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It had started out of curiosity. An arrangement of sorts, between two consenting men getting something they wanted out of it. That’s how these things have always begun. Out of lust, not love but the two eventually become synonymous… The lines blur and muddle, the details and conditions get looser and looser the more you look at them.
It began with Joseph wanting to know if he was really interested in men. If it wasn’t just the envy of broad shoulders, defined tapering waists, strong hands, gravelly voices. Caesar gave him the answer to that question, plain and simple. It should’ve been kept plain and simple; but of course, the outcome was an entirely fresh nuanced situation that Joseph can’t make a clear conclusion out of. Why did he believe himself to be the exception to what follows pursuing something in the sexual nature with a comrade?
It twists and turns into a thing that isn’t even entirely about sex anymore. He’s not just chasing the climax, the only piece of heaven he can reclaim, he’s chasing something else, too. He’s chasing someone else.
Wanting to look Caesar in the eyes as he finishes, have him see the kind of control waived over him… Wanting the vulgar words exchanged between them to become some sort of scripture. Suddenly, Joseph can recall Psalm 42:7 in all of its inherent eroticism (Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts, all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.)
If adoring Caesar was a religion—Joseph would attend every mass. Light a candle everyday. Fast for lent. Baptise himself under the waters of Caesar’s affections.
†
Joseph stands overlooking the sea, hidden in a cave that hangs just below the water. Feet above the threshold that is the sea. Like the cave is opening its mouth nice and wide, ravenous, needing to satiate that hunger by taking a bite out of the world. God, what was Joseph doing here—personifying and projecting onto a mere rock formation? Is that what Caesar does to him? Is that how badly he desires him? That it morphs his inner monologue into a poet just shy of being regarded with Shakespeare?
Interesting thought. Joseph Joestar, a poet.
Maybe it’s not Caesar at all. Maybe it’s all Joseph himself, and these goddamned feelings that slither their serpentine way into Joseph’s foolish heart. At first, it felt light and airy like a nice summer day with wind that flutters through your hair. Now, it just settles at the bottom of his stomach, heavy as lead and strong as liquor… He feels the extent when he’s caught between Caesar’s teeth, the most delightful method of being ensnared.
Joseph doesn’t know much about love. Romantic love that is.
He’s never had a beau, belle, fling, or committed partnership. And Joseph is aware that he can be brash, self-indulgent, an annoyance and completely inappropriate pertaining to certain circumstances. Conceivably, why he has not a person to call his own. But he’s no different than back then, if anything, his behaviors have increased exponentionally—so why does Caesar still choose this? And why does Joseph love to be chosen? Like a candle in the wind, he must not push far on these questions.
Waves crash into each other, leaving a roaring that overwhelms the senses. Joseph thinks it’s a good thing right now, though, it blocks out the incessant thoughts that border on senseless. In both a “halfwitted” way and a “this is just me, this is who I’ve become, this is my state of being”.
He doesn’t have time to be doing this, really—to be wasting away moments that could be devoted to practicing and improving his Hamon, working closer to earning that antidote.
The dull tap of the soles of boots against uneven stone drags Joseph away from his thoughts. He looks to who he lost this one-sided game of hide and seek to, and it’s Caesar. Of course it is. The person he needs to think about, but doesn’t want to think about; the person he doesn’t want to be found by, the person he wants to be found by paradox. Caesar’s dressed in his usual over-the-top attire… Layered belts, tight fitting shirt and almost baggy trousers, because he’d rather be caught dead than leaving nothing to imagination. Joseph appreciates the sentiment. He appreciates the outlines of well deserved muscle, so rugged and robust and—
“Ah, JoJo. I found you.” Caesar starts with, stepping closer to the Joestar on the brink of falling back into the deep end of his mind. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a guy just enjoy the view for once? We’re on a perfect Mediterranean island and not once does LisaLisa have us do some training that requires us to appreciate the pure beauty of all of it! Utter rubbish, I say.”
“Hah, since when do you care about the beauty of anything?”
Since you, I suppose, Joseph swallows down, better to leave it unsaid.
“Since I might die from these rings releasing poison in approximately 20 days. Don’t you think the scenery would get better, Caesar?"
It was an unreasonable thing to say. It was a deflect from what Joseph really wanted to say.
Caesar’s stoic expression cracks a little at the mention of Joseph passing away (all being left of him for Caesar to shoulder is the weight this mission held)—and he only knows because shamefully, he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight before him. Emerald green eyes, Midas touched hair, lovely, sculpted face. Joseph can’t help himself. Would anyone be able to?
The girls that fancy his expensive rosé, endearing words, fleeting, flirtatious glances.
“You won’t die.” And Joseph’s personal space is invaded by Caesar, but in perhaps, the most welcomed invasion to make it into their history books. “We’ll get the antidote…even if I must smash their heads in with my bare hands.”
He’s too close. He’s not close enough. Joseph’s smartass demeanor crumbles bit by bit as Caesar takes his hand in his own, displayed in the little space between their bodies. God. The contact rushes Joseph’s head, an ache for more, an ache travelling further and further down… The last time their hands were entwined, it was under entirely different circumstances. Circumstances that ended with a cry of a certain Zeppeli’s name and a sound made that was hybrid between an animal in pain and a sigh. God, Joseph, Caesar is being sincere and you’re making a fool of him with your thoughts.
“Warrior with a heart of gold, aren’t you?” Joseph makes a quick comeback with. His eyes snap to Caesar’s much too perfect lips and back up to his eyes.
Caesar seems to return the silent favor, eyes looking to where Joseph’s lips would be, if it weren’t for the damned mask LisaLisa made him wear. A big inconvenience, when you think you’re receiving the memo, I want to kiss you. But you can’t. The cruelest fate of all.
It seems to feel like there’s so many words they choose not to say. But still end up saying, with earnest eyes and gentle affection of a thumb caressing a hand, because the next thing Caesar says to Joseph is: “Tonight? Will you be with me?”
“Yeah,” Is all he says in response for once.
After Caesar leaves Joseph to his thoughts again. He wonders if that look in Caesar’s eyes was real, not just some well-thought seduction to get Joseph into bed with him again. Was it? Would Caesar do such a thing?
†
Night has fallen and Joseph is exactly where requested to be, in Caesar’s room—but he throws in being at Caesar’s beck and call forevermore, no cost. Of course, Joseph would never say it aloud, speak that fact into an existence outside out of his head and into the mess that plagues them both. Maybe he’s already alluding to it with the desperation of needing to sneak into Caesar’s room while he’s bathing. Waiting for when he comes back, waiting for the so you came. And working Caesar up, finding Joseph in such a disrespectful position that needs fixing.
There’s no better thing than to be insolent to Caesar.
He straightens his posture, sitting on the bed when the door knob turns, and a Caesar in nothing but a towel enters his room. His gaze meets Joseph’s and ah, there it is… The friendly antagonism of pushing boundaries and its effects, weaving itself into Caesar’s brow. Such a satisfying thing, fear and gladness mixed into one dirty cocktail being floating through his veins. Only it was Caesar.
“And you just let yourself into my room—what else would I expect out of you, Joseph?” He opens his mouth, like he was planning on saying another thing but just grinds his teeth. Finding it useless. Because it was, Joseph would just take it in stride and bear the sparks crawling their way up his spine. Caesar ignores the current situation (Joseph, on his bed, tempting and laid back) and beelines towards his wardrobe.
“Oh, but I thought this was what you were expecting out of me? In your room tonight? With you? Isn’t that what you asked me earlier, when you were a thread away from ripping off that dreadful mask to kiss me?”
The way he explains it to Caesar like he doesn’t recall. The undertone of mockery in his tone. The smirk you can hear in his voice. It’s goading in the purest form. Joseph knows the consequences of speaking to Caesar like this, when the tension is at such a level that he can so clearly take note of the other’s struggling with resistance. Clenched fists and stiff movements.
“You know what I’m talking about, you impertinent fool! Provocation gets you off, doesn't it?” Caesar says with a flushed face. “You enjoy misbehaving? Hoping that someone will finally put you in your place? Dominate you?”
The atmosphere is vicious. The atmosphere is burning away at Joseph’s self control. Turning him on and he’s trying to bear through the arousal, because he wants, needs, Caesar to make the first move. He needs Caesar to claim him. Claim his skin, claim his mouth, claim every inch of his body, just claim him.
Joseph’s blood feels hot.
And it appears that Caesar isn't opposed to undressing and redressing himself in front of Joseph—discarding the towel and giving view to the voluptuousness of his ass, so perfectly round. God took his time to take into account all of the things Joseph would ever want in a man, so he could give them to Caesar. Despite him being two years Joseph’s senior. It only further proves the delusion that there’s this gossamer connection that has existed since they were mere pulsing heartbeats resting in their mother’s wombs.
He wonders if Caesar can feel the stare. If he knows how much Joseph needs him, craves him… Not as mere lust, but the unmistakable pining to complement him. The eyes on his backside that want nothing more than to worship the slightly pinkened skin from his bath. Did he touch himself in there? Was he thinking of Joseph? In his head, did he whisper, I love you? Would he ever do such an intimate thing? God, Joseph wishes he were the one to dress Caesar. Fall to his knees in front of the other, as if in prayer, help Caesar step into trousers, let his fingers feel up toned legs like pillars that uphold a cathedral.
Simultaneously, Caesar is his cathedral, temple, chapel, church, God, savior, holy ghost—as long as it’s Joseph devoting everything to make Caesar happy and proud, loved and revered. That’s all he can care about right now.
“Well look at you,” Escapes from his mouth (sooner than he could catch it), not taking on the tone of audaciousness but rather, adoration. The soft bloat of Oh, that washes everything away like the sea taking the shore into her mouth for just a quick moment.
Caesar whips his head around to Joseph, with that searing look. It softens at the sight of a full-hearted expression rather than that cocky grin everyone has grown oh, so used to..
“Who are you and what have you done with Joseph Joestar?”
Joseph wrenches his line of sight away. Hard as it is. He can’t conjure up a response good enough to bother expressing. His mind is full, there’s no place for steady thinking or quick wit here. The sight of a Caesar in a good mood, a soft mood, is too much for him. Too bright—so bright, that he fears he might wither away to ash the moment Caesar touches him. With those hands that hold the heat of a thousand suns, shining and bright and hot, hot, hot… Maybe Joseph needs them. Maybe he needs destruction, absolution, transformation, furcation. Something that turns his life upside down.
Could Caesar give him that? Would he?
Maybe, Joseph thinks, as Caesar circles the bed, eventually deciding to join him, climbing atop it. Joseph notices the dip in the mattress, with Caesar’s full weight settling onto it, and he desires for that to happen to him. To be trapped in by Caesar’s arms, taking on everything that he is physically. Beautiful, muscled, grounding. Something worth ordaining with unmoving hands that drape over Caesar’s hips, digging, caressing, loving the flesh before him. Joseph takes a portion of his bottom lip between his teeth.
Desperation is not a familiar thing for Joseph to bring attention to. But he does.
“Caesar,” Joseph hears himself say, face overcome with a red haze and body ablaze. He can feel himself boil in a perfect hell, though it’s before his time. “I need you. Everything that you are—oh, please, let me have you. Please let me call you mine…please—”
Caesar’s already crossed the distance to cup Joseph’s jaw with calloused hands that swallow his cheeks whole, pupils raking over his face before intermingling their lips. It leaves Joseph feverish and fiending for the gracelessness that Caesar hand feeds him. It’s dirty, all clacking teeth and silver tongues from two different worlds flush against each other, tempting each other, giving into each other. Caesar keeps his lips locked onto Joseph’s as he takes the initiative to crawl into his lap. Their hard-ons face-to-face. It’s just like he imagined—Caesar here. Doing this. A pretty, evangelical boy straddling him and attacking the underside of his jaw like a crazed animal.
Nevermind, not like crazed animals. They are crazed animals.
They’re both the hunters and the prey… Pursuing each other and escaping each other. Caesar harshly grabs Joseph’s face, forcing eye contact as shivers wrack through their bodies from merciful friction against their throbbing groins that causes Joseph’s head to fall back. His lips part as far as they can go while being crushed with an admission of ecstasy in the form of a cry. Caesar is not forgiving towards him. Borderline bruising his face with the harsh grip. Joseph shamelessly loves it. The authority. He could cry from the overwhelming gratification that makes the air go heady and heavy.
“You revel in the act of—hah…silently domineering, don’t you?” Joseph antagonizes, a grin washing over his face when his smart words are rewarded by a hand encircling his neck. A perfect necklace, his favorite, he might dare to admit. The pressure is sweet, so sweet, better than anything experienced.
“And you revel in the act of submitting. Moreover, who else will keep you in line, Jojo?”
Joseph whines at those words. Whines at the complete control Caesar plucks out of his grasp so easily, without any protest, because Joseph craves it. He craves to not think and talk and hurt. He cannot be trusted with control. He can’t, really he can’t—that’s why it’s admirable when Caesar reforms him for a short time. When Caesar turns him into someone who heeds words, who is disciplined, a good boy. Caesar rolls his hips down once more, harsh and seeking, eliciting another involuntary gasp from Joseph.
This is right where he wants to be. Forever. Until the world’s core melts itself into undoing.
Joseph can imagine the newly formed love bites, bouquets of burst blood vessels from Caesar’s siege against his neck and collarbones. Mouthing wetly, lips gliding across skin—small nips at skin, full on canines sinking into skin. It’s unadulterated sin. For a Catholic, Caesar sure has a hard time not belonging to his jealous god, decorating his altar for Himeros, with the very color of the bruises painted across Joseph. He pulls him in for another fervid kiss.
Is it because Caesar is a jealous god himself? Joseph has seen the expression that Caesar’s face falls into when he makes remarks about others. When there’s the rare advance. Is it jealousy? Is it possessiveness? A sticky, convoluted disaster of both? Joseph at least hopes the next time (because there’ll be a next time) and this time, he’ll make sure, he ends up face down in the mattress, a drooling mess.
“Let’s get that off of you, shall we?” Though it’s not really a question, because after Caesar’s palm teases along the near skin tight fabric of Joseph’s undertank, he pulls it over his head in one fluid motion.
Caesar never has to ask. He does it out of courtesy. He does it because he’s just so good to Joseph with everything he is. He’s a good man. Joseph’s hips buck in the direction of Caesar’s, who seems preoccupied grinding down in slow, torturous circles. Tease.
Caesar’s fingers wander aimlessly, along the ridges of Joseph’s abs, up his sternum and his pecs. He cups Joseph’s chest like a girl, like he’s one of his girls. A desperate and delicate thing, with pretty little nipples and breasts that fit in palms like they were made for it, like everything was just leading up to this. Nothing else matters. Just this. Joseph wholly relates to that, only wanting to exist for this—he shudders at the rubbing and twisting of his pecs, special attention granted to such a lewd, such a girlish part of him. They harden and send a rush of intoxication better than anything. It’d all be so easy if Joseph could just be one of his girls, his chest supple from the pure muscle that’s able to be groped and fondled.
“Exactly as if you were a signorina, cara,” Caesar comments, before he settles his face along the curvature of Joseph’s chest, pressing kisses and soft drags of teeth against his pecs. With a sharp intake of breath, all Joseph can do is weave his fingers through blond locks. And take it, take it, take it. His hands push Caesar’s face deeper into his chest, savoring the wet heat paired with deft fingers that stimulate the tiny buds.
He can feel himself straining in the confines of his underwear.
A particularly loud sound makes its way through Joseph’s gritted teeth, soft but shrill agh. Caesar looks up at him—God, he’s so magnificent. Spit slick, puffy lips that still want more and pupils blown wide from lust. Joseph’s hand discovers the warm skin of Caesar’s cheek, thumb rubbing along the defined jaw. This is going to be the death of him if the rings aren’t first. This moment would be the one to ricochet across his cluttered mind as the poison eats him inside out, consuming every thing that Joseph once thought he could be. Soft, deferential, loveable.
They adjust their positions—Joseph on his back, splayed out on the bed with his legs slightly bent, encasing Caesar like an elegant glass rose. And he looks it, fuck, does he look it… Damp bangs clinging to his forehead, even though the passion has just begun. Blushed skin, a red tint falling over rolling lands. He takes dutiful care in undressing them both. Unbuckling Joseph’s belt, undoing his zipper, sliding pants legs off at a slow pace, baiting, hoping Joseph will take it with how he carefully observes him. Waiting for the slip up. Caesar wants any excuse to treat him like nothing but a tool for his own pleasure, someone undeserving of climax, only for Caesar to use and get off. It sends a bolt of electricity up his spine, tingly and evening out across his body.
The basic notion of receiving treatment like he’s just a toy fires up his nerves. It’s so damn hot. He can feel the pre-cum stain his boxers a near transparency.
When he looks to Caesar’s groin, and besides the raging erection that Joseph can feel swelling pride for—he sees his American influence reflected back in the other’s choice of boxer shorts, too. Though, he couldn’t care much about that, mostly about discovering the least disobedient way to get Caesar out of his underwear and fully nude in front of him again. The holiest form possible. Caesar’s palm hovers over the tent in Joseph’s boxers, caressing touches that almost give enough, but intentionally tease, tease, tease. Until Joseph’s eyes and lips are pleading:
“Caesar, please. Touch me, touch me, touch me, God—touch me, please.”
Assuming he took pity on such measures of desperation, Caesar’s finger curls around the waistband. Joseph lifts his hips to assist, his cock is freed in one swoop, bobbing and slapping against his toned stomach. The cool air of the night swirls around him.
And for some reason… He feels embarrassed. He feels shy. Having Caesar find him in all his nakedness in the lamplight, there was no hiding with the shadows in this encounter. Fingers circle a spot of soft skin just south from the real thing. If Joseph didn’t know better, he’d mistake Caesar’s attempt at taking it slow, letting the tension, pleasure build as disinterest. Luckily, he knows better. He knows how good it feels, the first shock of real gratification after an eternity of dancing touches and fluttering kisses. Caesar shifts, trying to get as close as possible. He still has his boxers on, to Joseph’s dismay.
“Everything about you is just so pretty, do you know that? Your little eyelashes, your curve del petto, now your cock.” The words fall from Caesar’s mouth at rapid-fire, the tables have turned. Joseph’s addled mind can’t respond, just practice his unwavering but tantalizing gaze. “You want me to touch you, tesoro? Beg me for your pleasure, then.”
Caesar always loves a good beg. Putting Joseph’s clever and cunning mouth to use for only him.
“Fuck, Caesar—you just enjoy listening to me, don’t you—” Caesar’s hand gives Joseph’s leaking cock one firm pump, startling an arch out of Joseph’s back. “Hah—okay, okay. Please…please, I need you…you always make me feel so good, so alive. Don’t be cruel this once, I won’t survive…”
Caesar’s face lights up with a cheeky grin. He’s no better than Joseph. “We’ll wring that last bit of insolence from you, won’t we?”
Joseph nods frantically, head dizzy from the immediate return of pleasure after his words. Calloused fingers cupping his balls, rolling the weight throughout his palm. He watches Caeser’s face, dangerously close, dribble some saliva onto the head of his cock; Joseph let out a hiss. This was so impure. The way the glide was so much better—spit slick and teeth rotting, Joseph’s tilted back, making contact with the wall. Caesar’s free hand snatches his face up like a venus fly trap; eye contact, yes, of course. Feral, lust blown pupils stare back at him, rough grip as he’s traded an enclosure of his face for another.
Caesar wants to see exactly what he does to Joseph as he’s doing it.
The pad of Caesar’s thumb circles Joseph’s tip, peaking out from his foreskin, the pleasure chases its tail in torturous circles. God, Caesar turns him on so bad, the pleasure that riles a response from him was already becoming too much. Restless hips, hands that wander to and fro, legs that run along Caesar’s backside. Joseph can’t help the strangled, breathy murmur escaping his lips. Caesar, it feels so good.
“You like it, Jojo? I’m so glad that you do…I’ve been replaying this scene in my head for a few days. My good boy deserves everything, doesn’t he?”
“Yes—I do, I deserve it!” Joseph’s voice cracks, back bends, he’s near the edge, he’s gonna come if Caesar keeps this up. “ Caesar…’m so close, please, slow—slow down, I want you inside when I finish, please?”
Caesar’s hand holding his jaw relinquishes its hold, and he presses a soft peck to the corner of Joseph’s mouth, purposefully missing the mark. Joseph whines, all puppy eyes and batting eyelashes. Caesar’s lips tangle with Joseph’s, kissing him to keep him quiet as his ministrations speed up. Joseph always gets him.
Caesar broke the kiss,
And in a deep whisper that follows the shell of Joseph’s ear, “You cum when I make you cum, you know this, cara,”
His damn lyrical accent, stupid pet names, commanding words, miracle-working hands wrapped around Joseph’s pulsing cock. Up and down. Up and down. Twists his wrist at the end of every stroke. The feather-light bliss, piles and piles and piles in his system, crashing over each other like the waves from earlier that day. Caesar works his cock like the dutiful lover he is. His body squirms, unable to handle the feeling, he melts against Caesar’s collarbones. Sighing, gasping, moaning—mouth opening and letting out a muffled scream when he comes. Ropes of white decorate Caesar’s fingers, both of their bare chests and a spot on Joseph’s under-jaw. Caesar squeezes, twists, pumps Joseph through a proper orgasm… Who’s reduced to heavy, hot breathing that moistens Caesar’s skin.
Joseph blacks out for a moment, comes to Caesar kissing the top of his head. And whispering words in Italian he couldn’t understand, but they were said in such a fragile tone, maybe he could get the gist of it.
Lifting his head from the hollow in Caesar’s neck, green meets blue. Land meets water. “Your turn?”
“Only if you’re up to it. Don’t want you to feel obligated, no?”
“Oh, believe me. I’m up to it, Caesar."
Caesar brings his fingers stained with come, to his mouth, licking them anew. Yeah, Caesar isn’t going to be getting out of this without having Joseph getting his filling. He cradles Caesar’s head as his tongue cleans up the mess spread across Joseph’s chest… And not without groping, or the wonderful feeling of having his nipples played with. Joseph’s hands fall away from the back of Caesar’s head as he pulls away. Joseph reaches out to wipe away his come from the toned chest of the other. He watches as his fingers are welcomed warmly into the wet heat of Caesar’s mouth, sucked clean.
Joseph’s hand lingers near Caesar’s clothed groin, still erect, still leaking, still beautiful as ever. It’s a question asked through subtext: Do you trust me? Would you let me?
He would. Caesar promptly strips. Joseph watches him in all his nude glory—he’s so perfect for him. Strong nose following a hooked slope, pale skin flecked with the faintest of freckles, those triangular marks that settle under his eyes, lips with a perfect cupid’s bow. Joseph could go on forever about why Caesar’s features pose a dangerous threat to his health.
Joseph states plainly, “I want you inside me.”
“Cara mia, that takes so much preparation—why don’t you just use your mouth or hand?”
Fuck. Caesar wasn’t getting what was hidden in plain sight, was he? Joseph was already prepared to take Caesar’s cock, all five fingers, anything. Before coming to his room, Joseph laid face down on his own bed, three fingers deep in his hole. Caesar’s name a prayer on his lips. Joseph recalls the deliberate filthiness of it all. Amber bottle of almond oil at his bedside, the silken feeling of his insides, the spot that made his back arch into a semblance of the letter C.
Joseph sighs, rolling his eyes. Caesar’s face twists into slight offence. Joseph falls onto his back once more, arms hooked behind his legs, tucked close to his chest. Presenting his stretched and ready hole, albeit a bit too dry to just go for it—Caesar’s reaction is immediate and his body’s up against Joseph’s in a moment’s notice. Nearly on top of him.
“You’re so dirty, Jojo. You prepared before coming here? Without knowing I’d want to fuck you? Just expecting it, like the little minx you are?”
“You should’ve seen how I did it, too. I was on my stomach—so loud I had to cover my face in the pillow, because it just felt so good—I can only imagine how you’d feel inside…finishing inside…”
“Dio mio, you’ve always had quite the mouth, haven’t you? And it happens to not be improving with the proper discipline.”
“What? Is it turning you on, Caesar? Do you want to fuck me?” Joseph’s naughty little mouth teases.
He receives reprimand in the form of Caesar grabbing a bottle of almond oil from his nightstand, pouring some of the still cold oil onto Joseph’s hole and his hands. Joseph knows to keep quiet now, to just accept his heavenly fate. Those same deft fingers circle the puckered rim and slide in, with little resistance. It pulls a sharp noise from Joseph like spinning something into gold. He feels so full, but not full enough, recalling the past—how Caesar fits so snug inside him, splitting him in half but igniting that same connection. All in one breath.
Caesar never breaks a sweat. Even when Joseph feels as though he’s burning alive.
Joseph trembles as 2 of Caesar’s digits begin their thrusts in and out, in and out. They aren’t gentle nor are they merciless, accomplishing the sweet spot between reward and reclaiming compensation. Dragging along the velvet of his walls, slick from oil and God—Joseph wishes Caesar would just go fast, like there’s no tomorrow. (Where Joseph has to sit down with LisaLisa and everything for breakfast, pretending as if he isn’t already full enough from the previous night.) Drive them into Joseph with that crudity he craves, to be used then discarded. Looked at as a thing and not a person. Joseph circles Caesar’s torso with his lower legs, attempting at pulling them closer together.
Caesar gives him that soft look he does when Joseph needs more contact, touching, physicality, and obeys the desire. His legs feel overexerted, but it’s alright, as long as Caesar’s skin brushes up against his own.
A particular thrust of Caesar’s fingers hit that spot head on that makes Joseph convulse. Caesar catches him with a hand covering his mouth at the exact time he screams. It’s so fuckinggood—the pleasure spreading along his limbs, reaching every part of his body as Caesar works it again, and again, and again. Until Joseph’s cock is dribbling onto his stomach and he can’t handle going without Caesar inside him anymore.
“Please—get your ass inside me!”
“That’s interesting, I thought it was your ass I was entering.”
Joseph whimpers at another deliberate roll of Caesar’s alchemist-like fingers. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
And Caesar withdraws his fingers from Joseph’s barely gaping pinkened hole, clenching tight around nothing. Joseph’s greedy for what’s about to happen as he spots the other lubing up his cock. Firm strokes, up and down, up and down ‘til Caesar can’t take it and he’s entering Joseph. Swift but too slow. Hands holding up Caesar’s body are trapping Joseph’s head in, against the wall. They both watch the length disappear into Joseph’s hole, who practically dies and comes back to life from the shockwaves, the feeling. He feels complete. Being under Caesar like this, being taken by Caesar like this, being shallowly fucked until they get registered to the feeling. It’s better than any fix. It might turn into Joseph’s fix.
He might get addicted to the sparks flying from their joining. Pleading with Caeser everyday to give him something, anything, no matter where they are. Public, alone, in the presence of authority. The potential of being found out, caught, has always had this thrill to it for him.
This is all so erotic. So dirty. How the minute Joseph’s expression relaxes, Caesar harshly snaps his hips into Joseph’s over and over, pounding him like the good whore he is. Caesar said it one time—that Joseph was a whore, it almost made him finish the moments those words entered the atmosphere between them.
Though right now, Caesar is hyperfocused, attention sharpened onto watching his shaft move in and out of Joseph. The noises; lewd squelching and sticky sounds, the slap of skin on skin, surely red by the morning, tightening his stomach. His hands are steady, clinging onto Caesar’s shoulders but his voice is not. It cracks, cries, mumbles, babbles. Anything to keep Caesar after his scent like a hound dog thirsty for blood, oh, and the way he bounces on Caeser’s cock, ensures he’s doing an immaculate job. Caeser impales Joseph down to the base, hopefully until he finishes inside him. And if Caesar didn’t want to… Joseph is afraid he just might cry. He needs to understand what it’s like to feel Caesar lingering inside of him, a piece of him dripping and slipping down the back of his thighs. He’d even try to force Caesar to come inside his hole, stain him white and dirty and a harlot who lets men come inside her whenever they please.
“Fuck, bambina, sei cosí stretta…ah…stringimi cosí, non fermarti." Caesar grunts under his breath, he abruptly pulls out—startling a disheveled Joseph. “Turn over. On your hands and knees.”
Now the real fun begins.
Joseph follows instructions, getting into a position where he bows his back as he rests on his forearms. Like a bitch in heat, giving Caeser free access to everything—who takes the opportunity, kneading his ass like dough. Then a brisk smack to his cheek. Another for the other. The little fat he has ripples, and Caeser’s finger drags along the skin just to watch the indent. Joseph rolls back against Caesar’s hand that strokes the burning pain better, back and forth, almost pleading for something but he’s not sure what. Probably anything… A kiss, a thrust, a touch, more pain.
Caesar pushes himself in to the hilt, and fuck, Joseph can definitely tell a difference in how just how far his cock reaches. There’s no moment of stillness. Caesar sets a harsh, unforgiving pace—with every snap of his hips his cock reburies itself deep in Joseph. It wrings a string of broken words from him, belly set aflame, holding onto the bed for some sense of control over the flood of euphoria. It breaks over his skin in waves, his legs quiver and Caeser’s hands dig into Joseph’s skin hard, enough to kiss bruises into the skin. He wants to be bruised. He wants to make Caesar feel so damn good, he just can’t control his strength. Joseph wants to face the evidence of being broken down and debauched in the morning. Swollen lips, bitten neck, bruised hips, sore limbs, hoarse voice.
Joseph wants to be Caesar’s. He’s said it before, he’ll say it again, until every other word falls away.
Caesar says it in the haze of sex, but it seems clarity catches up to them no matter the distance in the after. If Caesar admitted feelings beyond what transpires between them in moments like these, Joseph would unleash his unbridled desires. But he doesn’t reckon that’s the case, nor will it ever be. But Joseph supposes he can make do with what they got, hell, he might not even be around in less than a month. If he did die, with nothing changed, Joseph would lovingly curse Caesar down to his last breath.
He burrows his face in the sheets, a futile attempt at remaining quiet. He feels Caesar’s hand twisting in his hair, lifting his head—and heavy breaths that send goosebumps down his spine.
“They need to know you’re mine, tonight, JoJo…want you to be loud as you can.” Caesar deadpans, voice edged with lust and possession—Joseph is his, Joseph will always be his. His heart aches.
Joseph knows it’s the sex in the air talking. It’s the coil constricting itself in their stomachs. But he can’t discover a sliver of himself that wants to refuse, to wound his lips shut and dutifully stay silent. Because nothing else matters besides this right now, nothing else exists to Jojo. Only Caeser driving himself into Joseph, the grunts, the growls, the howls… He’s so close to coming, he can taste it. His arms give out, numb to the feeling and unable to hold him up despite having all the capability in the world. Fortunately, Caesar’s fingers never unwound from Joseph’s hair, swaying his head with the force of the snap of his hips. This is utterly pitiful, how much Joseph revels in the authority placed over him. He feels so depraved, so profane, so wanton—reckless with desire enough to frantically cry Caesar until,
“Fuck—’m close, ‘m so close…harder, faster, Caesar-baby—there, there…hah,”
He’s coming untouched onto the sheets. Spurts of semen possibly ruin the silk sheets, but Joseph can’t care, not when he’s at the pinnacle of pleasure and Caesar rearranges his guts so good and everything around him melts away.
Melts away to Caesar’s cock fucking him through his orgasm. Stuffing him and stuffing him and Joseph thrashes and tears prick his eyes from the overstimulation. It wasn’t enough at first, but now it’s too much. Sounds of his elated, yet broken sobs fill the silence alongside Caesar’s pursued thrusts. He shushes Joseph gently, pressing sloppy kisses to the reddish-magenta star on Joseph’s shoulder, dragging his teeth along the mark. Joseph wishes he’d bite down. Break the barrier of skin between them. What more does he have to lose?
Tears fall down Joseph’s cheeks, looking like little diamonds. “Caesar, it’s too much…I can’t take—”
“Take it for me, take it, Jojo, like the good boy you are—” Caesar reassures him, peppering wet kisses down his spine, swallowing every whine that escapes Joseph. Caesar comes with a groan not short after.
Joseph feels his come fill Joseph beyond leaking. Then he remembers what it was all for, to have a piece of Caesar all for himself.
And it’s everything, maybe more, than he needed. His body is so enraptured, he can’t even turn over onto his back, Caesar carefully flips him over. Joseph sighs contentedly, as Caesar collapses between his legs, arms placed on his thighs, head on his chest. Caesar cranes his neck to look up at Joseph, eyes sweet and smile tight. Joseph can’t breathe. His heart plans escape when Caesar smiles, genuinely smiles, not any of that charm with his girls. A genuine smile. Joseph smiles back, combing through blond locks with the same feeling in his nerves Moses felt when he parted the Red Sea. Caesar looks holy in this light.
The shadows frame his face in a warm light, softening sharp edges and casting a viridescent glow to his irises. He might just be the most beautiful man Joseph has seen.
Caesar’s hand slithers up Joseph’s body, fingers splaying around across his stomach and tracing shapes. It’s such a mundane act, such a domestic act, but still a romantic one at that. Tracing your name on your lover’s back shrouded in the privacy of a deserted beach type of act. Caesar’s touch swells and overflows like the carbonated froth atop soda, sticky and clinging to his top lip after a sip. Joseph relaxes his torso, allows his head to fall back and shuts his eyes.
“Ti amo.” Caesar mumbles against Joseph’s skin, like the words are a secret it’ll keep.
Joseph responds in an absentminded tone, “I know what that translates to.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ti amo. You’re telling me you love me…have you perhaps gone all soft on me, Caesar?”
The words are shallow and teasing but a storm of love, affection, need, tears up Joseph on the inside, like a twister. Either Caesar’s face is still flushed from sex or he’s flushed from being caught saying something in earnest. Joseph places his bets on the latter.
“I love you, too, you know.”
Caesar’s words drift into the atmosphere. “I think…I could love you forever. If you chose to stay.”