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Jonathan’s well aware he doesn’t exactly fit the pub’s target demographic, but he’s always liked The Luck & Pluck. He enjoys the solid, old-fashioned food they serve and the creaky leather armchairs. Nobody bats an eye when he spends the evening reading, and occasionally one of the regulars challenges him to a round of chess. Everybody calls him either son or love; the phrase “a home away from home” comes to mind, except the Luck & Pluck feels homey in a way the massive, drafty house Jonathan grew up in rarely ever did.
Also, the stout is really, really good.
He’s just ordered a pint of it when someone by his elbow says, “Cor blimey,” in the kind of reverent, breathy voice Jonathan associates exclusively with pristine historical artifacts, and upon turning his head, he comes face to face with one of the strangest fellows he’s ever seen. His hair is long and unkempt in a way that has to be deliberate, he’s got a massive scar running across his cheek, and his torn-up shirt bears the legend OGRE STREET ANIMALZ.
While Jonathan’s still wondering why on earth someone would want to spell “animals’’ like that, the stranger asks, “You’re, what, six foot? Six-two?”
“Er. Six three, actually,” Jonathan replies uneasily. He’s heard this question before, and more often than not, the conversation ends with a highly inebriated individual challenging him to a fight, as if his height somehow constitutes a blight on their existence.
The man in front of him says no such thing, however; merely whispers bloody hell to himself, and continues to gape up at him.
Just as Jonathan’s beginning to wonder whether there’s something on his face, the man physically shakes himself, like a dog coming in out of the rain, and gives him a charmingly crooked smile. “Where’s my manners? Robert E.O. Speedwagon, front man of the Animalz. Classic rock, punk rock, glam rock—you name it, we play it!”
The sudden shift in mood leaves Jonathan reeling, but his nanny raised him to always be polite, so he grasps Speedwagon’s proffered hand and shakes it, causing the man’s many bracelets to chime together pleasingly. “Jonathan Joestar. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Speedwagon.”
“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.” Speedwagon isn’t letting go of his hand. Why isn’t he letting go of his hand? “Are you here for the show?”
“Well, I,” Jonathan begins, then clears his throat. “The, er…?”
His brain has just registered that Speedwagon’s fingertips are rough with calluses. Jonathan has no clue why this observation should push every single other coherent thought out of his head, but here he is, his mind as empty as a bird’s nest in December and Speedwagon still isn’t letting go of his hand.
In fact, he puts his other hand on top of Jonathan’s as well as he steps closer. “Tell you what, Jonathan.” He ducks his head to look up at him from beneath his hair; his eyes hold the same deep, burnished glow of the chunk of amber Jonathan bought at the souvenir shop on his very first visit to the British Museum. “Mind if I call you Jonathan?”
Jonathan’s beginning to sweat. “Oh, not at all!”
“If you stay, I’ll dedicate a song to you. How about it? I take requests, you know.” Somehow, Speedwagon’s voice manages to be scratchy and gentle all at once in a way that makes Jonathan tingle all over. “Go on, anything you like. Anything at all.”
“Goodness, I—that’s awfully kind of you, but I…I’m afraid I don’t know much about, er…”
“Time to wrap it up, Romeo, we’re on in five.”
The sudden appearance of one of the other Ogre Street Animalz startles Jonathan so badly the motion jerks his hand out of Speedwagon’s grip, and Speedwagon aims a kick at his bandmate’s shins; the man side-steps him with an ease that speaks of long practice.
“I’m a bit busy here, mate.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says, subjecting Jonathan to a rather unnerving smirk. “Still, time and sound checks wait for no man, eh?” Then he winks at Jonathan, throws his arm around Speedwagon’s neck, and commences towing him along in the direction of the makeshift stage set up against the back wall.
“For fuck’s sake—let go of me, you absolute git, I was having a conversation—“
“Yes, yes.” Speedwagon’s abductor gives Jonathan a cheerful wave. “Enjoy the show!”
All Jonathan can manage in reply is an astonished nod, and while Speedwagon’s friend manhandles him from sight, Jonathan takes a sip of his severely neglected stout and wonders what sort of parallel universe he must have stumbled into this morning. A man who looked like a cross between a rockstar and a wild-haired fairy prince from a storybook held his hand in front of the bartender and, well, everyone.
Jonathan’s not usually very good at this sort of thing, but he’s beginning to suspect Speedwagon might have been trying to flirt with him.
“Hello, everybody!” Speedwagon’s voice rips Jonathan right out of his existential crisis as the locals applaud politely. “We’re The Ogre Street Animalz, and this song is dedicated to the stunner in the navy jumper!”
Jonathan’s no stranger to the icy-hot depths of sheer mortification—it comes with the territory when one grows up with a brother like Dio—but he’s never felt this particular brand of it before. For a moment, he considers abandoning ship, but then.
Oh, then.
Speedwagon starts to sing, and his voice is as gentle as a caress one moment, as hoarse and triumphant as a battle cry the next. His nimble fingers coax sounds from a battered purple guitar unlike anything Jonathan’s ever heard before, and all throughout the performance, his eyes never once leave Jonathan’s. He’s never been serenaded before, let alone by a man strutting atop a stage in gleaming leather pants, and Jonathan finds himself applauding until his palms go numb as Speedwagon sings of the good old-fashioned loverboys, of strange magic, eyes of the bluest skies and a thing called love.
The other patrons sing along, stamp their feet, and old Mr. Hodgekiss comes perilously close to setting his neighbor’s toupee aflame when he pulls out his lighter to wave along to the music.
Jonathan barely even notices. He’s off in a world that contains only him, Speedwagon, and the great surging tide of music that encircles them.
By the time Speedwagon leaps off the stage, he’s drenched in sweat, and his hair is even wilder than it was before. As he makes his way back to the bar, he lifts the hem of his artfully torn shirt to dab at his face, granting Jonathan an unimpeded view of his frankly rather marvelous abdominal muscles, and there, just above the waistband of Speedwagon’s pants, a rough trail of blonde hair draws Jonathan’s eyes down, down to his—
“So, what do you think?”
“Pardon?” Jonathan blurts guiltily, but he quickly realizes Speedwagon must be talking about the performance. “Oh! It was splendid! You have a wonderful voice.”
Speedwagon plants both elbows on the bar and cups his chin in his hands, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. “Aw, Jonathan, you’re making me blush.”
“I’m perfectly serious! Truly, I…” As ever when he attempts to verbalize his emotions, Jonathan is beset by a fierce and all-encompassing fear of being misunderstood, of getting things so terribly, horribly wrong that nobody will want to talk to him ever again and he’ll end up all alone.
Speedwagon’s smile helps him soldier ahead. “It was quite the exhilarating performance. You’re very talented, and I could feel...well, I could feel your passion, I suppose.”
Jonathan leaves out the part where Speedwagon’s voice turned his blood into something resembling the Byzantine’s liquid fire inside his veins, that Jonathan feels like he could listen to Speedwagon sing for an eternity.
He can’t quite bring himself to meet the other man’s eyes, and instead watches the dregs of his stout swirl round and round the bottom of his glass.
“Thank you,” Speedwagon says eventually, after it feels like several eons have passed, and all the tension in Jonathan’s shoulders melts away in an instant. “I mean it, I—bloody hell, you really are making me blush now. I don’t even know what to say.” He bumps Jonathan’s arm with his own, and Jonathan’s heart leaps into his throat like a frog possessed. “Better be careful, if you keep talking like that you’ll charm the pants right off of me, and then where will we be?”
Speedwagon’s arm remains pressed up against his, and the Great Siege of Constantinople has nothing on the chaos raging beneath Jonathan’s skin.
He needs more alcohol yesterday, or he’s going to crumble into ash.
It takes Jonathan several tries to line up the words, but eventually he manages to ask Speedwagon whether he may buy him a drink, or at least he thinks he does, because the next thing he knows Speedwagon’s sipping from a pint of cider that’s almost the exact same hue as his hair, and he’s laughing uncontrollably at the story of the territorial goat that kept chasing Jonathan around on a dig in a farmer’s field and eating his notes, and all the pints of stout in the world couldn’t put out the fire that’s ravaging Jonathan’s heart.
“I say, where are we headed?”
Jonathan’s stumbling down a street he doesn’t recognize in the slightest, but Speedwagon’s arm is wrapped around his waist and there’s a whole sky full of stars overhead, both of which are excellent. It wouldn’t surprise Jonathan in the slightest if Speedwagon sang down the stars just for him, it seems just the sort of thing he’d do.
“We’re on Ogre Street. You’re plastered, mate, you can crash at mine and we’ll sort everything out in the morning. Watch out for the car! Careful now—that’s it. Just lean on me.”
Jonathan considers this new information from all angles as they make their slow, winding way down the sidewalk. Wisps of Speedwagon’s hair keep tickling his face and neck, which makes it a little hard to concentrate, but he does eventually arrive at a what he feels is the most pertinent question.
“I say, Speedwagon?”
“Hmm?”
“Are we going to fuck?”
Speedwagon stumbles, and for a moment, it seems like they’re bound for a painful collision with the cobblestones, until Speedwagon hauls on the back of Jonathan’s jumper and manages to steady them both.
“Jonathan!” he says, sounding utterly scandalized.
“Speedwagon,” Jonathan says happily. “Robert. Bob. Bobbert. Speedy? Like the mouse from the cartoons! I bet you’d look very pretty in a hat.”
Speedwagon gapes at him from mere inches away, the drumbeat of his heart absolutely frantic where his chest is pressed up against Jonathan’s own.
“Actually, come to think of it, you look very pretty without a hat, too.”
There are two hands cupping Speedwagon’s face. Jonathan realizes he can feel it when Speedwagon cheeks begin to flush, which must mean those hands are his.
Well, that’s perfectly alright, then! Speedwagon has a very nice face. Nice eyes, nice arse; nice everything, really. He’d noticed right away, even before he started singing.
“Hang on. Did I say all of that out loud just now?”
“I’m afraid so. Um.” Speedwagon’s wrapped his hands around his wrists, and they’re very warm. “I’m very happy, but...Jonathan, you’re drunk, I don’t think—”
“Pish-tosh!” Jonathan frowns. “Or is it tish-posh? Whatever. Don’t be such a spoilsport! Can I touch your scar?”
Before Speedwagon can answer, Jonathan traces the jagged ridge of it with his thumb, smiling when Speedwagon goes even pinker. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night, you know.”
“Jonathan—ah!”
Speedwagon’s skin tastes faintly of salt, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to trace the scar using the tip of his tongue, even with his eyes shut. Speedwagon produces a groan that sounds fairly desperate, digging his fingers into Jonathan’s forearms, and Jonathan wonders what a sound like that would feel like against his mouth.
Before he can figure out how to angle his head in order to avoid poking Speedwagon in the eye with his nose, Speedwagon’s lips are already on his, though, and it’s utterly unlike Jonathan thought getting kissed would be like, sweet and slow and filthy in a way that's got his head in a spin.
Jonathan would be quite happy to kiss Speedwagon for the next several hours, he thinks; he has to breathe eventually, though, which he feels is deeply unfair.
“I didn’t know first kisses tasted of apples,” he murmurs.
“That’s just the cider—wait. You’ve got to be pulling my leg, there’s no way I’m your first, right?”
Jonathan’s just discovered their kiss left Speedwagon’s mouth looking shiny and a little bruised, and he’s having some trouble focusing on the actual words coming out of it. “I thought you said we were going to your place. Is it still far?”
“You’re going to be the death of me, Jonathan Joestar,” Speedwagon tells him, which doesn’t really answer his question, but at least Speedwagon’s kissing him again, so that’s alright. There’s a dicey moment where there seem to be slightly too many legs to sort out as Speedwagon walks him down a short flight of steps, but eventually they find themselves in a narrow hallway that obliges Jonathan to stand very close to Speedwagon indeed.
He has no qualms about this whatsoever, especially when he discovers he can get Speedwagon to make the most delightful noises by threading his fingers through his hair.
“Take me to bed?” Speedwagon whispers, and Jonathan’s fingers tighten involuntarily on the soft hair at the nape of his neck, causing Speedwagon to tremble in the circle of his arms.
“Sorry. There is nothing I should like better, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take me instead. I don’t know where the bedroom is.”
Speedwagon laughs, obliging Jonathan to kiss him once more. “Follow me,” he says, and grabs his hand when Jonathan gets tangled with a pair of extremely spiky boots that lurk halfway down the hall.
“You have such clever hands, did anyone ever tell you that?” Jonathan says, and just because he can, he bows deeply, relishing the audible hitch in Speedwagon’s breathing when he turns over their clasped hands to press a kiss to Speedwagon’s knuckles.
There’s a new heat to Speedwagon’s gaze when Jonathan straightens back up. “You like my hands?”
“Oh, yes. Very much,” Jonathan says, and his blood fizzes and sparks at the smile that wins him, and then ignites when Speedwagon reaches out and squeezes him through his slacks.
“Mm, I can tell.” Speedwagon makes quick work of Jonathan’s flies, and the first touch of his palm has Jonathan bracing himself against the wall just to stay upright. The sight of Speedwagon’s fingers wrapped around the length of him is mesmerizing, and the drag of his callouses tears a gasp from his throat, hips twitching against Speedwagon’s grip.
“How’s that? Good?”
Jonathan nods. It’s so good it hurts.
“I’m glad,” Speedwagon says. “Give me your hand?” His voice seems to set every single nerve in Jonathan’s body abuzz, making his skin prickle from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.
“Put it around mine—yeah, just like that. Now show me how you like it, I wanna know just how you get yourself off.”
An agonized sound tears itself out of Jonathan’s throat, but Speedwagon coaxes him with kisses and whispered encouragements until Jonathan starts moving his hips. Speedwagon keeps up a constant stream of observations, pouring complete and utter filth into Jonathan’s ear one honeyed drop at a time until Jonathan can barely tell which way is up.
“Wait,” Jonathan gasps, bracing his hands on either side of Speedwagon’s head. “Speedwagon, you’re, hn, you’re going to make me—”
“Yeah,” Speedwagon says, and jerks him faster. “That’s the idea. Show me, come on—”
“No!” Finally, Speedwagon’s hand stills, though he still doesn’t let go. “It’s not fair, let me...let me touch you, too.”
The roughness of his voice makes Jonathan’s traitorous dick jump in Speedwagon’s hand. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“I want to. Please, Robert.”
Speedwagon squeezes his eyes shut with a groan, and to Jonathan’s delight, begins unbuckling his belt. “Alright, but don’t freak out on me, okay?”
Jonathan chuckles. “Why would I—oh!”
Speedwagon’s cock is flushed a dark, angry red, curving a little to the side as it springs free of the confines of his pants, but that’s not what catches Jonathan’s attention.
“You’ve got, er…? That’s...I had not thought...” Jonathan stammers, and then goes right back to staring.
“Yeah,” Speedwagon says, his voice like sandpaper. A single milky drop of precum wells up around the tiny metal ball nestled in the slit of his dick. “I got it done ‘cause I lost a bet, if you can believe that, and I was too proud to back down. Or too fucking stupid, I guess.”
“Is that so,” Jonathan says. His own voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way away, and he still can’t stop staring.
“I was shitting bricks when I saw the size of the needle, but it wasn’t that bad, I got ear piercings that hurt way worse. The four week wait before I could have a wank was a right pain though—shit, sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Uh.”
Speedwagon pulls his shirt up out of the way, and wraps a hand around himself. “Do you still want to…?”
Jonathan’s mouth goes dry when Speedwagon grinds his thumb against the second silvery nub right under the flushed, weeping head of his cock, making the muscles of his stomach tense and flutter. When he looks up, Speedwagon’s gaze is heavy-lidded, and Jonathan’s heart swells with desperate affection at the contrast between the bashful look on his face and the way he’s putting himself on display.
“May I?” Jonathan lifts his hand, but hesitates. “I won’t hurt you?”
Speedwagon gives a breathy laugh. “Such a gentleman. It’s all healed up now, don’t worry.” He buries his other hand in the bunched-up fabric of his shirt as well, baring even more skin to Jonathan’s hungry eyes. “Have at it.”
With the utmost delicacy he can muster, Jonathan touches the tip of his index finger to the small metal ball. “It’s warm! I thought it’d be more…”
But of course it was, Jonathan tells himself, hidden away beneath layers of clothing, warmed by the heat of Speedwagon’s body.
Jonathan wets his lips, and pushes down ever so gently on the top of the piercing, watching gleaming metal press into throbbing flesh; Speedwagon’s hips push away from the wall as he hisses through his teeth.
“Fuck, Jonathan, you’re killing me here, will you just,” Speedwagon says, then gasps and winds his arms around Jonathan’s neck as Jonathan lines up their cocks and rocks against him, slick and hot and perfect.
Jonathan draws a shuddering breath as the piercing nudges at the sensitive spot beneath the head of his dick. “Can I...”
The hand on his arse is such a surprise Jonathan almost swallows his tongue. “God, yes,” Speedwagon says, fingers digging in to urge Jonathan’s hips forward. “Let me feel you—just like that, mmm.”
Jonathan braces his forearm against the wall as he fucks into the space between his own hand and Speedwagon’s cock, his mouth grazing Speedwagon’s temple in the closest approximation of kiss he can manage with how hard he’s breathing.
“Jonathan,” Speedwagon pants, voice low and unsteady, and Jonathan groans at the sound of his name on Speedwagon’s lips. “Jonathan, don’t stop, I’m so close—”
Jonathan kisses him, pinning him bodily up against the wall, and it’s the way Speedwagon whimpers against his mouth as he comes that sets Jonathan off as well, spilling across his own stroking fingers, Speedwagon’s stomach, the hem of of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan mutters, as soon as he comes back to his senses, and begins fumbling for his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry, what a mess, I, I promise I’ll clean it up right away—”
Jonathan’s interrupted by a hand on his cheek, followed by a kiss so tender and thorough he can’t help but sigh. Speedwagon pulls away just enough to mutter, “Don’t apologize, that was amazing,” before pressing another kiss to his slack, dazed mouth, and Jonathan melts.
“Let me take you to the museum.”
Oh, dear. He hadn’t meant to say that.
“The museum?” Speedwagon’s eyes are very wide. “You want to take me on a date?”
Jonathan keeps his eyes on his hands as he frantically wipes at Speedwagon’s ruined shirt. “Not right now, of course, but...yes. Preferably, er, more than just the one date, but please don’t feel obligated to…”
Jonathan trails off as embarrassment tightens its choke hold on his vocal chords. In the laden silence, Speedwagon slowly buttons his pants back up, and it occurs to Jonathan he should probably do the same.
Honestly, what was he thinking? What sort of idiot just blurts out something like that right after—
The panicked spiral of Jonathan’s thoughts grinds to a sudden, complete halt when Speedwagon takes his hand, gently running his thumb back and forth across his knuckles. “I, uh. I don’t know jack shit about art,” he says, “but I’d like that.”
Jonathan peeks up at him from under his lashes, and to his infinite, unutterable relief, Speedwagon is smiling at him, gentle and crooked and warm.
“I’d like that a lot.”
Just as Jonathan’s wondering whether it would be terribly uncouth to ask if he can kiss him some more, there’s a deafening pounding at the door.
“Fish and chips! Open the fuck up!”
Jonathan throws Speedwagon a shocked look, only to find that Speedwagon’s squeezed his eyes shut in mortification.
“Sorry, Speedwagon,” another voice pipes up. “I told him to leave you guys be—”
There are sounds of a fierce scuffle and a yelp before the first voice speaks again. “Tradition is tradition! Your new boyfriend from the pub can have some too, we brought extra!”
“We, um, have this tradition of getting fish and chips after a show,” Speedwagon says. “The band, I mean. I’ll go tell them to sod off—”
There’s a thump that leaves the door rattling in its frame, as if someone’s just thrown themselves up against it. “Stop pretending you’re not there, you nobhead! The chips are getting cold!”
Jonathan smothers a laugh behind his hand. “Actually, fish and chips sound lovely.”
“Really? Right, then. They’re not so bad, really, it’s just that they’ve only got about a thimbleful of common sense to share between the lot of them—QUIT TRYING TO BREAK THE DOOR DOWN, YOU BASTARDS! I’M COMING!”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet you are—ow! Shut up, I’m trying to be supportive—”
“Bloody hell.” Speedwagon rakes his hair back and heaves a sigh that’s all fondness. “With friends like these, eh? What do you say, shall we let them in?”
Jonathan smiles, and gives Speedwagon’s hand a gentle squeeze. If he gets his way, he’s never letting go again.
“Let’s.”