Chapter Text
Kakyoin's gaze was always drawn to that black-clad figure—from the secluded, tree-lined paths after school to the boisterous training sessions of the baseball club.
He couldn't help but notice him. Because he was the first person Kakyoin had ever met who, like himself, possessed a Stand.
The first time he saw Jotaro and that purple shadow beside him, Kakyoin’s mind went blank with shock. He could hardly believe it was real—the person he had yearned for throughout seventeen years of solitude, someone who could finally be his friend, had appeared.
But Kakyoin had never learned how to approach someone like that.
He had given up on making friends nearly ten years ago, spending all his time only with Hierophant Green. Now, he couldn’t even come up with a single line to start a conversation.
"I want to be your friend!"
That sounded like something a elementary school kid would say.
"Hello, are you a Stand user too? What a coincidence, so am I."
No, that was even worse. Too stupid. Too calculated. Wouldn’t it make him uncomfortable?
Ultimately, they didn't know each other at all. To blindly seek friendship based on a single commonality felt, in a way, disrespectful. So, he thought: I’ll take some time to learn about him first.
Gathering information on Jotaro wasn't difficult.
He was a well-known figure on campus—there was no one who didn't know him. The man never bothered to keep a low profile. He modified his gakuran into something that looked almost high-fashion, acted entirely on his own terms, ignored everyone else's opinions, and even thrashed an irresponsible teacher when he was angry.
The more Kakyoin learned, the more he felt Jotaro was the "perfect" friend, far exceeding his expectations.
He began to adore the way Jotaro's coat flared as he walked, the muscular lines of his shoulders and arms, and the deep, mixed-heritage eyes beneath the brim of his hat.
By the time he snapped out of it, he was already utterly immersed in the image of Jotaro he had constructed in his mind.
He began dreaming about him.
At first, it was just the two of them walking side-by-side as friends. But gradually, without realizing it, Kakyoin began projecting more and more of his desires onto that silhouette. In his dreams, Jotaro would drape an arm over his shoulders, brush his fingers against his cheek, before leaning down to kiss his earlobe...
Kakyoin would wake up with a racing heart and flushed face, hurriedly cleaning himself up before returning to observe him—now with far more complicated feelings.
Jotaro was always surrounded by a flock of cheerful girls. Every day, some would hand him meticulously prepared love letters and homemade sweets.
Kakyoin had considered whether he could be one of them. But his identity, appearance, and personality—none of it allowed him to stand among those girls, squealing and calling out "JoJo" with them.
There was only one time.
When Jotaro stumbled and fell, Kakyoin stepped into the circle of panicked girls, standing among the admirers, and held out a handkerchief: "Use this."
Kakyoin was a tall man with a deep voice, carrying a fragile sense of pride and self-respect. Among that group of girls, he looked strange and conspicuous. He couldn't bring himself to walk up boldly like they did, look Jotaro in the eye,grab his arm,and say: "Hey, JoJo, I want to know if you're gay, because I like you."
That wasn't his style.
So after enduring their curious stares, he turned and left without a word, unwilling to hear their whispered judgments.
A seventeen-year-old high school student is at their most sensitive regarding emotions, orientation, and identity. Coming out as gay would only invite ridicule and discrimination from classmates. He wasn't ashamed of it; he just didn't want to deal with the hassle.
Kakyoin wasn't worried that Jotaro would be one of those who discriminated against him.
He trusted Jotaro's character—he was cold and rebellious, but not cruel. He likely wouldn't care enough to wonder if a strange transfer student was a member of his fan club, let alone insult him for it.
He would probably just... not care.
Just like he treated every other girl who confessed to him, he would find it noisy and boring, push him away with a cold expression, and ignore the confession entirely.
That was what Kakyoin feared most.
He would rather Jotaro have a proper reason to be at odds with him, even an excuse to summon his Stand and fight him before making peace—anything but becoming a clown the moment he made the first move, only to be ignored.
He wanted the impression he left on Jotaro to be special—as special as Jotaro was to him.
But that was too difficult.
The more he tried to plan their first meeting perfectly, the more nervous he became. He had to spend more time constantly revising his internal script. As time dragged on, Jotaro's weight in his heart grew until it became an obsession.
Kakyoin fell into a vicious cycle.
His plan to approach him was indefinitely delayed.
He joined the school's art club, often hiding alone in a corner of the clubroom, sketching Jotaro's figure over and over with charcoal. Sometimes, under the pretense of going out for reference photos, he would wander around campus with a camera—always, inevitably, ending up near the baseball field, hiding somewhere inconspicuous to secretly photograph Jotaro during practice.
Through the lens, he captured the profile of his face, the sweat sliding down his jaw, the way he gripped the bat, and the faint line of his waist visible beneath his clothes—even further down...
Occasionally, Jotaro seemed to sense the voyeuristic gaze. He would suddenly lift his head in Kakyoin’s direction. Before his eyes could settle, Kakyoin would already have slipped into the crowd or the shadows, clutching the camera to his chest, trying to quiet his pounding heart.
Fortunately, he was as skilled at concealment as Hierophant Green.
When alone, Kakyoin would whisper an apology to the empty air: "I'm sorry." And yet, even as guilt gnawed at him, he couldn’t stop preserving those blasphemous images.
In his hesitation, he grew greedy.
He wanted to become close to the only person in the world who could understand him—not just as a friend, but something far more intimate than anyone else. That excessive expectation fermented into fear in the loneliness of night.
Tossing and turning in his bed, Kakyoin would stare at the dim ceiling until 2:00 AM. He didn’t have the patience to follow those “guides to making friends”—to start with small talk, to build from shared interests, and slowly close the gap while desperately hiding his urgency. He couldn't stand being just one of many "ordinary friends," maintaining a careful balance, waiting aimlessly for fate to grant him a chance to deepen their bond. He couldn't tolerate that half-hearted state for even a second.
Kakyoin stubbornly loathed relationships that weren't pure.
If someone couldn’t fully understand him and Hierophant Green, he would rather have no friendship at all. By the same logic, if he couldn’t form a unique and profound bond with Jotaro, he would rather never meet him.
But how was he supposed to skip all those long, complicated steps—meeting, befriending, confessing—and go straight to kissing those unbelievably beautiful eyes, telling him, “I love you”?
Before the clock struck three, he got up again and pulled out the hidden lockbox beneath his bed. Inside were the photographs he had secretly taken. The photos he had developed served as material for his nightly fantasies.
His fingers trembled as he traced the figure in the photos, pressing restrained kisses again and again to the image, imagining what it would feel like to touch his skin with his lips.
Rather than waking up frustrated from a morning erection or a wet dream, it was better to vent it all before sleep. It’s no big deal, he told himself. Roughly 87% of adolescent boys masturbate. Suppressing desire only leads to anxiety. Dealing with an impulse is the most normal choice.
As he comforted himself with these thoughts, he gazed longingly at Jotaro’s face in the photo.
He lit a cigarette—the kind Jotaro often smoked—and left it at his bedside, letting his rationality drift away as his consciousness sank into something filthy.
In the dim room, he conjured Jotaro’s silhouette, imagining him standing by the bed, looking down at his pathetic state with a blurred expression obscured by that black hat.
Kakyoin took a deep breath, buried his face in the pillow, and imagined Jotaro’s fingers slowly peeling away his clothes, touching the body he so willingly offered.
He used Hierophant’s cold tentacles to simulate Jotaro’s caresses. Closing his eyes, Kakyoin sketched more details in his mind—the scent of tobacco when he was close, a low, muffled chuckle, and a palm stroking his already parted legs, moving toward the center before roughly gripping and rubbing his member.
"Mm... ah..." Kakyoin began to moan softly, his exposed skin shivering in the air.
He used to handle his physical needs alone, usually a quick and dull affair with his hands, where the room was silent save for heavy breathing. He wasn't used to acting "lost in passion"; to perform a pleasing persona felt like a humiliation.
Rubbing his own inner thighs, he began to imagine Jotaro’s fingers—his palms were so broad, his fingers much thicker than his own. Kakyoin licked his fingers wet and slid three into his rear at once, thrusting slowly amidst a mix of pain and pleasure. He whispered the name: "JoJo... Jotaro..." If it was Jotaro, he was willing to let these weak sounds escape his throat, letting him know how much he enjoyed the tremors and longing he caused—letting him know how much he wanted to expose every side of this body, inside and out, to him.
He knew exactly which spots felt best and what rhythm would bring him to climax fastest, but now, he only wanted to consider what Jotaro would do. If Jotaro thrust his fingers in, he wouldn’t find the right place so precisely, would he? He would probably move clumsily, roughly, stir around bluntly, just to make him wet faster, to open him up—so he could “use” him.
"Use"?
Kakyoin felt stung by the word that had suddenly surfaced in his mind. A spasm shot through his lower abdomen, and he quickly reached his peak.
The night soon returned to silence, leaving only Kakyoin’s ragged breathing. He used a tissue to wipe the white mess from his stomach and curled his body up in his weariness.
Drowsily, he thought—If only Jotaro really could "use" me however he liked.