here. But first…

Jotaro jams his thumb into the intercom button and takes a deep breath.

"Great. Can someone bring me a pair of pants."