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Sometimes Giorno sits in the armchair by the door; sometimes he sits at the foot of the bed. Today he decides to sit on the chaise lounge by the window as he watches his father feed on his prey for tonight, and he decides he likes this spot. From here, he can drink in all the details of the way Dio reclines on the bed with the effortless grace seen in sculptures of dying heroes. Backlit by the moonlight with his face in shadow, Giorno can see everything Dio does and pretend that Dio can’t see the hunger in his eyes, pretend that he can’t see the way his fingers twitch by his thigh. Every so often, though, Dio fixes him with a gaze that reminds Giorno that he's not faceless and that he can be seen - it makes his breath hitch, it orders him to behave and be patient. It makes him feel small. He’ll get his turn. He’ll be patient.
The body gives a gurgle as the last of its blood is drained, but Giorno pays it no mind. Instead, he admires the way how Dio’s muscles ripple and flex as he moves to cast the body aside. Dio's skin is pale under the moonlight, but the blood contrasts starkly where it’s smeared around his mouth and drips down onto his hands. Seeing it reminds him of how firm his father feels, as if his body hewn from marble and not flesh, and for a moment he's jealous of the body crumpled on the floor, that it had gotten to feel Dio's touch before him. Giorno balls up his hands into fists and forces his breathing to be steady, even if his heart isn't.
Giorno’s heart leaps up to his throat when Dio turns towards him - finally , he can have his father’s attention all to himself - then he jumps when he blinks and, suddenly, Dio stands in front of him, still and statuesque as he looms over him. Giorno reaches a hand out to creep his fingers up Dio’s bare torso, skimming over his abs to squeeze and grope at his breast, carefully watching his father’s face for a reaction all the while. Dio remains neutral. Whatever he's thinking or feeling right now, Giorno can't tell.
Giorno blinks again, and Dio is sitting next to him, legs spread invitingly and his arms stretched across the back of the chaise lounge, so he crawls over into his lap and straddles his father's thigh. Looking down at him, Giorno finds himself irritated at all the blood sullying Dio’s hands and face - it’s so dark in this light that it looks black, and it’s unpleasantly thick like tar - so he takes Dio’s hand in his and starts cleaning it with little laps of his tongue. Dio’s fingers are cold in his mouth. The blood on his hands tastes bitter.
When Giorno finishes with one hand, he starts with the other, and once he's finished with that, he goes about cleaning up the smears on Dio's face slowly and methodically. He nips and sucks along his jaw for a while before going in for a kiss, wet tongue licking at Dio’s lips carefully. Dio stays perfectly still - he doesn’t even breathe - and when Giorno pulls away to ask why he isn’t responding, Dio meets him with a smirk, casually says, “You’re awfully needy tonight,” and Giorno feels like he wants to scream.
He hides his frustration (at least, he tries to) as he renews his passions with vigour - he licks away a smear of blood on Dio’s jaw, then nips his way down his neck, stopping when he finds a pulse and he stays there, biting and sucking as if he really could break the skin. Giorno digs his nails into Dio’s shoulders, clawing at them for purchase as if something could tear him away at any moment. A sudden urge to glut himself on the blood coursing through his father's veins swells up within him, violent and ravenous - he wants to get at the liquid gold with animalistic fervour, with the tearing of teeth and claws, but no matter how hard he tries, even as he bites down hard enough that he feels like his jaw might break, he can't pierce the skin. Giorno whines against Dio's neck.
Dio gently pries Giorno away just long enough to dig his nails into his own skin, just below the jagged scar, to cut right where Giorno wants to drink from. Giorno's mouth waters as he watches the blood spurt out rhythmically in time with Dio's pulse. He’s quick to latch on with a groan, greedily taking mouthful after mouthful of the sweet nectar. His heart swells with joy at how right this feels, but there’s a small instinct in the back of his mind crying out that it’s not enough - there’s something missing.
“The blood of Jonathan Joestar,” Dio murmurs, “How does it taste? Do you like it?”
Dio shifts slightly, just enough to press against Giorno’s growing erection; Giorno squeaks out a moan and feels his cheeks redden.
“I suppose I don’t have to ask, do I?”
As he drinks, Giorno looks up through half-lidded eyes to gaze through the golden strands of Dio’s hair and out of the window; the skies are dark tonight, heavy with storm clouds - in the rain, the pavement below shines like silver. The absence of starlight feels reassuring - it brings Giorno peace of mind that he doesn’t have to be reminded about the stars on his and his father's backs whenever he looks up. Comforted somewhat, Giorno ruts against Dio's thigh. He shivers as Dio shifts a little under him, pressing against his hardness just so, and his skin crawls with the need to be touched.
"You’re so selfish," Dio coos as he forces Giorno to be still with a hand on his hip. It's the most he's actively touched him tonight. "With all the time you're making me spend with you, your brothers are going to start thinking I'm playing favourites."
Giorno whines again and bucks his hips in an attempt to get more friction on his aching cock, which twitches as he draws more blood into his mouth. He feels a ghostly presence behind him, then another pair of hands on his waist to keep him still, so he begrudgingly parts from the wound at Dio's neck to peek behind him. The World watches him, neutral as ever, regarding him with the same indifference as it does enemies. Giorno shudders. He goes back to lapping up what blood is left from the wound, the gush trickling down to a stream as the flesh knits itself back together. In that moment, he feels so small, so insignificant, so vulnerable - Dio could dirty his hands once more and squash him like an insect without a second thought. With the way he keeps looking at him, Giorno worries that he actually might.
Such thoughts right now are useless. It's better to worry about more pressing matters.
"I want you to suck my dick," Giorno says abruptly. Without waiting for an answer, he clambers off of Dio's lap and stands expectantly.
Dio laughs at him before settling on his knees, slowly, deliberately. The look he gives him is one that challenges, one that goads him on.
How vexing it is.
Giorno hurriedly pulls his dick out from the confines of his pants, shivering as it's exposed to the cold air. He hesitates for a moment as he watches Dio part his lips and offer his mouth to him without question, but when he spies a sharp glint of fangs, he pushes his doubts away and begins thrusting into Dio’s mouth, hard and fast and aimless. This is for his own sake, he tells himself, for his own physical pleasure. He tries to focus on how nice it feels to sheathe himself someplace so warm and wet and comforting, on how close he feels with his father.
Giorno tries, but he's all too aware of how Dio isn't sucking, or using his tongue, or anything - just letting him desperately fuck his mouth. Tangling his fingers into his father’s hair, Giorno pulls him onto his cock until he feels his balls resting against his chin, hoping that he could get him to choke a little, or to get some sort of reaction. Dio doesn’t gag; his throat doesn’t tighten up. Nothing. He’s not surprised when Dio doesn’t respond, but he can’t help but be disappointed that he gets nothing save for the lewd spit-slick sounds that follow after every thrust.
Giorno’s brows furrow. Just focus on the way it feels , he tells himself, nothing else . He continues to fuck Dio’s throat violently, and tries to delight in how good it feels to fuck someone’s throat without having to let them breathe once in a while. He tries to ignore the way his heart tightens with something suspiciously close to sorrow.
"Papa, do you like this?" Giorno finds himself asking. His head falls back as he lets out a groan. "Do you like me?"
Again, Giorno expects no reply, but the disappointment twists into something small and vulnerable - it tightens around his heart as he starts breathing out whines, airy and pitiful. He looks down to where Dio’s nose is buried in the sparse hair below his belly and groans, brushing his hand against his cheek to see if tenderness would be any better in getting a reaction than roughness. Dio stays as still as he is stone-cold; he doesn’t even look at him.
It hurts.
The resulting sickness in Giono’s stomach, churning and twisting, dampens the feeling of his gut tightening with arousal and his balls drawing tight, and before he knows it, he’s giving a final few stuttering aborted thrusts into Dio’s mouth and releasing into the wet clutch of his throat. It’s deeply unsatisfying - it leaves him feeling empty and wondering if he really should’ve come here tonight. He pulls out, shivering as he’s exposed to the cold air once again.
Dio rises to his feet, towering over Giorno again. He’s unblemished, his skin unmarred, uneroded and unaffected by time and tonight’s events. Giorno doesn’t want to imagine what he must look like in comparison, panting and sweaty and dishevelled. With a groan, he collapses into Dio’s chest.
Giorno clings to his father's arms as his knees tremble. He's then swept up in a bruising kiss, and he feels repulsed - his cum tastes bitter and foul against his own tongue. Giorno wrenches himself away from the kiss before tucking his cock back into his trousers, suddenly feeling his skin crawling with shame. The idea of their blood mingling inside him sets a horrible roiling feeling in the pit of his stomach; it makes his face feel warm, with a buzzing in his ears like carrion flies.
Despite his disgust, Giorno lets himself be pulled back into Dio’s arms where he’s kissed again; it’s much gentler this time. Giorno nips at Dio’s plush lower lip, sucking at it as if he could draw the sweet loving words he wants to hear from his father as easily as he had drawn his blood. When Dio pulls him away, Giorno looks up expectantly, searching his father’s eyes for affection, but finds only cold, hard indifference.