Work Text:
Rohan realized he was gay as soon as he became an artist. In his line of work, an appreciation for the male form is required in that an attraction to the human body is required. But his “appreciation” borders on a pre-occupation, or maybe an addiction. It isn’t a stretch to say that he loves to fantasize about touching men almost as much as he loves drawing them. The paperback Western novels he dug up in thrifty bookstores in S City, with their cliched, rose-coloured covers, appeal to Rohan more than the glossy fashion photobooks he keeps on the end table in his living room. He hoarded those yellowed books for months, stuffing them under his mattress the way a teenage boy would hide his porn rags, the pages shamefully dog-eared and creasing. It wasn’t that he could insert himself into the moony, coquettish heroines, or even that he secretly yearned to be chased and wooed by some testosterone-pumped hero. The cover art is what appealed to him. The white adonis with his shirt unbuttoned all the way down to where it’s tucked into too-tight pants around a toned waist. The American cowboy with his thumbs in his pockets, thick fingers spread and framing the mound in his pants. Rohan wants to draw these men, yes. He wants to portray the sensationalized, objectified view of erotic masculinity that has been overdone and capitalized on by unsatisfied housewives around the world for decades.
He can’t see himself in them, not the way he is now. He’s in shape as much as an artist who sits at a desk for twelve hours a day can be. He doesn’t eat often, but when he does he’s always careful. He stretches and rolls around on his carpet in sit-ups and pushups in-between volumes of manga, just so his muscles don’t cramp. As a result of such, he’s toned in a lithe way, but not in the body-building, protein-addicted way he admires so much in other men. That’s fine. It’s not about him, really. It’s about them and how he wants them around him all the time, if not within touching distance at least in plain sight.
Being a well-known celebrity makes that impossible. When he lived in the city he’d heard about the emerging nightlife and the secret community gays had formed in urban Japan through a kind of clever but really perverse code. There were magazines drawn by a few “out” gay artists that they were trying to get published and Rohan had snuck a few (and even liked one). But he couldn’t just go to a bathhouse or a bar and hook up. In a scene promoted by manga artists he would definitely be recognized, especially since gay men compose a surprising percentage of Pink Dark Boy’s readership. They write him letters. Most of them are touching in the way they spill their sexuality all over the handwritten pages, confessing that reading about Rohan’s handsome young characters provides some form of comfort through escape. Some of the letters get explicit, though. Those are his favourites. He gets a rush of arousal from reading all the perverted fantasies some lonely closet case has about his male characters. He digs them out whenever he needs to masturbate and holds the paper away from his cock when he comes so they won’t be soiled.
When he moved to Morioh he was fully prepared to give up the fantasies and die a virgin, all for the sake of his art. The idea of a relationship or commitment to anything other than his manga is akin to death for him, so he didn’t think it would be that much of a loss. Little did he know he was relocating to a life full of distractions, most of them life-threatening and supremely annoying. Yoshikage Kira or Kosaku Kawajiri, both names applicable, and Josuke Higashikata (with his raucous band of meddling friends) nearly destroyed his career. It wasn’t all bad, though. Along with Morioh and Josuke and Kira came Jotaro Kujo, who was without a doubt the most erotic man Rohan had ever seen in the flesh. Rohan didn’t have all that much to do with him, mainly because he couldn’t trust himself around someone who looked like they stepped right out of his manga. It was hard enough not to mentally undress him every time they ran into each other on the street. Jotaro always tipped the brim of his hat down like he was hiding behind it and mumbled or grunted some kind of greeting, and Rohan put a hand on his hip like he was scolding him for something and said, in a voice loud enough to cover the fact that he got flustered just by being in the other man’s presence, “Good day, Jotaro-san.”
It was awful. Rohan walked away feeling vulnerable and transparent every time. He circled the shopping center just to keep up appearances and headed back home, forgoing whatever chore he’d originally set out to do. Thank God he’s gone, if you believe in God, which Rohan doesn’t, but he’s still thankful that he no longer has to deal with awkward confrontations like that again.
At least until Jotaro comes back to visit.
It’s a full day of drawing and Rohan has no plans to leave his house for any reason, so he’s still in his silk pajama bottoms when the doorbell rings around noon. Normally he wouldn’t answer it and whoever's at the door must know that, because they ring again and again. Agitated at being disturbed, he throws open the curtains of his office window and peeks out, hoping the unwanted visitor will see his glare and back off.
But it's Jotaro standing on his porch, looking exactly the same as he did a year ago, in a different coat this time. This one’s navy blue, with gold on the lapels and pockets. The brim of his hat hides his face from view, but Rohan knows he’s about to give up and leave. Rohan should let him, because he really does have work to do, but he’s moved by curiosity. Nothing more. If he almost slides down the stairs it’s not because he’s in a hurry to catch him or anything. When he throws the door open, he tries to make it seem like it’s due to frustration, not excitement.
“Jotaro-san!” he calls.
Jotaro’s already across the street, but he stops and turns around when he hears Rohan’s voice. He hasn’t aged at all in a year, but then again, how much can one person age in such a brief time? Rohan wasn’t expecting a smile from him, but he wasn’t expecting the slight look of surprise, either. He probably hadn’t anticipated that Rohan would actually answer the door.
“Did you want to come in?”
“Just thought I’d stop by to say hello,” Jotaro says, giving him an out.
Rohan could take it. He could say hello and let Jotaro leave and probably, definitely, never speak to him again. They don’t have a relationship and Jotaro’s never been inside his house before, the very thought of which turns Rohan’s stomach with nerves. What does he have to be nervous about?
“Then come say hello,” he insists, and holds his front door open
Just inside the door, it's already awkward. Jotaro was never a chatty man and Rohan hates small talk, which means they stand in a silence so thick it makes Rohan's skin itch.
"Do you want something?" Rohan asks, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.
Jotaro is a difficult man to read, but the way he's looking at everything in the foyer except Rohan says he's regretting the visit.
"Not really, no."
"I only have coffee. Do you want some of that?"
"Oh. Sure, yeah."
Rohan sighs and motions toward the kitchen. "Better move out of the entrance, then."
Making the coffee at least gives him something to focus on other than Jotaro's hands on the table and the spice of his cologne filling up the room. Why is he here? What does he want? Rohan hopes--no, prays, that it doesn’t have anything to do with a new Stand user in town. If that’s the case, Rohan is definitely going to tell him to get lost. He likes this house, liked it more before half of it burnt down, but he can afford to move. It would actually be in his best interest with how much attention he gets in Morioh now that everyone knows he lives here. Besides, he’s seen everything there is to see now, maybe a different prefecture would offer new experiences. At the very least he won’t have to deal with Josuke anymore and if Jotaro came here to talk about him then he won’t be invited back. Ever.
Rohan’s got himself worked up just thinking about it. He sets the coffee mug, sugar and cream on the table with enough force to betray his pent up frustration. It’s a wonder the porcelain doesn’t crack. Jotaro can fix his own damn coffee.
“Aren’t you going to sit down?” Jotaro asks, lifting the cup to his mouth with the cream and sugar untouched.
It’s not surprising that he takes his coffee black; Rohan shouldn’t have even bothered putting it out for him. He’s such a predictable cliche. Boring. What good are all those muscles if your personality’s equivalent to pond water? His chair drags across the floor when he pulls it out and falls into it.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“It’s customary to call before dropping in on someone, you know.” Rohan doesn’t try to keep the bite out of his tone, there.
“I wasn’t planning on stopping by.”
“Clearly.”
“You didn’t have to invite me in.”
Touche. Rohan almost hates him for saying that, for calling attention to the fact that Rohan doesn’t even have the right to complain when this whole situation is equally his fault. He should have taken the out when Jotaro gave it to him. Then they wouldn’t be sitting in silence, sludging through social ineptitude to try to think of something to say to each other. Rohan glances at his watch and sees that its been a whole fifteen minutes. He could have finished an entire chapter of Pink Dark Boy by now. He’s considering using Heaven’s Door to figure out exactly what Jotaro was thinking when he rang the doorbell, but Star Platinum’s a little terrifying and Jotaro would stop time before he could even flinch. He probably knows that Rohan’s considering it, anyway.
“I won’t be coming back to Morioh for a long while,” Jotaro says, finally.
Rohan raises an eyebrow. Good.
“I’m getting married.”
“Congratulations,” Rohan says.
Get out. Take your candied lips and your expressive eyebrows that are completely wasted by your boring personality and leave.
Jotaro sets his cup down and completely misses the saucer, making Rohan’s fingers twitch. He pushes his chair back enough to spread his legs out comfortably and cross his thick arms over his massive chest, drawing Rohan’s eyes to where his pecs push together under his too-tight shirt, visible only because the fabric wrinkles right between them.
“I know that you and my uncle don’t get along, but Grandpa’s not going to be around much longer and Josuke could really use an adult Stand user looking after him. Someone closer to his age.”
It’s a pity about Joseph Joestar, it really is. Rohan likes the old man. It’s even more of a pity that his son doesn’t take after him at all. What’s worse is that Rohan is very close to agreeing to buddy up to that shitty delinquent brat as long as Jotaro takes his shirt off. But didn’t he say he was engaged? Rohan doesn't really care.
“No.”
Jotaro doesn’t bite. He just sits and stares, but he’s not making any move to get up yet, which is a good sign. Rohan leans forward.
“Do you know how much the repairs to this house cost? There’s the damage to the frame of the house, plus everything inside that I lost in the fire. The addition was, admittedly, overstating the original damages, but what about the cost of pain and suffering? What about how your uncle and his friends have inconvenienced me, time and again? That’s time I could have spent working, time I lost in monetary gain. If I can draw two pages of manga in less than one minute and that Josuke wasted even ten minutes of my time, how much money do you think I lost to--”
Finally, Jotaro stands.
“However,” Rohan presses. “I may be willing to overlook all of that.”
"If you think I'm going to let you proposition me, think again," Jotaro says, voice stone cold. "Good luck with your manga."
The finality of that goodbye turns Rohan’s stomach sour. Suddenly, the threat of never getting an opportunity like this again is too much to bear. Regret swells inside him like a new betrayal and he absolutely has to think of something to smooth this over, to keep Jotaro long enough to touch.
"Wait."
Jotaro does wait. He levels Rohan with a stare so frosty it could freeze water. Rohan's heart skips a beat and nosedives between his legs. He's going to get hard if he spends even a second longer in Jotaro's authoritative presence. Silk pajama bottoms are not the ideal pants for this kind of situation and, God, is he even wearing underwear?
“Model for me.”
Oh no. Did he really just suggest…? Out loud? But he wants it, he doesn’t regret saying it. There’s no harm if he isn’t going to see Jotaro again either way, so Rohan stops worrying, even if the silence is dragging on too long to be casual. If he wants to laugh it off as a joke, now’s the time to do so, Rohan realizes. But there’s a ring forming on the finish of his table from Jotaro’s coffee cup, still half full. Jotaro’s standing over him, lording over him, and Rohan can’t stop himself from glancing at the seam of his pants, the closed fly, the secretive bulge beneath it that warns Rohan of his size.
Jotaro steps close and leans down to clutch the armrests of Rohan’s seat, making him pull back as far as the chair will allow when Jotaro leans in. His eyes are glacier blue, sparking in the light from the window when he tips his hat back to crowd Rohan even more. The proximity is making his head swim. Rohan can’t remember ever feeling this vulnerable, like his skin has turned translucent under the older man’s gaze and his ego is out on display, framed by a forest of veins and his fast-beating heart. He swallows, preparing to speak, when Jotaro looks down at his lap.
Christ.
“You want me,” Jotaro states.
“What gave it away?”
He’s just getting harder and harder as Jotaro stares at his half-mast erection. Something about the invasiveness of this entire situation, which is becoming increasingly more unorthodox, makes Rohan burn with arousal. He’s in the safety and comfort of his own home; This is his turf, his haven. So why is he the one feeling out of place?
Jotaro pulls back, then. It’s both the best and worst thing he could have done in that moment. Rohan was a mere second away from grabbing him by the lapels and kissing him, grinding against him, climbing him like a tree. Now he’s just shifting in his seat and crossing his legs with a little wince. There’s something to be said about all of this, but for the life of him Rohan has no idea how to get his vocal chords to work again, let alone phrase his feelings eloquently.
He clears his throat and tries. “I don’t...feel attraction that often. Sex isn’t all that important to me...I guess.” Not as important as his work, that is.
It’s mid-sentence that Jotaro does something odd. Without saying a word or even looking in Rohan’s direction, he removes his hat and places it, slowly, on the table. His hair is cropped short in the most manageable haircut Rohan can imagine save baldness. Nothing flashy, no pomp. It’s just thick and dark, with neatly trimmed sideburns that frame his face and his wild eyebrows beautifully. Rohan wants to run his hands through it and find out if he uses any products or if it’s just naturally soft and sleek.
“Okay,” Jotaro says.
“Huh?”
“I’ll model for you.”
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Rohan immediately switches gears. Without further ado, he stands and ignores the way his pants tent shamelessly.
“Let’s go to my drawing room, then.”
In front of his desk, Rohan has him strip down to the tiny briefs Rohan now knows he wears. They're black cotton and bend to the curve of his monstrous package. More importantly is the fact that Rohan has never seen another man this nude in the flesh, all toned and tanned and tight. He could be a sculpture, standing erect in the middle of the room, carved by the higher power at play. If God does exist, Rohan thinks, he's definitely a homosexual.
“You don’t need to pose,” Rohan tells him, then comes closer with his sketchbook.
Jotaro is patient and doesn’t move while Rohan circles him, creeping as close as he dares without touching. His pen flies over the page, eyes focused on every freckle and scar texturizing this masterpiece of skin and sinew. He has a thin patch of hair at the base of his spine that Rohan wants to brush the pads of his fingers against. He resists. Clears his throat.
“Okay,” he says with deep regret. “That’ll be all.”
He turns away from Jotaro and moves to stand in front of his desk, waiting for the sounds of Jotaro getting dressed and leaving. There’s nothing but silence and Rohan can’t focus enough to look at what he’s drawn, but it’s probably all unusable. It’d been so hard to concentrate with Jotaro so close, and he’s never going to get the scent of Jotaro’s cologne out of his nostrils, never ever.
There’s a large presence behind him, right behind him, pressed up against his bare back. The shock of skin on skin contact makes Rohan drop his pen with a clatter onto the surface of his desk.
“You’re still here?” Rohan squawks.
Jotaro’s big hands land on the desk on either side of him, boxing him in like captured prey. He can feel eager breath on his neck and it’s warm and ticklish, making his spine arch. The reflex pushes Rohan back against Jotaro’s crotch and through silk and thin cotton he can feel the heat behind him, a suspicious hardness high on the curve of his ass. Jotaro makes a sound, just a sharp inhale through his nose, but it’s amazing and surreal. He’s aroused? This situation turned him on? Rohan half-turns, trying to get a look at the other man’s face just so he can make sure, but Jotaro pushes his nose into Rohan’s shoulder and shoves his erection insistently against his tailbone.
For the first time in years, Rohan feels completely detached from his beloved reality. This is stranger than the existence of Stands somehow, yet more validating than using Heaven’s Door on Josuke. This is something he never saw coming and was fully prepared to never experience with Jotaro or anyone else. Less than two hours ago he was sitting at this very desk, as dictated by his normal routine, and now he’s being humped against it by the object of his sexual fantasies. Was this the work of a Stand? Was he gassed by some unknown enemy and is now experiencing a specific type of lucid dream?
Jotaro’s hands come up to clutch at his waist, pulling Rohan forcefully against him and Rohan can feel the length of his cock sliding between his cheeks, hot and hard.
“Wai-” he moans, then tenses at the sound. The Great Rohan Kishibe moans for no man. He clears his throat and tries again. “Jotaro-san, hold on.”
There’s a grunt of frustration, but the hips behind him stop trying to grind a hole in the seat of his pants. It’s a small, bittersweet victory that Rohan accepts. He manages to disengage enough to turn fully around and tries not to visibly melt when he sees the state of arousal Jotaro’s in. On a clear day the man is stoic enough to pass for a wax statue and half the time Rohan wonders if he’s that way due to past trauma or simply because there isn’t all that much there to begin with. The violent flush in his face and neck, the glossy haze that makes his eyes glisten, the seductive parting of his lips; It’s the most expressive Rohan has ever seen him. There’s something bubbling beneath that cold surface after all, but it’s more scandalous than he ever imagined. Rohan bites down questions like “are you sure?” and “do you really want to?” because it’s completely apparent by the way Jotaro’s jaw clenches and his forearms flex that he’s trying very hard not to.
Instead, Rohan swallows nervously and says, “I’ve never done this before.”
He’s not entirely sure how he wanted Jotaro to react to that admission, but he knows as soon as Jotaro cracks a smile that laughter was definitely last on the list. Self conscious and mildly furious, Rohan recoils and crosses his arms over his chest, feeling that disgusting vulnerability from before rising once again to the surface of his skin. Jotaro shakes and lets his head collapse against Rohan’s shoulder and, frustratingly, there’s nothing the younger man can do about it since he’s still trapped against his desk. Filled with embarrassment, he lacks the capacity to realize that it’s the first time he’s ever heard Jotaro laugh.
“Are you done?” Rohan asks.
Jotaro’s left thumb moves against the sharp edge of his hipbone in what might be a reassuring stroke. He lifts his head up and he’s still smiling, but his eyes are softer than they usually are and his cheeks are still pink.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Its been a long time since I’ve been with another man.”
Rohan has to fight the urge to ask him about that. Jotaro’s a cagey, private man. If anything would get him out of Rohan’s house faster it would be an interrogation about his past and that’s the last thing either of them want. So, Rohan bites his tongue and reaches all the way up to wrap his arms around Jotaro’s neck, instead. That’s a standard position, he sees it in films all the time.
“That makes me feel so much better,” he quips.
Jotaro leans in close to his neck again and this time Rohan’s ready for him. He tilts his head to provide more space. Jotaro doesn’t kiss the offered expanse so much as rubs his mouth against it in a ticklish, slightly wet slide. One of his hands is moving down and he’s pressing his palm against Rohan’s dick with liberal pressure, cupping and pulsing like he loves the way it feels in his grasp.
“Don’t worry,” Jotaro murmurs against his neck. “I still remember how to make a guy cum.”
The warm, slightly damp pressure is so different from his own hand, making Rohan twitch against it. Jotaro reaches further and finds his balls, pulling them upwards gently on his way back to the head of his cock. The application of a dexterous thumb against his tip makes Rohan whimper. He could cum from this. Just a little more of those fingers, the lips against his shoulder, the harsh breath in his ear, and he’ll be finished before he even gets to try anything else.
The thought makes him grope for Jotaro’s hand, clutching his fingers tight enough to cut off circulation.
“I like these pants,” he hisses. “Let me take them off, first.”
It should be an opportunity to cool down and formulate a plan, but he’s distracted by Jotaro’s eyes watching his dick flop out of his pajamas with a rude little smirk on his mouth like this whole situation is some massive accomplishment. He gets to be the first to see Rohan Kishibe’s boner. The gays should award him a medal. It’s doubtful that Jotaro is perceptive enough to notice Rohan’s discomfort, but he does a good job of easing it by running his hands along his arms in an almost tender caress.
“Hey,” Jotaro says, voice gruff.
“Hi.”
They both look down at the space between Rohan’s naked arousal and Jotaro’s own, jutting out of the front of his briefs. Jotaro reaches between them and grips himself through the fabric, readjusting so his shaft lies flat against his pelvis. Rohan bites his lip when the head of his cock breaches the waistband of his underwear to appear with a thatch of dark pubic hair. Rohan doesn’t ask to touch, just lets his hand move on instinct.
“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling down the elastic to unsheath the rest of Jotaro’s gorgeous cut cock. “How do you fit this thing in here?”
“I try not to pop wood in public.”
What a snarker. He almost laughs at how nonchalant Jotaro is about this entire situation, but his belly is wavy with nerves. Rohan wraps his hand around Jotaro’s shaft, trying to mimic how he touches himself. But the angle is wrong, he can’t get his grip right.
“What do you like?” he asks, confidence driven by an innate need to study and learn. He wants to be good at this, the perfectionist in him demands it.
“Two hands?” he brings his left hand up to squeeze the head while his right remains at the base, eyes focused on Jotaro’s face in an effort to gauge his reactions. But Rohan doesn’t know Jotaro well enough to differentiate between his invariable expressions of severity.
There’s a hand on his shoulder suddenly, insistent as it pushes down.
“On your knees,” Jotaro says quietly.
Rohan consents before his knees even touch the hardwood floor. The instant he’s down he wishes they’d moved to a carpeted room because his legs are bony and his kneecaps ache already from holding his weight. But Jotaro’s command makes his dick twitch and the pungent tang of ball sweat is deliciously ripe in his nose. It’s a scent he hates on himself, but on Jotaro it’s different somehow, inciting him to bury his face into the junction of hip and thigh, where pubic hair tickles his lips and chin.
There’s a long moment where Rohan doubts his ability to take Jotaro’s girth. He’s long and thick; even the head looks like a mouthful. But a taste is in order to decipher the flavour, so he lets his tongue out and presses it sloppily against the single visible vein on the side. Salty, as he knew it would be from testing his own ejaculate, but Jotaro’s fingers clench against his shoulder at the action and that alone gives Rohan a thicker skin, encouraging him to wrap his lips fully around the bulbous tip.
It’s not that bad at first. He dutifully covers his teeth with his lips and flattens his tongue to make room as he inches more and more into his mouth. He gets about halfway, jaw stretched and already aching. If he stops to think about how he can almost feel the head on the back of his tongue, precariously near his throat, he will gag. He feels the reflex and catches it before it manifests in an embarrassing retch, pulling back with a suck just in time. His eyes have started to water; he squeezes them shut and a single tear rolls down his cheek.
Jotaro surprises him with a gentle touch to his face. “Good,” he says. “You took a lot on your first try. I’m impressed.”
Rohan wishes he was experienced enough to scoff, could get away with saying "of course, what did you expect?" But the truth is, he could mess this whole encounter up at any moment. Which is amazing, cause Rohan can’t remember the last time he felt so green. He takes Jotaro again and again, never really building up a rhythm or getting further than that halfway point, but Jotaro fists his hair and makes interesting little grunting noises that make Rohan think, hey, maybe this isn't so bad. Yeah, this is fun. Jotaro seems to think so, too, by the way he stares into Rohan's eyes when they make contact and opens his plush mouth around a silent sound. He thrusts once, twice, in a tiny jerk.
“Stick your tongue out,” he commands, pushing Rohan’s hand away to take hold of himself.
Rohan obliges, presenting the long, wet muscle that drips saliva and pre-cum onto his bare knees. Jotaro slaps his dick against it, presses and rubs and drags the tip all through the sloppy mess with gasps and harsh breath coming faster and faster now.
“I want you to fuck me,” Rohan says, pulling back just a little.
It takes Jotaro a second to come out of his daze, but when he refocuses his expression hardens with resolve. “Do you have anything…?”
It takes Rohan a second to figure out what he’s referring to. Eventually he gets it, because he knows the mechanics of gay sex despite being the oldest virgin in M prefecture. Luckily, he’s no stranger to toys.
“Yeah, actually. Hold on.”
Bedroom. The lubricant is in his bedroom, which is down the hall and left of the bathroom. Right. Rohan counts his steps to keep his pace steady. He doesn’t want to think about how he just had Jotaro’s dick near his throat, doesn’t want to worry about how the hell something that big will fit inside him. There’s no reason to wander that mental path, he’s made up his mind, it’s happening. This is a one-way street, so he should just read the road signs as they come instead of anticipating the worst before anything’s happened. At least he’s tidy, which has its benefits. When he enters his room it’s just as neat and organized as he left it this morning. Even his Western-style, four poster bed is made, the mountain of pillows arranged aesthetically. Small, reliable comforts. He finds the lube in his bedside table, nestled snugly between the side of the drawer and his favourite plug.
“You sure you’re a virgin?” Jotaro grunts behind him, making Rohan jolt and spin around, slamming the drawer shut with enough force to make the contents rattle.
“Don’t sneak up on me in my own home!”
Jotaro presents a condom between his thumb and forefinger, waggles it in Rohan's face as if to say, "see? I come prepared." Rohan huffs.
“I’ve used toys before,” he confesses, not at all ashamed. “So it shouldn’t be impossible. You’re a bit longer than even my biggest dildo, though.”
Jotaro doesn’t seem concerned. He doesn’t even appear to be listening, just sits down on the edge of Rohan’s bed like he lives here. A few throw pillows get rearranged and tossed to the side in his (childish, petulant) attempt to get comfortable. Rohan crosses his arms impatiently, still standing, erection waning. Jotaro turns to him and nods his head at the bottle in Rohan’s hand.
“Prepare yourself,” he orders.
“Me?”
“You’re used to it, right? You’ve done it before. Show me.”
Okay. That’s reasonable and a little hot, now that Rohan is actively thinking about it. He gestures for Jotaro to scooch over and sits down at the head of the bed (where all the pillows are). It’d be easier if he could just close his eyes and pretend that he’s alone, but the mattress is dipped by Jotaro’s extra weight and Rohan can feel him watching, even in the darkness of his eyelids. The rip of the condom opening makes Rohan look to where Jotaro unwraps it against his dick, all shiny and pink latex. He must buy extra large.
“Come on,” Rohan encourages him, grabbing his bicep and really feeling the muscle and how tender it is when it isn’t flexed.
Jotaro’s hands are heavy against his hips, pulling him down the bed, flat on his back and closer to where Jotaro is crawling on all fours over him. Their size difference is intimidating now, the older man’s long limbs and thick chest taking up all the space above him, blocking out the light of the lamp overhead. Rohan’s cast in shadow, sucked into the pool of Jotaro’s eyes like he’s caught in a current he can’t swim against. He feels the hot wet slide of Jotaro’s penis against his hole, pressing and pushing and not really getting anywhere. His heart runs up his throat in an attempt to escape. Rohan moves his legs, bends his knees closer to his torso, spreads them even further apart. The silk sheets bunch in his hands.
There’s a lot of trying. Slowly, Jotaro pushes in just the head, then pulls out, then pushes in, again and again, managing to get just a little deeper each time. Rohan’s nerves are exposed beneath Jotaro’s eyes and hands and mouth and cock, making him feel like a bundle of thread pulled taut against a loom. It’s as if he’s never felt his own skin before, trying it on for the first time, but it’s too small for his bones and too tight around his nervous system. He’s never going to fit Jotaro’s dick inside him, it’s never going to fit, but Jotaro is still trying. Inch, inch, inch, and finally, quickly, Rohan opens up and sucks him inside like a vacuum so suddenly that he gasps and jerks upwards, as if to force it out.
“Fuck no, you’re too deep,” Rohan hisses.
He could rip the sheets with how hard he’s pulling on them now, but he likes them and they had been expensive, so he grabs Jotaro’s shoulders and pulls on them instead.
“Get out! Oh my God, get out of me, you’re going to impale me--”
“Shh.” Jotaro winces and presses his forehead against Rohan’s, his hands moving all over his skin.
Rohan can’t move at all. Every small shuffle or readjustment presses a part of Jotaro against him, pushes him deeper. He’s sore already, wrapped around the burning, searing heat of this foreign intruder, and it feels like he’ll never close up again. Jotaro’s toes pull the sheets where they wiggle against the bed, so far away but so distracting. Rohan feels him inhale when he pulls out, not all the way, but Jesus, the relief of pressure against his abdomen is so exhilarating, almost as much as the knowledge that he’s going to fill him up again. Rohan tenses in anticipation and cries out when Jotaro thrusts forward.
Adrenalin. Excitement. The quivery flutters his heart makes every time Jotaro omits a soft sound against his skin and in his hair. These things ease the pain and reawaken his arousal. Jotaro’s thrusts pick up speed, building a slow rhythm, and each push and pull feels like a wave breaking inside him. The gentle, soothing roll back of his hips as his cock leaves him. The low rumble of his thoughts as he prepares for another thrust. The blinding crash back through his channel, up inside him so far he can feel it in his stomach.
He’ll never feel full like this again. That realization is enough to make Rohan wind his fingers in Jotaro’s short hair, pull his face down so he can kiss him. Their lips melt together, their tongues sliding around in both of their mouths like the taste of someone else’s spit is better than even the sweetest dessert wine. It covers the tips of their noses and chins and Rohan’s armpits are wet, an itchy trail of sweat running down his side.
“I can feel you everywhere,” he gasps against Jotaro’s ear, panting with exertion. “All the way down to my toes. It’s amazing.”
Jotaro grunts, too busy concentrating on each pounding thrust, but Rohan doesn’t care that he didn’t respond, just wants to talk about how incredible this is. Saying it aloud makes it real. Maybe he’ll remember all the details, this way, so he can keep the memory of this moment perfect and whole even after Jotaro’s gone.
“You’re quivering. I never thought you’d shiver like this, Jotaro. You’re really falling apart inside me, aren’t you?”
He pulls Jotaro’s head up, forcing him to look at him. Jotaro won’t meet his eyes, but every single one of his lashes trembles as he blinks heavily. His adam’s apple bobs with a thick swallow.
“Aren’t you?”
Jotaro’s hand comes up, the palm sweaty and hot, and covers his mouth. Rohan moans into it, the sound muffled. He clutches that hand and presses it firmer against his lips so he won’t feel so embarrassed about screaming. Jotaro cries out himself, his fingers digging into Rohan’s cheeks and the sharp teeth behind them.
Rohan reaches down with one hand to touch himself where he’s leaking against his belly. He presses it against Jotaro’s abs, feeling them flex. Precum is sticky between them, strings of it connecting their stomachs and clinging to Rohan’s pubic hair. He pulls Jotaro’s hand away and the other is too blissed out to notice.
“I’m gonna cum,” he gasps. “Gonna--”
Jotaro picks up speed, changing the angle so he’s towering high above him. Rohan jerks and winces with a little cry, his grip crushing his shaft with how tight he’s holding himself.
“Gonna cum with your cock inside me, holy shit, Jotaro-saaaan!”
He’s made of static and radio feedback, his head as crowded and noisy as the streets of Tokyo. There are a million people buzzing inside him one second, then they’re all pushed out from the tip of his penis, forced out by his balls along with all coherent thought. He feels hollow afterwards, completely cleansed, like a year of tension has spilled out of him and is now splattered all over his belly and chest. He’s cum so much that he looks like the casualty of a back alley gangbang and some of it is on Jotaro’s neck. Jotaro, who’s still thrusting inside him, which is starting to really hurt now that he isn’t numbed by arousal.
“P-” Rohan starts, but his voice has gone hoarse.
Jotaro smears the cum all over Rohan’s stomach with his hand, pressing down against the concavity of his tummy and applying even more pressure to where he’s stirring him up.
“Pull out!” Rohan gasps.
“Wait.”
“Hurry up, then!”
“Ugh.” Jotaro grunts.
He thrusts a handful of times more, then yanks out of Rohan so fast that his sphincter clenches around nothing. Jesus, he feels empty. He feels completely husked out and he wouldn’t be surprised if he looks down and sees his guts all over the bed. Jotaro’s distracting, though. He’s jerking off into the condom, making this fascinating wet sound, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
“Jotaro-san,” Rohan whispers, belly flip-flopping. “I want to taste it.”
There’s no telling him twice. The condom’s ripped off and Jotaro scrambles up to where he can point his penis at Rohan’s face. Good, Rohan thinks, smelling the musk of him and the faint, sterile scent of the condom.
“You better taste good, or I’ll be disappointed.”
There’s a low groan that travels all the way from Jotaro’s balls to his throat as the red head of his dick disappears and reappears in his fist. Then it twitches, ropes of thick, bitter semen pouring into Rohan’s mouth. It slides against his teeth and down his throat, clinging to the roof of his mouth. Rohan lets it spill down his chin and neck, pooling at the base of throat. As soon as Jotaro is satisfactorily milked, he drops onto the bed hard enough to make Rohan bounce.
Christ. His ass is sore and he’s thoroughly fucked out, like if he closes his eyes now he’ll sleep until next week. The overhead lamp has never been so bright; Rohan’s too sensitive to stare at the blinding ceiling.
“Are you leaving now?” Rohan asks.
“Soon.”
“Okay.”
That’s fine, Rohan thinks, and it is. What else could he possibly want Jotaro’s company for? Certainly not engaging conversation. Pond water...he reminds himself of pond water, murky and opaque, browned by dirt and sand and urban runoff. Maybe there's the occasional vague shadow of something living in that pollution, like a snake or a crab or a soft, reassuring smile. It’s okay, don’t worry, I still remember how to make a guy cum. On the edge of a cold, itchy sleep, Rohan thinks about wedding dresses.