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On the eve of his birth, his mother had always told him that three shooting stars had fallen to the earth, divine providence plunging him into the world with a mark of the occasion on his ear for all to see. She had always believed the circumstances of his arrival were a blessing, a gift that she cherished so readily. A boy all of her own to cradle, feed, and nurture. For a while, her warm bosom was all he knew, comforting, soft, home. Her nature was gentle in all that she did. She was too kind and tender for what the world gave to her; a vitriolic foul beast of a husband in Dario Brando. But then such is the nature of things, innocence cannot thrive without darkness to contrast its light.
Those early years with her in his life had been all the hope he had to cling to when all his dreams were crushed so easily overnight, leaving him motherless, left with nothing but the brute he was forced to call father to make his measly accommodations a home. All of her teachings of love and gentleness eroded over years of attrition at Dario’s hand. He owed her his life. Without her firm insistence that the money from pawning George Joestar’s ring go towards affording their young son the education he so desperately deserved, Dario would have squandered it on dog fights and cheap liquor long before it eventually did expire. Of course, he had acted like it was his idea all along. Educating his sole heir was the first step of a grand destiny wherein his son was born to take from the world all that was rightfully his.
Envy had always plagued him, even when his mother was alive. Seeing the more affluent pupils at his school afford dinner and ride home in a horse-drawn carriage. Some even went as far as to throw him scraps and ensure their driver pulled the coach away from the curb through the dirtiest of London’s filth to splash his britches. He would go home in seething silence, holes in the bottom of his shoes rubbing at blistered feet as he joined the dining table for a banquet of nothing once more, his repulsive father had seen fit to gamble away the money that was supposed to feed them. More often than not his mother, the saintly figure that she was, would forego food so that he might have enough to maintain his concentration at school.
She had always been spiritual. One could have made the mistake of calling her religious given her piety, but they didn’t see the things her faith tested her with. Dario had always regarded his wife as weak, her kindness and soft nature were the objects of his drunken rages on several occasions. One night as they were reciting their nightly prayers beside the bed under the watchful eye of the crucifix that had remained above his headboard as long as he could remember, Dario returned from a three-day absence in a blind fury. He broke one of the wooden chairs by the hearth as he entered and saw fit to discard whatever bottle he had been drinking to the floor. Shards scattered all around as he threw the door open to raise his mother to her feet by her lapels.
Being a child there was naught he could do but cry, earning him a blistering backhand that welted his pretty face for the subsequent three weeks. She had pleaded with him to spare Dio, shielding him with her own body so the blows wouldn’t connect. When the ordeal was through he defiled the one symbol of hope that she had, he spat on the crucifix, stating that there is no God save for man himself, why else would they live like this?
He was right of course. If God made man in His image, then the responsibility for their meagre existence rested firmly on the shoulders of their local deity, Dario. To escape the chains of his proletariat trappings he became a godhead in his own right, ascending from the gutter using the contempt he harboured deep in his soul. Fed by Dario’s particular brand of cruelty and the actions of his peers, it bestowed upon him a rage that would fuel him for the rest of his spite filled life. Ultimately his mother died as a cruel twist of fate after years of malnourishment and beatings at the hands of Dario and the foreman of the textile mill she was forced to work at to support the family while his father continued to drink and scheme, she succumbed to a brief but tumultuous consumption. The sickness was curable, the remainder of the money from the Joestars would have seen to that. But as the depths to his profligacy knew no bounds, Dario had already squandered it, stating that she was a lost cause.
While his hatred for his 'father' before this was bountiful, afterwards his acrimony knew no bounds. He was responsible for her death and her blood was on his hands. His and the Joestars, without their cursed pity the money would never have reached Dario’s grubby fingers, he would never have had the funding to drown himself in booze and come home to savagely beat his wife and child. Pity and charity were what the affluent of society convinced themselves was benevolent mercy, a kindness for the great unwashed, something to soothe their aching souls between Sunday masses.
Killing Dario had been just such a kindness. An arduous and drawn-out death by poisoning was mercy compared to the years of torture Dio had endured. His resolve had begun to sharpen the moment the light from his mother’s eyes faded, he would raise himself from this slum and take what the world owed him at whatever cost. A few more years of Dario’s ceaseless barrage shaped him into the spiteful man he was, every word venomous, every action laced with barbs. He became his father’s son. He had always intended to be Dario’s end, the prospect had been dangled before him like a carrot on a stick the second he was left alone with his father, like the glowing beacon of a great becoming; waiting for the time to be right and playing the long con until he could cash in on the tragedy of being an orphan the most.
Dio had always prided himself on his cunning, sly and quick when needed, but he was just as quick to anger when the mood hit him. When Dario had suggested that he find work to sustain them now that his mother was no more, he hadn’t risen to it. When Dario had said he was far too delicate to dirty his hands in the gutter to survive, he hadn’t risen to it. But when he came home in an all too familiar stupor and suggested he knew a place, a ringer where he could find ample use for his feminine features for £2 a time if he tucked it between his legs, the fury it produced rivalled one of Dario’s own. That was the first time he released a fraction of the mania he had born witness to all of his life, it was also the first time he truly felt alive.
His classmates soon afterwards found him someone to be feared, dominating them in spirit brought him a joy he had never before felt. It wasn’t long after this he made his first visit to the apothecary on ogre street. By the time Dario’s life ended, the feeling of killing him was akin to the relief of scraping the filth from one’s boots. Without his presence to hold him back, he was ready to find his place where he belonged, with the upper echelon of society hidden amongst the lofty ceilings and numerous rooms of the Joestar mansion, free to give them his thanks for all their charity.
Manipulating them to his gain had been exactly as easy as he had thought. The elder Joestar falling to his charms immediately, having a ‘brother’ as a contrast no doubt helped him appear even more refined. Excelling in all studies given to him came naturally so the fact that Jonathan was such a hopeless student made him seem even better, George was only human after all. It was easy to love someone as your own when they excelled in every task handed to them, especially when your sole biological heir was as pitiful as Jojo. Be it his table manners, his lack of dedication to his studies, or his tendency to run headfirst into any and all dangers.
For the longest time before he came to the Joestars, all he had known was relationships based on mutual distrust and antagonism for the sake of antagonism, anything beneficial was either taken or stolen. Taking from them that which he coveted was destined to be, the world owed him as much. He hated Jojo for his naieveté, for his insolence, but even more so as a symbol of all that he was meant to be. All of his wealth, the opportunities afforded to him, to never have experienced the dregs of society nor fend for himself amongst them. He was unworthy of his station and he, Dio, made sure to bring that to an end.
From the moment he stepped foot onto the estate every interaction with Jonathan had been designed to break him in spirit completely. Disposing of that disgusting mutt he called his best friend to isolate him so that Dio was his only companion. Following him into the pursuit of boxing to best him yet again to surpass him at every level. Stealing his first love's kiss so that he would be behind him every step of the way. Every conversation measured, every encounter designed so that he, Dio, would consume his every waking and unconscious thought, becoming his own personal Jesus. Feigning friendship at the opportune moments of weakness whilst Jojo was his most alone to deepen the illusion and further his confinement in a cage of Dio’s own making.
Ultimately, his successes in breaking Jojo’s will were short-lived. No matter how many times he spat at the boy, trod his heel into the dirt to wipe it over his face, conspired against him, spouted pure vitriol at him, it never kept him down as long as Dio intended. Thoughts of corrupting him, mind and soul until he bent and broke, finally submitting to his will were all he could fill his time with, becoming an obsession. It was offensive to Dio how his light refused to be extinguished.
In the end, killing George had just been a step on the way to his final destination, as much personal as it was necessary. It was truly unfortunate that Jojo had to develop a spine just in time to thwart his plans, even more deplorable yet were his dying words of forgiveness. How dare Jojo assume that he, Dio, required the acceptance of one such as Jonathan Joestar. No permissions were necessary when taking that which was rightfully yours.
Being trapped under a thousand fathoms of sea with nothing for company save for the sanctified head of your long time rival would no doubt have broken someone of lesser resolve. Once the life left Jonathan’s eyes he had immediately begun his gruelling work to decapitate his adoptive brother. In his weakened state, the process was laborious and fatiguing. Although he had adapted to his nocturnal state shortly after his vampiric debut, in the absence of a day/night cycle, time had no meaning. With no real reason to sleep the only thing that marked the passage of time were the periods it took to regain energy after working his way through the corded muscles of Jonathan’s neck, waiting to sever the spinal column last. Without the flow of air in the sealed tomb, the corpse was preserved perfectly, the only indicator that anything had befallen him was the trickle of separated plasma and red blood cells pooling underneath the hole where his oafish head had once been.
Being free of one’s humanity didn’t preclude pain from occurring. Although he had escaped death several times, pain was something inevitable for all beings. As he assumed position atop Jonathan’s neck, blood vessels began to knit together once more. Nerve endings forming new connections, limbic system rejoining with physical effectors, every cell reforming and wounds meshing shut was excruciating. To feel each singular sinew and tendon connect and be tested at an agonising pace was a pain the like of which he had never before experienced. No one could hear him scream of course, the darkest depths of the ocean will do that.
Once the process was complete he took a moment to admire his work in the only manner available to him given his current confinement. Fingertips now his running over every inch of flesh afresh, for his first time. The body he had observed for so long from childhood, frivolous outings in the beck at spring, icy cold crystals trickling through raven hair and down tanned skin, through to adolescence and early adulthood in close quarters after roughhousing post rugby match, mud scuffed kneecaps, split knuckles, and the yellowing of bruises over pale ribs. The same body he had needed when Jonathan began to show his prowess and strength as a warrior, rippling muscles and steadfast resolve combining to make a man worthy of him. The body he coveted even more so knowing it was Jojo, his Jojo he was occupying.
His fingers ghosted over the brutal scarring at the junction between what was once Jonathan and himself. It would likely take numerous lives to fuel the healing needed to lessen the appearance, the taking of which one such as Dio was no stranger to, and in fact, he relished the thought of his impending release and the subsequent scourge of the local populace. In the darkness of his velvet-lined tomb, nothing was visible, nothing audible but himself, and the only sensations found to be that of touch. The hairs on his neck brushed against Jonathan's head as he jostled to face his sleeping visage. Saint Rita of Cascia could only dream of upholding the level of incorruptibility in death that Jojo’s sanctified skull had achieved. Thick eyelashes closed as though dreaming peacefully, soft lips ever so gently parted, all that was missing was the telltale rise and fall of a beating heart and the soft sighs of one sleeping.
It had crossed his mind that Jonathan’s purity and virtue in life had strayed across the mortal coil and preserved his physical form. However, such thoughts could be dismissed as flights of fancy, there was no ineffable plan at large here save from his own, no one capable of such design except himself, Dio. Reaching up to place his fingers in Jonathan’s cherubic curls, Dio brought his head to his chest, holding it to him as he settled in for the wait of a lifetime until something inevitably disturbed his slumber.
By the time he was raised from the seabed and found his way to Egypt he couldn’t tell how much time had passed. From the accounts of his new acquaintances, he had lost nearly 100 years to syncopated solipsism. Much had changed in the world, the night was no longer dark and full of danger, luxuries once dreamed about by the highest of society were now readily available to anyone and everyone, and the fashion of this age would be considered scandalous even in a brothel, not that he minded. The scantily-clad form of any gender was well appreciated by himself, especially his own. Jonathan’s body was beautiful from all angles, and even more so now it was his to adorn and admire as he saw fit.
His charms and appearance had always made it easy to lure in unsuspecting subjects and this skill had only been compounded with the addition of his vampiric abilities and developing the ability to implant parts of his own consciousness into another, but now his technique was perfectly honed he was positively beguiling. He chose his disciples carefully. Only those who drew his interest, mind and body were welcomed into his fold. The most powerful among them were allowed to remain, forming his inner circle of most loyal servants and aides.
He tended to his flock as any merciful deity would, they were in his thrall right until the end. It was best to watch the light leave their eyes as they realised his true motivations unencumbered by any supernatural euphoric delirium. The spray of crimson released when his canines tore their necks open, mutilated flesh slit wide for his delight, was all the more delicious for the momentary betrayal realised across their features. Bodies littered his chambers, emptied of essence and hollow. No one batted an eye. They came to him as lambs to the slaughter, fuel for a higher cause. At this point, they were part of the decor, as much furniture as the lavish drapes and gold-encrusted canopied bed where he performed his daily floor show.
The interiors of the mansion had been outfitted and decorated by a very agreeable benefactor. Although the fashions of this new age suited Dio just fine, the homewares, however, left much to be desired. His current collection of pieces had been collected over the 5 years he had spent out of the casket, each from somewhere he had passed through whilst amassing his followers, all meticulously placed for maximum dramatization. Among his favourites was his replica siege d’amour - if it was good enough for royalty it was surely worthy of a god, one of Sir Philip Burne-Jones vampire defence sets minus the holy water which had long since desiccated, and an obsidian sacrificial dagger adorned with a mosaic figure of the god of fertility - believed to be Olmec in origin.
Regardless of the monetary value of any and all items in the mansion, his most prized possession by far was completely priceless. Something with which he would never part, intimately connected to him and a mark of his prowess, mastery, and domination. Wang Chan’s design had been difficult to replicate but with the right manufacturer and glassblower, the new crystal chamber was nigh on indistinguishable to the original. It had to be said that Dio much preferred the view from the outside opposed to the view his unfortunate predicament had given him all those years ago in 1888. It held pride of place directly across from the bed on its own shelf, surrounded at all times by a meticulously chosen floral array. At this moment the arrangement consisted of bay tree blossoms, hyssop, sage, and narcissus, the surrounding yellow blossoms framing the memorial beautifully.
The slumbering visage of one Jonathan Joestar encased in glass and preserved for all to see during his activities.
One could not help but wonder, were he to bear witness in life to all that occurred within these four walls would his expression curdle? Would his virtue be sullied by the exposure to such sin? Would even his purity be corrupted by Dio? For five years Dio had pondered this very idea and as of yet Jonathan had remained unblemished, no matter how many women and men met their end in front of him, how many pleasured him, Dio, and took their pleasure from him, how depraved his tastes; Jonathan did not turn.
Oftentimes Dio would speak to his brother still, goading him into looking upon whatever wretched scene he had laid out for him. Other times he found his gaze shifting from his disciples in the final throes, unable to think of anything but Jojo. Sometimes he would bring a willing participant close to the case, letting their blood splatter across his image and drip onto the floor as he reached climax as a kind of perverted exaltation.
Occasionally an apostle would come along who was different from the regular fare, one who would seek him out after the accompanying susurrus that came when he hunted had died down. They were few, but it never failed to fan his ego when someone was so drawn to him they had to seek him out, not knowing that they were walking straight into the lion’s maw. It was fun to toy with them, some saw themselves as prophets aligning with a newborn God to guide them to a great destiny. Only half wrong, their participation was never essential to what amounted to manifest destiny, but he would only ever reveal his truths when the timing was opportune. One such messenger came to him proclaiming him to be born of the angels to usher in a new age. It was a pleasant change compared to the numbers of religiously ill-informed who had labelled him, Dio, a Nephilim and his followers hellbound before he had revealed his true form unto them. This ‘prophetess’ was not proud either, she came to him on her knees, uttering psalm 23:1 into the dip of his thighs as she proved her dedication to the cause.
He found her amusing with her liberal application of scripture and hushed reverence, so devout in her ministrations. She could stay, if only for a little while. Her mutterings reminded him of long ago when he and Jojo had both attended Sunday school as upstanding victorian boys on the cusp of manhood. Just one of the many studies such as the language of flowers that the late George Joestar had insisted they learn to become perfect gentlemen. The interpretation of the King James edition she spouted, although novel, was not the one Canon Greaves had drilled into them both. As with his other academic exploits, Dio had excelled with ease while Jonathan had found the regimented style the Canon delivered hard to follow and his penchant for cruelty too readily exercised. At times they had discussed at length what the teachings of St Paul’s epistles meant for the contemporary man, candlelit silhouettes amongst the Joestar library bathed in the amber glow of the hearth only, stopping for sleep once Jojo’s eyelids started to droop.
Jojo had always deferred to Dio in crises of faith, a fault of the weak to seek guidance even in matters so fundamental. It would have been cruel to deny him and leave him lost, so being the kind-hearted brother that he was, Dio would oblige. When covering the application of faith in marriage, their readings had landed upon the song of Solomon. Each pupil had been tasked with reciting the canticle from memory so that they might remember the place of the church in the union of man and wife, Jojo had made it to verse 5 before faltering. It would have appeared that this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back for the Deacon leading class who announced that for his insubordination he would receive ten lashes from the tawse at the Canon’s hand. As he was led out of the room by his ear their gazes met, Jojo’s eyes frenzied, like an animal being led to slaughter. His flesh always had been soft and easy to bruise. Dio had to look away, pressing his legs together tightly to dispel the stirring of heat in his prick that the thought of Jojo pressed over the Canon’s desk, exposed and red raw from punishment had caused.
When they had ridden home in the carriage Jojo had not wept, nor did he speak. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery and he had stumbled on the stone steps of the schoolhouse, even with Dio’s support. When they finally reached the manor and both boys had made it across the threshold Jonathan had collapsed into him, fat tears teeming in his deep blue eyes, falling freely down his chin and splashing on the cold stone floor. Dio had wanted to taste it, his misery. Lap his tears from his face and savour it on his tongue, revel in it as he reached rapture. Jojo begged him not to tell their father, he couldn’t face another defeat. Dio had carried him to his chambers, demanding that the maids bring them bandages and calamine lotion to dress his wounds and swearing them to secrecy under pain of death.
It had taken every ounce of self-control Dio had to pry the soaked shirt off Jojo gently and play nurse. Once uncovered, the ten weeping lacerations glistened tantalizingly in the light, crimson making way for puce, then florid splashes punctuated with darkening maroon. Each welt had a ridge, a blistering contusion interspersed with broken skin and drying scabs. He reached out to touch it, ghosting his fingertips over the contours in the expanse of Jojo’s back, wondering what it would feel like if he pressed the pads of his fingers into them and applied just enough pressure, the noises he would make, would he cry out? Would he whimper? Moan? What he would give to cause Jojo to make those noises, to have Jonathan make him moan like that.
Instead, he bathed his wounds gently, taking in every shudder of Jojo’s back when he brushed too harshly against him. Once all of his injuries were clean Jonathan had broken the reverent silence, requesting that Dio recite the song of Solomon to him as he dressed the wounds. How could he deny his brother such an impassioned request. He gathered the lotion on a rag and gently pressed it to the first sanguine laceration.
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for thy love is better than wine
Jojo winced as he moved over each millimetre of exposed flesh with a tremulous grip.
My beloved is mine, and I am his; he feedeth among the lilies
He considered what Jonathan’s skin would taste like, if he were to press his lips against his nape.
Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely
Would it taste salty from the sheen of sweat? would it taste bitter of the calamine? would he be able to savour it, rolling it across his palate? or would Jojo pull away? What if he bit down till he tasted blood, letting the liquid gush and pool in his mouth?
Before his pondering reached its culmination Jonathan had turned about-face to meet him, holding the end of a bandage against his side to begin winding it around his torso. His drowsy bloodshot eyes fixated on Dio’s as his flushed lips parted, breathing heavily as his eyelashes dipped downwards and he uttered those words,
I have washed my feet; how shall I defile them?
Dio’s mind reeled at the thought. To defile Jojo. To debase him and desecrate his precious innocence. Every impure thought he had ever dared dream just waiting to be released if Jojo said the word. Like a pandora’s box of twisted and sinful desires buried deep within him. His cock twitched at the idea, thick and heavy heat resting deep in his stomach and at the base of his spine, threatening the integrity of the stitching at the front of his britches. He felt woozy, heady intoxication already in effect as his fingers brushed against Jonathan’s whilst taking the bandaging from his hand. He cursed his biology for giving him away so easily. Though the light from the paraffin lamp was weak, his full-bodied blush would still be visible across his pale complexion, if Jojo hadn’t noticed his brother's prick pressed hard into his thigh already.
Darkness had finally fallen in Cairo, the sun didn’t take much time to set near the equator so he was never waiting for very long. Taking to the streets, he no longer felt the need to cling to the shadows, unveiling himself to whomsoever took his fancy without care of who was caught in the crossfire. One with ebony curls cresting around their cheekbones, one with the deepest blue eyes, one strong enough to resist him physically if he weren’t so dazzling. How many was it now? Twenty? Thirty? Tempting them into his lair to ‘show’ Jonathan just how beyond salvation he was to spite him, how dare he believe he was redeemable, something worthy of love. His appetites had been increasing for some time now, no matter how much he drank, how many he lured back to his domain, he was never sated. He took them all to his bed just the same, just bodies, vessels for him to take his fill.
His performance would last hours, nearing the dawn before he killed the last of the participants. Though he never remembered their faces, to Dio they were a blur of limbs, flesh and viscera, a flurry of ecstasy followed by a fleeting feeling of contentment, he did savour every second that they were in his care. When he brought them to his kingdom they would bow down to him as God incarnate, to be reborn in him through glorious sin. His little children would suffer unto him, he was as their shepherd.
This time was different. Waking up amongst the assembled carnage of the previous night he did not feel the same satisfaction of a job well done. There was no lingering aftertaste of his pleasure, no riding the coattails of his earlier high. A foul mood it should be then, to set the tone for the day. He rose from where he had lain, feet dancing around the bodies strewn over the room like clothing shed in a hurry, kicking them aside when the path wasn’t clear, he made his way to the foot of the bed. The doors to his chambers were open, no doubt one of his lackeys was due to make the rounds and dispose of the leftovers. The prophetess made herself at home as she thumbed the brocade and gilded edges of the four-poster bed.
The flowers around Jonathan were different now, pink camellia, gardenia, marigold and dark crimson roses surrounded his crystal tomb. The gold and deep sanguine blossoms accented the decor perfectly, making way for blushed pink and pure white closer to Jojo’s sleeping expression. The prophetess moved around the bed, tracing the outline of whatever lay there, mumbling prayer after prayer that he cared not to hear.
By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth; I sought him but I found him not.
A beat passed before he recognised the exact origin of the scripture quoted.
The song of Solomon.
The vases were the first things to shatter. Glass shards shimmered refracted light suspended in the atmosphere. Curled fists so tight he could hear bones break connecting with ornate mirrors. Wine coloured velvet ripped from its mooring. Golden beading bouncing across the tiles punctuating his explosive anger. Silk threads torn asunder and shredded in his hands. Petals drifted gently to the floor after being ripped from their stems. He sank to the floor, Jonathan the only survivor of his outburst as a harrowing scream was ripped from his throat. If anyone had witnessed it then they had rapidly made themselves scarce as he was now the only occupant in the wrecked room.
He slunk over to Jojo’s home on the shelf, dragging himself up with his hands as he let his head hang down into the crux of his elbow. Eyelids pressed hard into his cheeks lest his gaze meet Jonathan’s judgement. He had accomplished his goal, but at what cost? To literally become his brother’s keeper? He had taken from him that which he coveted so, yet even with his dying breath, he forgave him his sins.
What was the purpose of this charade? If a man is condemned to hell then he is bound to that fate by the initial sin. Far better be it to earn one's place as a maverick than to be pried from life as a resentful husk, barely fulfilling one's depraved potential. He, Dio, was not this moment of weakness, he needed to feel control again, to indulge. Stalking the corridors of the mansion, glass fragments tore up his feet leaving bloodied prints behind him but he cared not. He came upon the prophetess, no doubt sensing the vicious aura emanating from him she immediately prostrated herself, bowing so deeply into the carpet her nose parted the pile. Digging his claws into her collarbone and shoulder he hauled her wailing carcass to the bedroom, shoving her forcefully down onto the remains of the destroyed silk sheets and loose feathers. How her reverent tone changed, still worshipful, but now in fear of her God’s wrath. Her desperate pleas were honeyed music to his ears.
Her dress fluttered to the ground in tatters as he relieved her of its constricting form. Terror danced across her eyes, pupils dilating as she fought against her urge to run, to fight back. Her God was merciful, he would never harm her without reason, all would make sense if she just gave herself willingly to him. He pinned her with one hand as his other held her thighs open for him to drink from her femoral artery. He uttered sweet nothings into her skin before feeding. She was his pet just for tonight, he wouldn’t do anything she wouldn’t enjoy. His fangs pierced her as she let out a whine, drinking just enough to subdue her, but she would not die yet, unable to move due to blood loss. Her voice was hoarse but still struggling to worship him with her words. He retrieved the sacrificial knife from his dresser and used it to make four deep incisions across her stomach and upper thighs, letting it clatter and bounce across the floor as soon as the claret liquid began to pour from the wounds and over her womanhood.
He pressed his mouth tight to her, running his broad tongue over her slit drenched in blood, savouring the meal he had made for himself, sweetened by her surrender. What could be closer to heaven than the warm, silken depths of another’s body? Fresh cunt adorned in trickling rivulets of ruby like a fine chandelier. As the prophetess gasped her last while she bled out, he sat on the floor with his back resting on the bed frame, blood leaking from his lips and streaming down his chin onto his toned chest.
His eyes made their way across the room and finally reached Jojo’s serene expression. Having the world in the palm of your hand wasn’t nearly as fun as the act of using said fact to grind a heel into the necks of those who would oppose you. What is an unstoppable force without its immovable object? He was alone, a man out of time, without the one person who tried to understand him.
What had once seemed like a blessing, youth eternal, life never-ending to experience the delights of the flesh had now become a poisoned chalice. Cursed to roam this salted heath forever, deathless, seeking that which was now out of reach. Each sensation diminished, pleasure turning to ash in his mouth. Life is nothing without context, sorrow to balance joy as triumph contrasts defeat. Being deprived of the most fundamental of human experiences; to die, under the guise of being elevated to a position above that of mere mortals was a trap.
Whoever had removed the corpses had replaced the flowers as well, Jojo was now surrounded by daffodils and primroses.
What had once been a trophy, a mark of conquest, was now beginning to look more like a shrine.
He plucked Jojo from the case and took him in his arms. He had to leave this place, there was nothing here for him now. He took to the window and scaled down the mansion wall, pacing the Cairo streets in the last hour before dawn frantically searching for what he had lost. His feet pounded the pavement as Jonathan’s sleeping head bobbed against his chest where he was swaddled. Soon they would be reunited. He headed to the river, his bare feet nestling in the sandy banks of the Nile, ready for rebirth. He collapsed into the silt as he removed Jojo from the sling around his torso and brought him to his face. Bitter kisses pressed to his closed eyes and parted lips. If he couldn’t be with him in this life he would be in the next.
Parting his lips in a grimace he drew his fangs across his wrist, tearing the flesh open for his blood to pour freely. He pulled Jonathan close to his chest, next to his unbeating heart, a last-ditch attempt at resurrection mirroring the last time they had been alive together. He took his bloody fingers, placing them in Jojo’s mouth, and rubbed the lifeblood across his gums.
There they stayed, huddled amongst the reeds of the river Nile until a fiery red began to seep across the purple dawn.
He felt a searing pain in his left shoulder as his skin began to sizzle in the morning sun. The Joestar birthmark. Jonathan’s kin had made it to Cairo.
Wherever he went they would hunt him, in committing fratricide he had unwittingly made Jonathan a martyr for his cause. Even now Jonathan’s stand haunted him, ever-present, showing him visions of those who wished him dead. The blood of the Joestars was cursed and demanded vengeance.
If he were cursed then so be it, it was Jojo’s doing, and he shall make him watch as he burns his entire bloodline to the ground for the privilege of doing so.