Summary: Class clown, and a bit of a cam whore, Joseph Joestar does anything for his fans.
A/N: Back at it again with the Caejose. Pfft. Sorry if there are tons of mistakes in here. My eyes are burning like a bitch. Anyway, a little thing for the OTP. Some people asked for Speedwagon. But his heart is too pure. I CANNOT, lol. Having to write articles about camgirl stuff still comes in handy to this day, lmao.
It started out as a joke.
A tacky dress. Some gaudy makeup. Far too many shots of tequila. They had recorded him. Singing and dancing, his lopsided breasts—oranges he’d borrowed out of the downstairs refrigerator—shifting beneath polyester fabric. Always eager for more laughs, he had posted the evidence online. It went viral.
He became a living legend. Well, not really. But that’s what he liked to tell himself.
Checking the amount of hits the video received, the likes and comments, had become somewhat of an addiction. He liked the attention, the knowledge that people all over the world had seen him, knew he existed. He hadn’t cared whether or not they were laughing at him, or with him. As long as they saw him. That was all that mattered.
Eventually, he would have gotten over it. Sooner or later, being the center of attention in the eyes of strangers would have grown boring. If it weren’t for a single comment. That one fateful message that had lingered in his thoughts since he’d read it almost three weeks ago.
You look so hot. I’d pay anything to watch you jack it. That’s what it had said. Except it had been shortened. In chat speak. Because anyone who sent those type of messages to strangers dressed in woman’s clothing, most likely had one hand on the keyboard, and the other shoved down their pants.
That had become a joke too. Albeit, and inside one shared between him and his friends. He had laughed it off, ignored the comment, and for the most part, had gone on with his life.
But he still thought about it. It hung around, like a trapped fly buzzing in his bedroom. It nagged at him, like a fresh mosquito bite, demanding to be scratched.
Anyway, that was how it started.
But now…
The camera points directly at him, and he makes himself comfortable in his chair. It had taken him a while. He isn’t a photographer, but he thinks the lighting is perfect. Nylon is smooth against his legs, clinging to muscular thighs, and smashing down coarse leg hair. A skirt today. Short and pleaded. Plaid, colors of dark green and navy blue. It looked good on him.
He doesn’t speak. They ask him to. But they have to pay extra for that. A private chatroom where he’ll say whatever they want. But he doesn’t come cheap. Quick, maybe. Sometimes. But never cheap.
His dorm room becomes a chorus of bells. They chime in, one after the other. Money floods his account. He hasn’t even taken anything off, and his fans drown him in tips. Tonight is a good night. He looks at the screen and sees a few familiar usernames. His regulars. He gets an invitation for a private show from one of them, which he declines without a second thought.
That particular regular was supposed to be working on a paper, which meant that he was at the campus library watching porn instead of studying. He admits it’s pretty hot. But what kind of boyfriend would he be if he let his significant other slack off on work? One of them has to develop some sort of professional knowledge. They couldn’t get by on their good looks forever. He almost laughs.
Of course they would.
The camera doesn’t capture his face. He makes certain of that. But anyone watching can see him from the chest down. He’s already taken off his shirt, his chest and abs sculpted as if cut from marble. He grabs the hem of his skirts, pulls it up, shows just briefly what’s beneath it: nothing.
More bells. They ring out like sirens, blaring from his speakers. He raises the skirt again, and then folds it back so that it rests against his stomach. His cock strains against the stocking, stiff and pressed hard against his thigh. His fingers trace it, dance along the length, slow and sweet.
Another request for a private show. Another decline.
Someone in the chat calls him a bitch. It’s the same person whose invitation he’s just declined.
He laughs.
The show continues. He strokes himself through his stockings, groaning softly at the friction it causes. The request pour in. They want him to come. He’ll do anything for his fans. Thus, he obliges.
His fingers dig into nylon, tearing at the fibers, exposing his upper thighs and freeing his cock. He wraps his hand around it, and squeezes, hips jerking forward. He forgets about the camera, about his viewers, about the melody of noisy bells. Vanity, perhaps. But he loves his cock, loves how thick, heavy, and hot it is in his hand. He feels the muscles in his ass contract as he rocks forward and back, shallow thrusts of him fucking his palm.
The bells are annoying, and distracting, but he continues. Teeth digging into his bottom lip when he feels his orgasm approaching. He leans back, his free hand gripping the skirt, his other gripping his cock, the tendons in his wrist begging for reprieve.
He comes hard, shoots high, hears droplets of it splatter onto the floor. The rest, onto it his chest, stomach, and stains his skirt.
He breathes slow and long, shuddering, tiny aftershocks making his cock twitch. Glancing up, he winks at the camera, wipes a bit of come off his stomach, and says, “Goodnight.”
They can’t hear him. But he does it after every show, so they should know by now.
He turns the camera off a few seconds later, grimacing at the sticky mess he’s made. His phone rings a few seconds later. He doesn’t have to guess who it is.
“You made me come in the library,” Caesar breathes into the phone.
“Not like it’s the first time,” Joseph says, and then, “Are you coming home soon?”
“Not yet.”
“Still at the library?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Stay there. I’m on my way.”
“Why?”
He’s already changing into something more comfortable and not stained with come when he answers.
Warning: It’s fucking Kira, and his wild ass fetish. That’s your warning. Also NSFW.
Summary: Kira enjoys a rainy day with his lovely lady hand friend.
A/N: So I wrote like 2,000 words for the book today, and then was like, I guess I’ll finish that Kira drabble. Anyway, this is exactly what you think it is. Whatever. Just be happy Araki didn’t decide to go all Carl Tanzler when he created Kira.
The rains are heavy in Morioh. A day for staying indoors. One for rest and relaxation. For quiet self-reflection. Most importantly, it was a day for peace and serenity. Both of which, Kira never seemed to have enough of.
But today is different, and he enjoys the rain, as well as the calmness it brings. Much more so than he enjoys the soap opera currently on his television screen. Kira, himself, has never been too particularly fond of soap operas. They were overly dramatic with outlandish plots that made little to no sense. But she loves them, and thus Kira allows himself thirty short minutes of mindless drivel.
Anything to make her happy.
Leaning comfortably against his couch, Kira rolls his eyes at the television. He’s amused at how enthralled she is. Her pale hand gripping his knee in anticipation. Gently, he strokes her thumb with his index finger, quietly admiring the carefully polished, red lacquer paint that decorates her perfectly trim and filed nails.
The episode is seconds from being over, and when it is, Kira chuckles, at how her fingers fall slack against him. Oh, the agony. She’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens next.
“Diligence, my darling,” Kira says. “Impatience isn’t very becoming of you.”
He chuckles when she pokes him in the thigh, one of her nails digging into the fabric of his slacks. She tries to do it again, but he grabs her hand instead, interlacing their fingers together. He’s confused for a moment, as she doesn’t seem to want this, and tries her best to shake her hand free from his hold.
“What’s wrong?” He asks.
She responds. But she doesn’t answer him.
Kira quirks one perfectly arched eyebrow when he feels her hand resting gently against his thigh. It creeps up slowly, gliding along his slacks before inching inward.
“…I see.”
He doesn’t prevent her from moving steadily upward, her hand drawing closer and closer to their obvious destination. It isn’t until her fingers graze his zipper that he actually stops her.
“Should we take this to the bedroom?” He asks. “Where it’s less… vulgar.” The curtains were drawn back, blinds open. Normally, Kira preferred to keep them closed. He cherished his privacy. But the rain was falling so hard that he doubted anyone would be willing to come outside. Let alone peek into window.
When she presses harder against his zipper, the pad of her index finger flicking the slider, he concedes and gives into her demands. “I suppose…”
She fumbles with his zipper, her thumb and index finger gripping it, but unable to pull it down. After a few failed attempts, Kira intervenes. “Allow me.” He gently tugs down on the slider, the chain slowly opening, its tiny, metal teeth separating. She waits patiently for him as he unfastens his pants, and then slips his hand inside, grabbing at the elastic band of his briefs, tugging them downward.
Her patience has reached its limit.
His hand is much larger than hers, so he guides her. His own palm resting against the back of her hand. His fingers pressed against her own, curled around them, dragging them up and down the length of his cock. Her hand never gets warm, stays as frigid as ice as it caresses him.
She’s an expert. Knows exactly how and where to touch him. Moans spill from his mouth, first slowly, quietly, and the loudly, fervently, until he’s groaning and thrusting, rocking his hips back and forth, his cock sliding between their cupped hands.
Sweat dampens his skin, rolls from it. Stray pieces of his hair plaster to his forehead.
He’s close.
He encourages her to keep going, to grip tighter, move faster. Always obedient, she complies, moving with him, pumping his cock, stroking it from base to tip and back again until he cries out and spills onto their joined hands.
Ever the gentleman, he brings her hand to his lips, kissing it at the knuckle in silent praise. Then frowns.
She smells terrible.
“Darling,” Kira begins, but something in the distance catches his eye. A woman. She stands outside, amidst the pouring rain, her delicate hand clutching at a leash. Attached to the end of said leash is a dog. He trots around, sniffing at the bushes lining the sidewalk, undoubtedly looking for a place to mark his territory.
Kira stares at the woman for a moment. Her wet hand tugging at the leash. He’s too far to see it, of course, but he can imagine the beautiful manner in which raindrops fall from her fingertips.
“I think,” he says, his eyes still locked on the woman whom clearly loves her dog enough to take it out to do his business during the pouring rain, “we should see other people.”
Tossing her away from him, he doesn’t even bother to look as she sails through the air. But he’s satisfied when he hears the heavy thud of her falling into the wastebasket next to the sofa.
A/N: For @last-heroine who responded with “ joseph farts the first time since he and caesar moved together (i'm sorry, i just thought i'd say what comes to mind first)” when I tweeted about what I should write. ((Also I’m wearing the exact pants Joseph is wearing, lmao))
Caesar isn’t sure how many boxes he’s unpacked, but there’s still so many left to go. The work is exhausting, but he can’t stop a small smile from forming on his face.
He’s certainly come a long way from a tiny rundown studio apartment in New York since his daring move from Italy. Now not only had he just moved into a large, spacious—and rather expensive—apartment in an upscale area of town, Joseph had moved with him. No more commuting across town for either of them. No more tangled limbs, creaking bedsprings, and frumpy mattresses barely able to hold both of them. They had saved up for nearly a year and a half, savaged and scrimped so they could afford sturdy new furniture to furnish the place they would call home.
Opening yet another box, Caesar continues to smile as he thinks about how they were supposed to christen their first night together in their apartment. Unfortunately, after a day full of moving heavy boxes, and a belly full of Caesar’s authentic Italian cooking, the two of them had fallen asleep before the festivities could begin.
“Oi, there you are,” a voice says from a few feet behind him, and Caesar turns around to see Joseph leaning against the wall. His pajama bottoms rest low on his hips. The red fabric looks amazing against his tanned skin, but the pattern is ridiculous— gambler’s dice with the words, ‘Wanna get lucky’, above and below them. Gaudy and preposterous. “I woke up and you weren’t lying next to me.”
“Get used to it,” Caesar replies. “Some of us have better things to do than sleep all day, JoJo.”
“Mmhm,” Joseph murmurs, which means he isn’t really listening. He yawns and runs his fingers through his hair before quirking an eyebrow in amusement. “So that’s where my shirt went. Looks good on you.”
Caesar rolls his eyes to keep from smiling. He wasn’t sure if you could call something like this a shirt. It was short and exposed his belly, but it smelled like Joseph, and was more comfortable than he cared to admit. Certainly, more comfortable than some of his own clothing.
“What doesn’t?” Caesar asks, his words cool, but playful.
“You know, Caesar,” Joseph begins, and the singsong tone of his voice tells Caesar exactly where Joseph’s mind is heading. Joseph approaches Caesar, his feet padding softly against the carpet, until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Caesar’s waist. “We didn’t get to celebrate last night because you fell asleep.”
Caesar closes his eyes and exhales through his nose. “You fell asleep, too,” he counters, tilting his head and sighing softly when Joseph presses his lips against Caesar’s neck.
A shaky breath slips from Caesar’s lips when Joseph slides his hand against Caesar’s abdomen, and then up to his chest, fingers disappearing beneath the white fabric of his shirt. Joseph glides his middle and index fingers against one of Caesar’s nipples, and tugs.
“JoJo…” Caesar moans.
Caesar allows Joseph to turn him around, to pull him tight against his broad chest, and into a heated kiss. Joseph’s tongue tastes sweet, and his breath smells like mint, and Caesar is thankful that he had enough sense to brush his teeth when he woke up.
“Let’s go in the room,” Caesar says against Joseph’s lips, his words warm, breathy, excited.
“What for?” Joseph asks. “We got a perfectly good kitchen counter over there. What do you say, Caesar?”
Caesar groans against Joseph’s lips, and then kisses along his jawline until he’s able to nuzzle his face against Joseph’s shoulder, kissing and nipping at his skin while he brings his hand up to cup Joseph’s unmistakable erection through his pants.
The gasp that comes from Joseph’s mouth is both pleasing and arousing. Unfortunately, it’s short-lived and drowned out by the most, disgusting, horrendous, sound that Caesar has ever heard.
And the smell…
“JoJo!”
Joseph stumbles backward with the sheer force from Caesar shoving at his chest, and then has the audacity to laugh.
“I’m sorry!” Joseph says, but he’s still laughing. “I told you that stuff last night was too spicy.”
“Get away from me, Joseph,” Caesar shouts, fingers pinching his nose shut, and Joseph knows he’s in trouble because Caesar hardly ever calls him by his full name. He says a few other things, most of them in Italian, but Joseph has taken it upon himself to learn his lover’s native language, so he can make out some of the words, which he thinks translates to, “pig,” “stink,” and “beast.”
“Come on, Caesarino. I couldn’t help it. It’s natural!”
“There is nothing natural about that,” Caesar snaps, and storms off, leaving Joseph standing there apologizing and laughing all the same. When he returns, it’s with a can of air freshener, that of which he heavy-handedly presses down the nozzle, filling the air around them with the fragrant smell of apple cinnamon.
“That’s too much,” Joseph yells, fanning the air around him with his hand, coughing and sputtering when a few droplets of it lands on his tongue.
“Idiota,” is Caesar’s only reply, as he glares at Joseph, and continues to mist the air.
vani/gio + kiss on the neck (honestly, what did you expect)
all aboard the sin train. vampire!giorno drinks human blood for the first time. based off all the stuff we talk about on twitter, lol
Giorno can feel Vanilla Ice’s pulse against his lips, beating heavily. He’s too trusting, Giorno thinks, to offer himself to Giorno like this, knowing that it could potentially be the last thing he’ll ever do. And maybe if Giorno was a lot excited, a lot less hungry, he could take a moment to reflect on the situation on a deeper level.
Instead, Giorno kisses the spot where his lips rests against Ice’s skin, and then he parts his lips, spreading them wide, and pushes his fangs deep into Ice’s neck, puncturing his skin.
The rush of blood that fills his mouth is warm, fresh, and intoxicating. Ice gives himself over to Giorno, offers his very essence to his master’s son. But Giorno is inexperienced, and feeds greedily and without restraint, and soon Ice has to grip him by the hair and force his head away.
There’s embarrassment on Giorno’s face, and he stammers out an apology, his lips and mouth wet and red with Ice’s blood. Ice brushes his thumb against Giorno’s crimson lips and smiles.
“All is forgiven, my little Haruno.”
And for once, Giorno doesn’t complain when Ice calls him that.
The first kiss is a headbutt, but only because Joseph decides to sit up at the same time Caesar decides to lean down. They’re too drunk to actually feel pain, so they try again.
The second kiss is a failure because there’s two Joseph’s, and Caesar attempts to kiss the one on the left instead of the one on the right.
The third kiss--if one can describe it as such--is a mess of lips, tongue, and teeth. The tequila on their breath perfumes the air around them. Joseph’s tongue is incredibly long, and it glides sloppily against Caesar’s top lip, slips inside his mouth, and brushes along his gums. Caesar’s lips are warm, full, soft, and his teeth nibble at Joseph’s bottom lip, capturing it until it swells.
It’s absurd and has no effect on him at all, Dio tells himself. Jonathan and his blundering lips certainly do not feel as soft as rose petals against his skin. Each gentle brush of that buffoon’s lips, caressing his ear, gliding softly over the moles that the imbecile seems to be so fascinated with.
Dio despises it.
The involuntary gasp that slips from his lips wasn’t involuntary at all, Dio thinks. Obviously, he did it on purpose to convince Jonathan that it felt good, that he enjoyed it. As if someone like Jonathan was capable of making him feel anything even resembling pleasure.
And Dio’s fingers, which grasp at Jonathan’s shirt, bunching the expensive fabric within his palm. Or his heart, which hammers madly in chest, pounding with excitement. Or the stiffening and uncomfortable swelling taking place inside his trousers…
The steady beep of the monitor is annoying, but Guido doesn’t complain. Hearing it meant that he was alive, even if the pain throughout his body begged to differ.
“You were reckless,” Giorno says from his spot next to Guido’s hospital bed.
Guido stares quietly at Giorno. From the looks of things, he hasn’t gotten much sleep. From the smell of things, he’s probably gone a day or two without a shower.
“God, GioGio,” Mista says, his words soft and playful, though it causes him a significant deal of pain to speak. “You stink. Wanna’ see if we can get that cute nurse to give you a sponge bath, too?”
“It’s not funny, Guido,” Giorno snaps, his narrowed eyes threatening to spill the tears that he’s been fighting to hold back. “I almost…” The words dance along the tip of his tongue, but Giorno doesn’t want to speak them.
Turns out he doesn’t need to.
“But you didn’t,” Guido says. “I’m still here, Giorno.”
So much for keeping his tears at bay, Giorno thinks. They roll down his cheeks, slow and heavy, like summer rain. He’s gentle when he leans down, presses his forehead against Guido’s and sighs through his nose. Guido’s even gentlier when he kisses Giorno, warm lips brushing softly against Giorno’s own.
“Your lips are chapped,” Guido says, and despite himself, Giorno can’t help but smile.
a bit of jealousy, a bit of fluff (because i have to practice writing fluff)
Jotaro watches, wine glass in hand, fingers gripping the stem so tightly that it’s in danger of breaking. Noriaki practically glows, which makes sense since tonight is his night. The gallery is packed beyond belief, people from all over the country–and quite few foreigners, Jotaro notices–have come to admire Noriaki’s art. And Jotaro is unbelievably proud of him.
And pissed.
They’re too charming. Too flirty. Too close. How many times has he seen someone rest their hand on Noriaki’s shoulder? How many times has someone held his hand in greeting, fingers lingering on Noriaki’s soft, pale, skin for entirely too long?
There’s so many of them. All wanting Noriaki’s attention, all begging for him to notice them, to interact with them, and probably so much more.
They didn’t know their place.
Jotaro’s lips taste like wine when he kisses Noriaki– sloppy, sudden, and in front of everyone. Noriaki isn’t phased by it, even chuckles pleasantly as he straightens Jotaro’s tie, which had taken a considerable amount of begging–and a few talented tricks with his tongue–to get Jotaro to wear in the first place.
“No more wine for you,” Noriaki murmurs against Jotaro’s lips.
Jotaro’s jealously never ceases to amaze Noriaki, especially considering that many of the paintings hanging from the crisp, white, walls feature his perfect–though scowling–face.
