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Dio Brando had never known that being pinned by Jonathan Joestar would feel this overwhelming.
He had spent years cultivating a specific image of Jonathan: the dutiful son, the soft-hearted optimist, the man whose kindness was often indistinguishable from weakness. To Dio, Jonathan was a ‘sissy’ in an Alpha’s body, a man who apologised for existing and deferred to others out of a misplaced sense of propriety. Dio had spent a lifetime believing that his own Alpha nature was the only one that mattered — the only one with the teeth and the will to command.
But tonight, the air in the room had shifted. It was galling. All eyes gravated toward Jonathan the moment he stepped into the grand hall. Even as they walked shoulder to shoulder, the crowd parted for Jonathan as if he were wearing a crown, though he carried nothing but that nauseating aura of earnest benevolence.
Dio watched, as a socialite draped herself near Jonathan, offering a glass of champagne with a look that bordered on desperate.
“Oh, thank you,” Jonathan murmured. His voice was a low, polite rumble that made the woman flush a deep, foolish crimson. He took the glass with a small, self-deprecating smile, bowing his head as if he were the one receiving a favour. “You are too kind, truly. Please, look after yourself—the evening is long, and I should hate to think I’d deprived you of your own refreshments.”
He didn’t preen. He didn’t boast. He just existed in that soft, suffocating way, accepting every scrap of attention with a timid grace that Dio found pathetic. A man who refused to bite back, who apologised to the people clamouring to feed him, wasn’t an Alpha in Dio’s eyes.
Dio stood nearby, nursing his drink. He had curated his presence to be commanding, sharp, and untouchable. Yet the room seemed to bend toward Jonathan’s gentle gravity. It was infuriating. Every time a businessman clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder to praise a venture, Jonathan would offer a modest nod, eyes cast down, fingers fidgeting with his cufflinks.
Look at him, Dio thought, a sneer curling his lip. A giant of a man, shrinking like a violet. He had the designation of an Alpha, but not an ounce of the territorial instinct required to hold his ground.
Then, an inebriated guest, emboldened by the open bar, stumbled into Jonathan’s space. Instead of shoving the man away — a reflex any self-respecting Alpha would have used — Jonathan simply braced himself, hands coming up in a gesture of helpless conciliation.
“Steady on, old chap,” Jonathan said, his voice quiet, almost pleading. He reached out to steady the man, his movements fluid and absurdly tender. “Let me help you to a chair. You’ve had quite enough, I suspect.”
The way Jonathan looked down at the drunkard — with such genuine, wide-eyed concern — made Dio’s stomach turn. There was no dominance there, no bristling of power; just a malleable creature who couldn’t bring himself to be unkind to a nuisance.
Jonathan stood remarkably still under the weight of the man’s hold. He didn’t flinch or brace, and he didn’t show the typical, flared-nostril defensive posture of a challenged Alpha. He just allowed the drunkard to cling to his lapels, his expression one of polite, detached indulgence. He looked like a man who didn’t need to fight or command because he was entirely unbothered by the audacity of a lesser man touching him.
To anyone else, it looked like submission — a gentle giant too soft to shake off a pest. But to Dio, watching from inches away, the stillness felt unnatural. It was the eerie lack of reaction that set his nerves on edge. Jonathan wasn’t acting out of fear; he was acting as if the drunkard were a gust of wind, beneath notice and consequence.
And yet, as he watched the drunkard’s hand tremble against Jonathan’s expensive suit, the hair on the back of Dio’s neck pricked up. He stopped. The room hadn’t gone quiet, but the air — that thick, invisible tension that usually defined an Alpha’s presence — had vanished. In its place was a vacuum, a suffocating stillness like a predator holding its breath.
Dio felt a phantom pressure against his own throat. He frowned, shaking off the sensation. It felt as if he were standing on the edge of a deep, dark well, staring into an abyss he didn’t recognise. Surely this apologetic man couldn’t be the source of a chill that made his own instincts howl for him to retreat.
Jonathan’s smile didn’t falter. It remained that same, maddeningly serene expression — the look one might offer a stray kitten. With practised grace, he peeled the drunkard’s hands from his lapels, guiding the man toward a passing waiter. “I believe this gentleman requires a taxi and a glass of water, would you be so kind?”
He smoothed his jacket with a casual flick of his fingers, as if brushing away a piece of lint. No territorial display, no scent of aggression, no posturing. He turned back to Dio, eyes clear and devoid of heat, and offered a soft, conciliatory nod.
“My apologies for the delay, Dio,” Jonathan said, his voice dropping to that polite, intimate register he used in private. “People can be so terribly unpredictable when the spirits take hold of them. I do hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
Dio stiffened, his fingers tightening around his glass. He wanted to demand why Jonathan had allowed such a humiliation to pass, but the words died in his throat.
As Jonathan stood there, unbothered, Dio felt a sickening twist in the pit of his belly — a cold, nauseating flutter. It wasn’t nerves; it was his own instinct recoiling from something he couldn’t name. An involuntary, primal shudder that left him momentarily breathless.
“You possess a saint’s patience, JoJo,” Dio drawled, his voice a thin, mocking silk. He kept his focus locked on the unnatural steadiness of the other man. “Or perhaps you simply lack the spine to tell a fool where he belongs.”
Jonathan’s expression remained untroubled. He chuckled, a low, smooth sound that vibrated in the small space between them. “I suppose that’s a matter of perspective. I see no reason to make a tragedy out of a trifle, Dio.”
They fell into a rhythm — the polished, weary banter of their public appearances. Dio kept his guard up, his internal Alpha pacing like a caged beast, though the churning in his gut soon subsided into a dull, lingering unease.
The lull didn’t last. The social atmosphere constricted, and the room’s noise seemed to funnel toward their corner.
They were being hunted — not for business, but by the gravitational pull of their combined presence. A group of high-status guests, led by a local business tycoon and his retinue, manoeuvred through the crowd. They targeted both men with equal intensity, eyes shifting rapidly between them, seeking approval or an audience.
“Mr. Joestar, Mr. Brando,” the tycoon began, stopping just short of their circle. He bowed slightly to each, chest puffed in a competitive display of dominance that felt out of place against the calm the pair projected. “It is a rare privilege to find you both unburdened by duties. We were hoping to secure a moment of your collective expertise regarding the upcoming merger.”
Dio shifted instantly, his posture smoothing into that of the perfect, charismatic Alpha. He offered a sharp, dangerous smile — the one he used to charm investors and intimidate rivals.
“An excellent suggestion, gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “There is always room for a more refined perspective.”
“We were just discussing the logistics of the evening,” Jonathan added, offering the group a disarming, effortless smile. “Please, join us. There is more than enough room for everyone.”
The group surged forward. The air became thick with clinking crystal and forced cordiality. Waiters were flagged down with frantic urgency, and within minutes, the circle was awash in heavy pours of vintage spirits.
They drank with purpose — champagne and scotch flowing like water — using the alcohol to fuel the performative, high-stakes socialisation required of them. Dio moved through the crowd with practised ease, fielding inquiries and offering calculated quips, playing the part of the accessible Alpha, while Jonathan remained by his side, anchored in that baffling gentleness that kept the entire room orbiting them both.
The hours bled into one another — a blur of clinking crystal, hollow laughter, and the suffocating heat of the ballroom. Dio played his part perfectly. His charm was a razor-sharp edge that sliced through the fawning sycophants. He kept his glass full, the expensive scotch numbing the lingering unease in his gut, while his mind stayed coldly analytical.
By the time the event finally stuttered to a close, the air felt thin and the lights were offensively bright. Dio’s head swam with a heavy, rhythmic pulse. His steps were uncharacteristically heavy as he steered Jonathan toward the Joestar limousine waiting at the curb.
As the chauffeur pulled away into the cool, dark streets of London, the silence in the vehicle felt like a taut, vibrating wire. Dio, fueled by a dangerous mix of premium scotch and resentment, finally let his mask slip.
“You were… insufferable tonight,” Dio spat. His voice was thick, slurred. He slumped into the plush leather seat, leaning toward Jonathan with a sneer. “All those people. Feeding off you like vultures. You stood there, letting them paw at you, smiling like an idiot while they treated you like some sort of prize.”
Jonathan didn’t get angry. He just gazed out the window at the blurred city lights, his large frame relaxed. “They were merely guests, Dio. It costs nothing to be kind.”
“It costs your dignity!” Dio barked. He swiped at the air, gesturing wildly. “Every businessman, every sycophant in that room was orbiting you. And you just sat there, eating it up, playing the humble, soft-hearted JoJo. It’s pathetic, Jonathan! You have the status of an Alpha, but the spine of a jellyfish. It makes me sick to be seen with you.”
“Is that what bothers you?” Jonathan murmured, finally turning his head. His voice was steady, untouched by the alcohol or Dio’s vitriol. “That I allow them near? Or is it that you can’t stand not knowing what I am?”
“I know exactly what you are,” Dio retorted, his face flushed. “You’re a man who doesn’t know how to command. You wait for the world to move around you because you’re too terrified to reach out and take what you want. It’s a weakness. A rot.”
As the limousine took a sharp turn, the momentum threw them together. Dio didn’t pull away. He lunged, grabbing Jonathan by the lapels, his knuckles white. He expected a push-back, a show of strength — but Jonathan just leaned into the touch, his weight heavy and solid against Dio’s grip.
“You think you’re so superior,” Dio hissed, his heart hammering against his ribs. That cold, sickening flutter in his belly returned, sharper than before. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re just a soft, malleable creature who couldn’t bring himself to be unkind even if it killed you.”
The limousine slowed as they turned into the long, gravel drive of the Joestar estate. The gravel crunched under the tyres, and the chauffeur killed the engine, leaving them in a heavy, pressurised silence.
Jonathan’s hand came up, tracing the line of Dio’s jaw. His touch was searingly steady — entirely devoid of the shakiness that usually plagued a man after a dozen glasses of scotch. He didn’t look like a drunkard; he just looked like Jonathan. Yet there was a flat clarity in his expression that made the fine hairs on Dio’s neck stand up.
“We are both quite drunk, Dio,” Jonathan said, his voice quiet. “We are not in our right minds, and we are both exhausted. This bickering is unbecoming of us.”
With firm, calm efficiency, Jonathan unhooked Dio’s fingers from his lapels. He didn’t shove him; he just dismantled the grip as if removing a garment. He opened the door and stepped out into the crisp night air, leaving Dio breathless and flushed in the sudden chill of the cabin.
Dio scrambled out after him, his pride stinging worse than the alcohol. He didn’t let it drop. As they walked through the grand, echoing foyer of the estate, Dio trailed after him, his footsteps uneven, his sneer unwavering.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me, JoJo!” Dio hissed, his voice echoing against the high ceilings. “You think you can just dismiss me? You think a bit of silence and a ‘cool head’ hides what you are? You’re a coward hiding behind a polite facade. I see right through it. I see exactly how ‘gentle’ you really are.”
Jonathan continued toward the staircase, his gait rhythmic and purposeful. He didn’t turn back or raise his voice.
“You’re seeing ghosts, Dio,” Jonathan replied, his tone infuriatingly reasonable as he ascended the first step. “Go to your room. Sleep it off. We have far more important matters to attend to tomorrow than your fantasies about my character.”
“My fantasies?” Dio laughed, a sharp, ugly sound that grated against the quiet of the house. He caught up to him on the landing, his face twisting with drunken bravado and genuine agitation. “You held that man’s gaze today, and he crumbled. You hold this entire estate in the palm of your hand, and you act like a servant to your own guests. It isn’t kindness, Jonathan. It’s control. You’re the most terrifying thing in this house, and you don’t even have the balls to admit it.”
Jonathan paused, his hand resting on the bannister. He turned, looking down at Dio with a look of profound, weary pity that made Dio’s heart stutter.
“I am a man who wants nothing more than a quiet night’s sleep,” Jonathan said firmly. “And I suggest you find yours.”
He turned and continued down the corridor toward his quarters. Dio stood on the landing, chest heaving, fingers itching to drag the man back and force him to shatter that calm. He didn’t give up; he followed, his sneer deepening, words of poison ready the moment he cornered him behind closed doors.
Jonathan entered his bedchamber without a backward glance, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t wait for Dio, but he didn’t bar the way either. Dio stomped in moments later, face flushed and movements clumsy from the scotch, his eyes burning with a need to provoke.
“You’re running away again!” Dio crowed, circling the room like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. He watched, sneering, as Jonathan began to methodically unbutton his waistcoat. “Is that it, JoJo? The ‘noble’ heir hides in his bedroom the moment things get difficult? You’re pathetic. Truly. You haven’t got the instinct to defend your own honour, let alone the power to lead.”
Jonathan didn’t answer.
He shed his evening coat, dropping it onto a chair, then moved to his shirt. He pulled the fabric open, the silk sliding off his broad shoulders to pool on the floor. In the nightstand, his skin looked pale and solid, mapped with the lean, hard muscle of a man who rarely had to fight because he held the world in check.
Dio kept talking, his voice rising. “I’ve spent years watching you play the gentleman. It’s a farce. You’re just a soft, pliable thing that bends for anyone who—”
Dio’s words died in his throat.
Jonathan had turned.
The mask of the soft-hearted, mild-mannered Joestar was gone. His expression wasn’t angry; it was colder than winter — a flat, vacant stare that looked through Dio as if he were made of glass.
Dio jolted, his breath hitching as the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It wasn’t just the look; it was the scent.
It hit him like a physical blow. A wave of pheromones so dense and crushing that his knees buckled. This wasn’t the sharp, aggressive musk of an Alpha vying for territory; it was something more absolute. The scent of a predator that didn’t need to hunt because everything already belonged to it.
Before Dio could scramble back, Jonathan was across the room. He moved with a speed that defied his size, his hand darting out to catch Dio by the collar and shove him backwards onto the bed.
Dio gasped, his mind reeling, but Jonathan didn’t give him a second to rally. With a swift, efficient motion, Jonathan ripped his silk necktie from his collar, folded it, and pinned Dio’s wrists above his head with a single, heavy hand.
Dio struggled, his bravado fracturing into genuine alarm. “Jonathan—wait—”
“You’ve spent all night mocking me,” Jonathan murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to rattle Dio’s bones. He looped the tie around Dio’s wrists, pulling the knot tight against the iron railing of the bedstead. “You’ve been begging for a glimpse of the man beneath the kindness, haven’t you? You wanted to see me be dominant, Dio. You wanted me to stop pretending.”
Jonathan leaned down, his face inches from Dio’s. The pheromones washed over him in suffocating pulses that made Dio’s vision swim.
The air left Dio’s lungs in a sharp, stunned exhale, punched out of him by the impossible weight of the scent. This didn’t challenge his Alpha nature; it simply ignored it, rendering it irrelevant. It was the smell of deep earth after rain, of ozone before a lightning strike, of silent, gathering pressure.
As his back hit the mattress, a fragment of memory clawed its way to the surface — a dusty tome in his father’s forbidden study, a tale from a drunken, superstitious servant. A legend of a breed so rare they were considered myth.
Enigma.
The word echoed in his skull, cold and absolute. A designation not of dynamic, but of function. Beings of unsettling stillness who exerted influence rather than dominance. Whose pheromones could soothe or shatter, bending anyone’s will without a single blow. Legend whispered that even an Alpha could bear their young.
No. Fairy tales. Nonsense.
But Jonathan was above him, eyes holding that terrifying, flat calm, and the scent deepened, sweetening at the edges with something darkly enticing. The silk tie secured his wrists to the iron bedstead with a finality that felt less like restraint and more like ritual. Dio’s heart hammered, a frantic drum against the eerie quiet Jonathan carried with him.
“You wanted to see beneath the kindness, Dio,” Jonathan murmured, his voice a low thrum. “You begged for it with every insult. Now be still, and look.”
Dio expected violence. Something cold and clinical. He braced himself for it.
He wasn’t ready for Jonathan’s mouth.
Jonathan moved down his body, slow and deliberate. He pushed Dio’s thighs apart, holding him open with an effortless strength. Dio jerked, a protest dying on his throat as he felt Jonathan’s warm breath against the most intimate part of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, shame and a dizzying, unwanted thrill warring in his gut.
The first touch of Jonathan’s tongue was a shock.
“Hah—!”
Dio’s back arched off the bed.
Jonathan’s tongue was broad and wet, circling his entrance slowly, with a pressure that felt obscene. It was a direct line of pleasure that bypassed all his defences. It was filthy, degrading… and it made his cock twitch, leaking pre-come onto his abdomen.
Jonathan hummed against him, the vibration shooting straight up Dio’s spine, and then his tongue pressed inside.
“F-Fuck! Jonathan!”
Dio cried out, his fingers clawing at the air above his bound wrists. It was too much — the wet heat, the intimate violation. Jonathan’s tongue worked him open, thrusting in shallow, relentless movement. Dio started babbling, a mess of shattered curses and choked gasps. His hips began to move of their own accord, pushing back against that maddening mouth, seeking more.
Just as the pleasure in his gut tightened, Jonathan pulled away. Dio whined, a high, desperate sound in the quiet room.
He felt empty.
He heard the slick sound of oil. Then, the blunt, cool pressure of a finger, circling where Jonathan’s mouth had been. Dio held his breath.
The first finger slid in, and it was easy; his body was already pliant. It was a deep, filling stretch. Jonathan crooked it, and Dio saw stars, a ragged sob tearing from his throat.
“There,” Jonathan whispered, his voice thick. He added a second finger, scissoring them slowly. “You’re so responsive. All that fire, all that pride… it makes you so sensitive here.” He brushed that spot again, and Dio’s vision whited out, his whole body convulsing.
Jonathan’s fingers were deft, mapping his insides with precision. He found every secret, shameful place that made Dio shudder, every spot that made him cry out, and he worked them with a ruthless expertise.
He knows, Dio thought, dazed. He knows exactly where to touch. How?
The answer came with another wave of that earth-and-ozone scent, now warmer.
Enigma.
It wasn’t just about power. It was about perception. About knowing a body, a psyche, better than it knew itself.
When Jonathan withdrew his fingers, Dio felt an emptiness that was almost painful. He was panting, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his cock an aching, neglected weight. He was completely open, unravelled, and he hadn’t touched there once.
Jonathan loomed over him, his own arousal thick and heavy against Dio’s thigh. He positioned himself, the broad, slick head of his cock pressing against Dio’s loosened, wanting entrance. Dio’s eyes flew open. He saw no cruelty in Jonathan’s gaze now — focus, intense with a flicker of something that looked almost like… care.
“I will accommodate you, Dio,” Jonathan said, his voice rough. “But you will take all of me.”
He pushed forward.
Dio’s orgasm hit him the moment Jonathan breached him. No hand on his cock, no other stimulation. Just the impact. It was a full-body convulsion that ripped a raw scream from his throat.
“NNNGH— JONATHAN!”
White-hot pleasure detonated from his core, radiating out to his fingertips and his toes. His cum thick, helpless ropes across his own stomach and chest, his body clamping down in violent spasms around the intrusion. It was an overwhelming sensation, of being claimed so utterly that his body surrendered before his mind could even process what was happening.
Jonathan groaned above him, a deep, ragged sound of pleasure, as Dio’s climax wracked through him.
“Christ, Dio… ahh,” he gritted out, his composure broken. He leaned down, capturing Dio’s mouth in a searing, possessive kiss. The taste of himself on Jonathan’s tongue was the most debauched thing Dio had ever experienced.
As the tremors subsided, a new fire ignited.
A deep, restless heat coiled in his belly, sharper and more insistent than more. His sensitivity, instead of fading, intensified. The feeling of Jonathan buried to the hilt inside him, still and thick, became a delicious torture.
No. Not now.
But his body knew. His blood knew. The combination of Jonathan’s scent, his touch, his very essence, had triggered it.
His Rut.
Jonathan felt the change. He pulled back from the kiss, searching Dio’s face. He saw the dazed pleasure morph into a wild, hungry desperation. He felt the fresh flush crawling up Dio’s chest, the new, frantic tension in the muscles beneath him.
A slow smile touched Jonathan’s lips. It wasn’t cruel. It was… accepting.
“I see,” Jonathan murmured, his voice a low rasp. He began to move, withdrawing slowly before pushing back in with a deep, grinding roll of his hips. The friction against Dio’s oversensitive, freshly climaxed nerves was agony. Dio cried out, his hips bucking up to meet the thrust.
Dio gasped, his mind reeling. His Ruts were aggressive, violent things, a need to conquer. This was a hunger. A bottomless need to be filled, to have this man inside him.
Jonathan’s rhythm changed. It wasn’t a series of thrusts anymore; it was a continuous motion, a deep tide pulling in and out of him. It was smooth, a piston-stroke of measured power that seemed to rewrite the physics of Dio’s body. Each withdrawal was a sweet, aching emptiness, and each return shattered him again.
Then Jonathan adjusted. A fractional move of his hips, a subtle tilt that changed everything. The next time he sank in, he didn’t just fill Dio.
He hit the spot.
A white-hot explosion of pleasure detonated at Dio’s core, bursting behind his eyes. His vision whited out. His mouth fell open in a soundless cry, his body bowing off the bed as if struck by lightning.
It was beyond pleasure; it was a direct hit to a switch he didn’t know he had.
Jonathan didn’t pause. He kept that angle and began to fuck him with it. The pace was relentless but controlled, each deep, grinding stroke a deliberate pass over that screaming nerve. He was patient, inevitable, dismantling Dio into pure, shuddering sensation.
Dio’s legs, hooked over Jonathan’s shoulders, trembled. He felt Jonathan’s arm, like a band of iron beneath his thigh, holding them aloft, bending Dio almost double. The position was obscenely vulnerable, and the Rut burning in Dio’s veins twisted that vulnerability into a desperate, clawing need.
Through the haze, a spike of frustration and animal’s impatience pierced him. The legend whispered in his skull, warring with the sensory overload.
An Enigma’s control is absolute. Their pleasure is a choice.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dio gasped. The words were ripped from a throat raw from screams he couldn’t remember making. His voice was a wrecked, watery thing.
Jonathan’s rhythm didn’t falter. His eyes, dark and focused in the dim light, flicked down to Dio’s face.
“What?” he breathed, his voice a low rumble.
He was attuned to every micro-tremor in Dio’s muscles, every hitch in his breath. He adjusted the tilt of his pelvis by millimetres, changing the depth of his stroke by a fraction, driving waves of pleasure through Dio’s nervous system.
His free hand, slick with sweat, descended. It wrapped around Dio’s cock, which was hard again, flushed red and leaking pre-come that slicked Jonathan’s palm. The touch was electric. Dio sobbed, his head thrashing against the damp pillows.
The dual assault — the internal claiming and the friction on his cock — was too much. The Rut-fueled need, mixed with a growing dependence on this man, turned into a frantic demand.
“Why are you… nggh!” Another deep thrust stole his breath, making his toes curl. “Not cumming yet?” he finally sobbed.
It was a confession of helplessness. His pride lay in tatters. He was split open, held aloft, and played with, and Jonathan showed no sign of finishing. A raw, shameful fear laced the words. “Is my hole… not worthy of your cum?”
The vulgarity, spoken in his own broken, aristocratic tone, hung in the air.
Jonathan’s rhythm hitched. He stopped, buried to the hilt, his body a statue of tension above Dio. The sudden stillness was a shock. Dio’s own hips gave a helpless, abortive jerk, seeking the friction that had been stolen.
He looked up, panting, his vision swimming. Jonathan was staring down at him, his expression unreadable for a moment — that calm fractured by a flicker of genuine surprise. His blue eyes widened just a fraction.
A slow, breathless laugh escaped Jonathan’s lips. It wasn’t mocking; it was a sound of stunned wonder.
He sighed, a puff of air against Dio’s sweat-slicked skin. He released his grip on Dio’s thigh and slicked back his own damp hair, the muscles in his arm corded with strain. It was a possessive movement.
“I was almost there,” he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He shifted his weight, a deep grind that made Dio gasp, and reached up. His fingers, slick with sweat, worked at the knot of the silk tie binding Dio’s right wrist. The release was a flood of sensation — pins and needles, the ache of strained tendons.
Jonathan caught Dio’s freed hand as it instinctively came up to push at his chest. He didn’t force it away; he just held it there, fingers intertwining, feeling the frantic tremors running through them. Dio’s nails scratched weakly at Jonathan’s chest, a gesture of protest that held no strength.
“But I didn’t know,” Jonathan murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of Dio’s ear, “that you’d be this cute when you’re in rut.”
The word landed like a brand.
Cute.
It was the most insulting, infantilising word that could be applied to Dio Brando. Heat flooded his face, a blush of humiliated fury. His trembling intensified.
“What?” he snarled, or tried to. It came out as a broken crackle. “I’m not—”
His denial was cut off as Jonathan kissed him again.
This wasn’t the possessive kiss from before. This was softer. Deeper. A slow, exploring conquest of his mouth. Jonathan’s tongue slid against his, a wet mimicry of the act below, and Dio’s mind short-circuited. The hand against Jonathan’s chest clenched into a weak fist. He tried to push, to reclaim some dignity, but his arm was jelly. All he could do was scratch pathetically at the muscle, a kittenish protest that only proved Jonathan’s point.
Jonathan pulled back just enough to speak, his lips still grazing Dio’s.
“You are,” he insisted, his voice thick with amusement. “Asking like that. Needy. Impatient.”
He rolled his hips, a slow circle that rubbed his length against Dio’s oversensitive walls, drawing a choked whimper from Dio’s throat.
“Your hole,” Jonathan continued, the crude word spoken in that refined tone, “is more than worthy. And it will get exactly what it wants, when I decide to give it.”
He released Dio’s hand, letting it fall to the mattress. He gripped Dio’s hips, his thumbs digging into the bone. The hold was absolute.
“But since you asked so prettily,” Jonathan whispered, his eyes locking onto Dio’s, “I won’t make you wait any longer.”
He drew back almost completely, until just the head of his cock remained inside that clenching heat. Dio felt the loss like a physical pain. He was empty, aching.
“Look at me,” Jonathan commanded, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.
Dio’s tear-blurred gaze focused on his face.
Jonathan drove back in.
It wasn’t the grinding pace from before. This was a final, punishing rhythm. Short, powerful thrusts that punched the air from Dio’s lungs, each one landing with a wet slap of skin on skin. He angled himself perfectly, hitting Dio’s prostate with accuracy on every stroke. The pleasure was a continuous, screaming siren in his nerves, building to a peak.
“Is this—” Jonathan grunted, his composure shredding, his face a mask of strain, “—what you wanted? To feel me lose control? To feel me fill you?”
Dio couldn’t answer.
He was a vessel of sensation, his back arched, his mouth open in a silent scream. His freed hand scrabbled at the sheets, then flew up to clutch at Jonathan’s shoulder, nails biting into the skin.
Jonathan’s rhythm fractured, becoming erratic. He buried himself deep and stilled, his whole body tensing. A ragged, guttural groan was torn from his chest — a sound of pure release.
The heat that flooded Dio was scalding and endless. A pulsing torrent that claimed him from the inside out. The sheer intimacy of it triggered his own climax. It ripped through him silently, a dry, convulsive shudder that locked his muscles and stole his breath.
For a long moment, Jonathan remained atop him. He looked at Dio’s face — flushed, tear-streaked, shattered. Jonathan’s expression softened. He brought his hand up and gently brushed a strand of damp, golden hair from Dio’s forehead.
“Cute,” he repeated, the word a tender, exhausted sigh. A statement of fact. A possession.
The tender touch was the spark that ignited the last of Dio’s pride.
Cute. Cute.
The word echoed in his head, a cloying poison that boiled his blood. He slapped Jonathan’s hand away — a weak movement, but sharp.
“Don’t you dare,” Dio hissed. His voice was raw and trembling, but still venomous. The hollowed-out feeling of the aftermath was already receding, burned away by the Rut. The fullness he’d felt moments before was gone, replaced by a yawning, desperate emptiness in his belly. It was a physical ache, a void that screamed to be filled. Jonathan’s softening presence inside him felt like a taunt.
“Get off,” Dio snarled, pushing uselessly at Jonathan’s chest. “Get off me!”
Jonathan, with that infuriating calm, simply eased himself out. The loss was immediate. Dio gasped, his body clenching around nothing. The emptiness was worse than before. It was a craving.
He didn’t think.
Instinct took over.
Scrambling, his limbs clumsy with exhaustion, he shoved at Jonathan until the larger man yielded, rolling onto his back against the rumpled sheets. Dio straddled him, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of Jonathan’s hips. He was a mess — covered in drying spend, sweat-slicked, hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes wild.
Jonathan watched him, his hands resting on Dio’s trembling thighs. He didn’t speak. He just waited.
Fury and shame fought with biological need. Dio reached between them, fingers fumbling, trying to guide Jonathan back inside. He was too frantic, too uncoordinated. A sob of frustration burst from his lips.
Seeing his struggle, Jonathan’s hands left his thighs. One steadied his own length; the other gripped Dio’s hip to guide him.
“Here,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in Dio’s storm.
Dio sank down, impaling himself in one slow, agonising slide. He threw his head back, a ragged cry tearing from his throat as he was filled to the brim once more. The emptiness vanished, replaced by a stretching, burning fullness. He began to move, riding Jonathan with a frantic, jerky rhythm, his hands braced on Jonathan’s broad chest.
“That’s it,” Jonathan murmured, his hands settling on Dio’s hips again. “Take what you need.”
But it wasn’t working.
The friction was maddening. The pleasure was there, coiling hot in his gut, but it remained trapped. He rode harder, faster, chasing a release that wouldn’t come, his breath coming in sharp pants. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes and spilt over.
“Why… won’t it… work?” he cried, his voice breaking. He was furious — at Jonathan, at his own body, at the Rut.
He was an Alpha; he should be able to take his own pleasure. But he was powerless. The climax remained locked away. He ground down, sobbing, his movements becoming erratic.
“Dio,” Jonathan said, his voice firm. His hands on Dio’s hips tightened. “Look at me.”
Dio’s tear-blurred gaze dropped to meet his. He saw no mockery. Only that same accepting certainty.
“Let me,” Jonathan said.
And he took over.
In one fluid motion, he rolled them, pinning Dio beneath him without slipping out. He hooked Dio’s legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half, opening him up completely. The new angle was devastating.
“Ah!” Dio shrieked, his protest cut off as Jonathan began to thrust.
This wasn’t the steady pace from before. This was raw power. Jonathan fucked into him with deep, punishing strokes that drove the air from Dio’s lungs and shook the bedframe. Each impact jolted through him, a direct, brutal assault on his prostate. The trapped pleasure finally shattered.
Dio came with a sound that was half-scream, half-sob. It was a violent eruption that had nothing to do with his own will.
His body convulsed, his cock spurting untouched between their stomachs, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Jonathan didn’t stop.
He didn’t even slow. He drove through Dio’s climax, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper.
“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a rough, animal sound. “Let it go. Give it to me.”
The overstimulation was beyond anything Dio had ever felt. The sensitivity was excruciating. And then, a new sensation built — a deep, internal pressure, different from the need to come. It gathered low in his belly, a tight, urgent coil.
On a particularly deep, grinding thrust, it broke.
A hot, clear gush erupted from him, not from his cock, but from some deeper place within. It was a silky, copious flood that soaked the sheets beneath them and Jonathan’s thighs. Dio screamed, his body bowing off the bed, fingers clawing at Jonathan’s back. He was squirting, losing control of his very core, utterly unravelled.
The feel of it, the hot wetness clenching around him, was Jonathan’s undoing. With a final, brutal thrust that pinned Dio to the mattress, Jonathan buried himself to the root and roared his release. This climax was even hotter, even more voluminous than the first, a scalding flood that filled the space Dio had just emptied, claiming him all over again.
The silence was thick with the scent of sex and salt and profound exhaustion.
Their ragged breaths were the only sound. Dio’s body was a map of sensation — the deep ache of overuse, the sticky, cooling evidence of his release, and the heat of Jonathan’s seed still trapped inside him. Every nerve was raw, exposed.
And yet.
Beneath the exhaustion and the trembling in his limbs, the Rut still smouldered. It was a low ember in his gut, fed by the man lying atop him. His own arousal, though softened, was a persistent, needy presence against Jonathan’s abdomen. Jonathan, still buried within him, had softened only slightly.
Dio’s mind floated. The world was reduced to sensation: the crush of Jonathan’s weight, the pounding of his own heart, the all-encompassing fullness. The part of him that was Dio Brando — proud, vicious, calculating — was submerged. In its place was a creature of simple need.
His eyes, glazed and unfocused, fluttered open. He saw the column of Jonathan’s throat, the damp hair at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw resting against the pillow. A weak, desperate sound escaped Dio’s lips. Not a word, but a plea.
His arms, which had lain limp, stirred. With an effort that felt Herculean, he lifted them.
His hands, trembling violently, rose to Jonathan’s neck and the solid curve of his shoulder. His fingers didn’t claw this time. They clung. They pulled.
With a feeble, insistent pressure, he tugged Jonathan down.
Jonathan, drifting in his own post-coital haze, felt the pull. He shifted, bracing himself on his elbows to look down, his brow furrowed. He saw Dio’s face — pale, tear-streaked, beautiful in its utter ruin — and the hungry darkness in his half-lidded eyes.
Before Jonathan could speak, Dio bridged the distance.
He kissed him.
It wasn’t the competitive clash of teeth and tongue, nor was it passive acceptance. This was Dio’s own initiation.
It was clumsy, weak, and sincere. His lips were chapped and salty, moving against Jonathan’s with a slow, searching desperation. A soft, broken noise vibrated in his throat, a sound of unvarnished want.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing Jonathan’s.
“More…”
The word was a ghost of sound.
It wasn’t a command from an Alpha; It was the raw supplication of something that had been broken open and remade around Jonathan.
He kissed him again, a little more insistently, his tongue tracing the seam of Jonathan’s lips. “More…”
Jonathan felt something inside him melt.
His control, his stillness, his role as the anchor — it all dissolved. A groan, deep and ragged, rumbled in his chest. He opened his mouth to Dio, tasting the shared exhaustion and desperation.
This surrender — Dio’s voluntary, needy offering — was more potent than any forced submission.
It ignited something feral and possessive in Jonathan that he had kept meticulously caged. His own exhaustion burned away, replaced by a second wind of dark hunger.
He kissed Dio back, deeply, taking control of the kiss. One hand cupped the back of Dio’s head, holding him in place, while the other slid down his back to grip the swell of his buttock.
He was still inside him. And he was hardening again, thickening within that tight heat, stirred to life by Dio’s whispered pleas.
“You’ll have more,” Jonathan promised against his mouth, his voice a dark, gravelly vow.
He punctuated the promise with a deep, rolling thrust that made Dio’s toes curl. Jonathan’s lips travelled to his ear, his breath scalding.
“I’ll be cumming a lot inside of your belly,” he whispered. He nipped at the lobe, then soothed it with his tongue. “Filling you up, over and over. Planting my seed so deep it takes root.”
He pulled back just enough to look into Dio’s wide, glazed eyes. “And I’ll make you have my babies, Dio. I’ll watch your perfect, flat stomach swell with them. My heirs. Our legacy.”
The words should have been a horror. A violation of every law of everything Dio knew. They should have sparked a final, desperate rebellion.
But a wave of heat bloomed in Dio’s abdomen. It was a physical ignition, a searing warmth radiating from his core. It was the Rut’s final declaration. His body clenched around Jonathan’s length, a tight, pulsing squeeze of acceptance. The lock clicked. Something fundamental shifted, and he felt the last wall of his old self crumble.
Time lost meaning in the shadowed bedchamber.
The heavy curtains were drawn against the London sun, leaving the room in a perpetual twilight. Dio couldn’t tell if it was midnight or midday. The world beyond the oak door ceased to exist. There was only this room, this bed, this man.
Days and nights blurred.
Dio’s Rut didn’t ebb and flow in waves like it had in the past — those brief, violent storms he had weathered alone. This was different. This was a constant, fire in his veins, stoked higher by every touch, every kiss, every deep thrust.
Jonathan’s scent was the oxygen.
Jonathan’s voice was the spark.
Jonathan’s body was the fuel.
Dio lost count of how many times he came.
The numbers stopped mattering after the first day.
He came over Jonathan’s hand, the friction wringing a broken sob from his throat. He came over his own stomach, untouched, the force of Jonathan’s thrusts against him enough to shatter him. He came with Jonathan’s release, flooding him, the hot pulse triggering his own helpless response. He came until he was dry, until his body could only produce thin, clear spurts. He came until the pleasure felt like pain, until the brush of the sheets against his skin made him shudder.
Each orgasm took a piece of his old self with it.
The sneering, superior Alpha who thought he understood power — who believed dominance was something you took, dissolved. In his place was a creature of pure need, bonded to the source of his pleasure.
Dio Brando, who had clawed his way out of the gutter through sheer will, was gone. What remained was something raw, something open, something that answered to Jonathan's touch like a flower turning toward the sun.
There were times when the Rut consumed him so completely that he lost consciousness.
He would be mid-sentence, begging for more, and then the world would simply stop. His eyes would roll back, his body would go limp, and he would collapse into the sweat-soaked sheets. The Rut had burned through every reserve of energy, and his body had shut down to protect itself.
When he woke, the first thing he noticed was the cleanliness.
His skin was cool, washed free of sweat and spend. Someone had bathed him while he was unconscious — gently, with a care that made his chest ache. The sheets were fresh, smelling of lavender and starch. His hair had been combed. Even his nails had been cleaned.
Jonathan.
The man was always there, sitting in the armchair by the window or perched on the edge of the bed, watching him. He looked tired — there were shadows beneath his eyes — but he never left. He never slept, or if he did, it was in snatches, always within arm’s reach.
“Drink,” Jonathan would say, his voice a low, rumble.
A glass of water would be pressed to his lips. Dio would drink, his throat raw. Then came the congee — plain, warm, easy on the stomach — fed to him in small spoonfuls by Jonathan’s own hand. Dio would eat mechanically, his body demanding fuel.
“More?” Jonathan would ask.
And Dio, his pride a distant memory, would nod.
The food would settle in his belly, and for a brief moment, the fire would dim. He would look at Jonathan, and see the strain etched into his features, the evidence of days without proper rest. A flicker of guilt would stir in Dio’s chest.
But then Jonathan would lean down, press his lips to Dio’s forehead, and the scent would wash over him again — that deep, earthy aroma. The guilt would burn away, replaced by a hunger so vast it swallowed everything else.
“More,” Dio would whisper, pulling him down by the collar.
And Jonathan would give it to him.
The frenzy would resume.
Jonathan would lay him back, would spread his legs with that same effortless strength, and prepare him with oil and fingers until Dio was writhing. Then he would enter him, and the world would narrow to that single point of connection.
Jonathan was tireless.
Or perhaps he was simply that devoted to his promise of accommodation.
He fucked Dio with a stamina that defied limits — slow and deep when Dio’s needed gentleness, hard and fast when the Rut demanded brutality. He knew every pleasure spot, every angle that made Dio scream, every rhythm that pushed him to the edge.
He would pull Dio onto his lap, letting him ride until his legs gave out, then catch him and keep moving. He would take him against the wall, Dio’s back arching, fingers clawing at the plaster. He would bend him over the edge of the bed, one hand on the small of his back, the other wrapped around his cock, wringing orgasm after orgasm from his trembling body.
And through it all, Jonathan never lost control.
His thrusts were powerful but measured. His kisses were possessive but tender. His words — low, gravelly murmurs — were filthy and reverent in equal measure.
The week stretched on for the unbroken act of union.
Dio stopped tracking the days.
There was only the cycle: the burning need, the shattering release, the brief respite of unconsciousness, the gentle care, and then the need again. His body was a vessel, emptied and filled, until he couldn’t remember what it had felt like to be whole without Jonathan inside him.
On what might have been the seventh day — or the eighth — the fire finally began to cool.
Dio lay sprawled on his stomach, Jonathan’s weight a warm, solid presence behind him, still buried inside him. The Rut’s furnace had dimmed to embers, the desperate need replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction. He was sore — achingly so.
Jonathan’s breath was slow and even against his shoulder. For the first time in days, he was asleep. His arm was wrapped around Dio’s waist, holding him close.
Dio turned his head, looking at Jonathan’s face. The strain was still there, but softened. He looked younger in sleep, the lines of tension smoothed away. Dio felt something stir in his chest that had nothing to do with the Rut.
If he hadn’t provoked Jonathan that night — if he’d swallowed his pride and retreated to his own chambers like a sensible man — he would never have known.
He would never have known what it felt like to be pinned beneath that weight, to have his wrists bound with silk. He would have spent his life believing dominance was a matter of who could snarl loudest, of who could mark the most territory.
He would never have known that true power was silent. That it didn’t need to roar. It could simply be, vast and patient, until you realised you had been standing in its shadow all along and had never once felt the sun.
Dio lay in the wreckage of the bed, his body a mess of aches, and understood that he had not discovered Jonathan’s secret.
Jonathan had shown him.
Deliberately. Completely. He had peeled back the mask of the gentle gentleman and revealed the Enigma beneath — not to punish Dio, but to answer the only question Dio had ever truly been asking.
What are you?
Now he knew.
And the knowing had ruined him for anything else.
His fingers, still trembling, traced the edge of the sheet. The warmth was already fading. Soon, the space would be cold, and Dio would be alone with the truth of what he had become.
A creature of need. Bonded by a chemical chain to a man who had looked at his ugliest and called it cute.
Dio closed his eyes.
If he hadn’t provoked Jonathan, he would never have known that being held down by those hands would feel less like imprisonment and more like coming home.
He would never have known that the greatest power in the room had been the one sitting quietly in the corner, smiling at everyone, asking nothing, taking nothing, until someone was foolish enough to demand everything.
And he would never have known — could never have imagined — that surrendering to it would feel like the first honest thing he had ever done.
The thought should have terrified him.
But beneath the terror, something else stirred. Something that felt suspiciously like gratitude.
Or worse.
Something like peace.
“You’re awake,” Jonathan murmured against his hair, his voice rough with sleep.
Dio stiffened. “How did you know?”
“Your breathing changed.” Jonathan’s arm tightened around his waist. “And you stopped pretending to be relaxed.”
“I was never pretending.”
“Liar.”
The word was spoken without heat. It was simply an observation, delivered with the same calm certainty Jonathan applied to everything. Dio felt the rumble of it through Jonathan’s chest, and felt himself respond — a subtle clenching around the length still buried inside him that made them both inhale sharply.
Dio’s face burned. “You’re still…”
“Yes,” Jonathan said simply.
Neither of them moved.
The silence stretched between them.
Dio stared at the far wall, trying to find words for the chaos inside him.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said finally, his voice barely a whisper.
Jonathan’s thumb began to move in slow circles against his hip. “Do what?”
“This.” Dio gestured vaguely. “Talk. After… everything. I don’t know how to be…”
“Normal?” Jonathan offered.
“Anything,” Dio corrected. “I don’t know how to be anything right now.”
Jonathan was quiet. Then he shifted, his hand sliding from his waist to his stomach, splaying across the skin. The touch was grounding.
“Then don’t be anything,” Jonathan said. “Just be here. With me.”
Dio closed his eyes. The words felt like another chain, another bond he couldn’t break. But he didn’t pull away.
“Why did you let me?” Dio asked, the question that had been burning in him since he first regained consciousness.
Jonathan’s thumb stilled against his skin. “Let you what?”
“All of it,” Dio’s voice cracked. “The insults. The provocation. The Rut. You could have stopped me at any point.”
Jonathan was quiet for a long moment.
After considering the question with genuine care, he answered.
“Because you needed to see,” he said simply. “That the kindness wasn’t weakness. That the gentleness wasn’t absent. You’ve spent your whole life believing that power is something you take from others. But I wanted you to understand that, power is simply… inherent. It doesn’t need to be seized. It simply is.”
Dio’s fingers curled against the sheet. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Jonathan agreed. “It’s not.”
He shifted behind Dio — a slow roll of his hips that made Dio gasp, his body clenching involuntarily around the length inside him. Jonathan groaned softly, his forehead pressing against the back of Dio’s neck.
“The real answer,” Jonathan continued, “is that I wanted you to know me. The real me. Not the gentleman. Not the heir. Not the mask I wear for the world.” His fingers traced the curve of Dio’s hip. “You’ve always seen through the mask, Dio. You were looking and hunting for something. And I…”
He paused, and Dio felt him tense behind him, as if the next words were difficult to speak.
“I wanted to be found,” Jonathan finished softly.
The words hit Dio like a physical blow.
He stared at the wall with a reeling mind, unable to process the confession.
Jonathan Joestar — the Enigma, the quiet, terrifying force that had dismantled him so completely — was admitting to wanting something. From him.
“That’s absurd,” Dio managed, but his voice cracked on the word.
“Perhaps,” Jonathan conceded. A faint smile touched his lips. “But it’s true.”
Dio turned his head, trying to look at him, but the angle was wrong. Jonathan understood, and he shifted, withdrawing slightly before rolling Dio onto his back and settling between his legs.
Their eyes met in the dim light.
Jonathan’s face was softer now that he looked almost… tender. There were shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was clear. His hair falling across his forehead, and Dio had the sudden, irrational urge to brush it back.
He didn’t.
“You’re still inside me,” Dio said instead
Jonathan’s lips twitched. “I am.”
“That’s… inappropriate.”
“Is it?” Jonathan shifted his hips subtly, making Dio’s breath hitch. “I rather think it’s the most appropriate thing in the world right now.”
Dio’s hands pressed against Jonathan’s chest — simply to have something to hold onto instead of pushing him away. He could feel the steady beat of Jonathan’s heart beneath his palms, strong and sure.
“I don’t understand you,” Dio admitted, aggrievedly.
“You don’t have to,” Jonathan replied. His fingers brushed against Dio’s jaw, turning his face gently toward him. “Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But you know me now. That’s enough.”
Dio wanted to argue. Wanted to spit something venomous, something that would reassert the distance between them. But Jonathan chose that moment to move his hips, which made Dio’s back arch and a broken sound escape his lips.
“Jonathan—”
“I’m here,” Jonathan murmured, his forehead pressing against Dio’s. “I’m right here.”
“You called me cute,” Dio said, grasping for something, anything, to regain some semblance of control.
He felt Jonathan’s chest rumble with quiet laughter. “I did.”
“It was insulting.”
“It was accurate.”
Dio’s fingers curled against Jonathan’s chest, nails digging into the skin there.
“I hate you,” he whispered.
“I know,” Jonathan murmured.
“And I don’t forgive you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
Jonathan kissed him then — soft and slow, nothing like the kiss they had during the Rut. It was something else entirely. Something that felt dangerously like tenderness.
When he pulled back, Dio was breathless, his body trembling around the length still buried inside him.
“If I hadn’t provoked you that night,” Dio said quietly, “I would never have known.”
Jonathan’s eyes searched his face. “Known what?”
Dio was silent for a long moment. Jonathan waited, patient as always, his body still and warm above him.
“That being held by you,” Dio whispered, “would feel like the first honest thing I’ve ever done.”
The unvarnished words hung in the air between them. Jonathan’s expression softened, something flickering in those blue eyes that Dio couldn’t name.
Then Jonathan lowered his head and kissed him again, deeper this time.
“I’m glad you provoked me,” Jonathan whispered against his lips.
And Dio, exhausted and utterly undone, wrapped his arms around Jonathan’s neck and held on — not because he had to, but because, for the first time in his life, he was finally at peace with Jonathan, and with himself.