Chapter Text
"Another cut? It seems I need to take better care of you, darling."
You looked at him, nonplussed. You'd never spoken a word to Dio Brando, let alone been introduced in a formal setting. You were so busy picking wildflowers that you hadn't even heard him approach. You were still crouched in the field, your long skirts obscuring your legs. Your straw hat dangled from your neck; you'd pushed it off when you began to sweat under the late spring heat. You'd been cutting a particularly hardy stem with your brother's pocket knife when you'd nicked your thumb with the blade. Your mother would be livid when she saw how pink you were from the sun, though she might be more so if she knew you'd been talking to Dio Brando.
Ward of the esteemed Joestar family, young Dio had already developed a reputation for fine manners and intelligence on a level that far surpassed his nobleborn peers. Still, the stench of his common birth clung to him. You'd always been told to avoid him if at all possible, not to speak to him without a guardian present if it wasn't. Your mother and father were sure that he'd corrupt you in some way, sully your pure reputation by association with his ignoble origins. They were especially concerned with their status in society. Not too long ago, your grandfather owned a factory and your great-grandfather worked in said factory. Only recently had your family ascended to the rank of the landed gentry, settling for the meanest parcel and title imaginable. You were not much better than Dio that way, in the eyes of your peers. Maybe that's why you felt a strange kinship with him and replied that day.
"My apologies," you said, rising to your feet and settling your basket of flowers in the crook of your arm, "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Mr. Brando, I presume?"
"I see my reputation has preceded me," he said, smirking. There was something feral in his lips that was at odds with the nobility of his other features. "Though if it has brought me to your attention, I suppose I shall appreciate it." He gave you a deep bow, his golden hair shifting slightly in the breeze. "Now that we are no longer strangers, may I accompany you home? The countryside is no place for a lady of your caliber."
He looked at you expectantly with wide red eyes. You had to tear yourself away, summon up the remainder of your propriety. You shook your head and put your hat back on.
"I-I couldn't possibly trouble you so," you said, studiously focusing on anything else. "Forgive me for interrupting your solitude. I must be going now."
"You're bleeding," he pointed out matter-of-factly. Indeed you were but only a little. You'd have to wrap it in something to keep it from dripping. "I can't leave a lady in distress, in pain. What kind of gentleman would that make me? Please, I must insist on tending to your wound."
He didn't wait for your answer and grabbed your wrist, pulling you towards him. You were too surprised to struggle at first, shocked by his boldness. He drew out a plain white handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around your thumb with practiced deftness. He secured it in place with a small knot and, after a pause, laid a kiss upon it. You'd regained your composure by that point, and you withdrew your hand sharply. His familiarity was not only confusing but insulting.
"It-It-It would do you well to remember that we have just met, Mr. Brando," you said, your face even pinker. "I will not suffer such impropriety at my expense. I thank you for your quick action and kind impulse, but I must bid you good day."
Dio merely smiled and bowed again. "Are you sure I cannot convince you to let me chaperone you? It would be no trouble on my account, I assure you. In fact, it would be my greatest pleasure to spend but a moment of time in your company."
You made a little noise in your throat, something between a gasp and a grunt. You'd never encountered anyone who spoke so plainly yet so eloquently. His words were a rose bush--beautiful but laden with hidden points--and you were finding yourself getting lost in the thorns. You took a deep breath and dared to turn your back on him. Your mother would've been horrified that you'd done so, even towards someone like Dio, but you couldn't think of anything else that would get your intentions across.
"I think not, Mr. Brando," you said. "I ask your forgiveness for my brusque manner, but I really must decline." You started to pick your way through the field, mindful to avoid any rabbit burrows, but he stopped you with his hand on your shoulder. You whipped around, filled with rage. Did he think you a common harlot who would allow this disrespect? "Unhand me, Mr. Brando! You forget yourself!"
He was smiling still when he brought his other hand to your waist. You slapped him hard across the face but he refused to let go, moving his hand from your shoulder to catch your wrist. You were caught in his embrace. The force of your strike made your wound bleed through the handkerchief a little, a little blossom of blood. His eyes focused on it, mesmerized perhaps. You fought the urge to scream. It would not do for you to be implicated in inappropriate behavior and especially so with someone so controversial.
Very slowly, he laid another kiss on your wound, flicking his tongue out to taste the blood, and kissed up the length of your arm until he reached your neck--leaving a light red trail on your dress. There, he ran his tongue up the side, stopping to suckle a little at the base of your chin. You gasped, knowing it'd leave an undeniable mark. Upon reaching your face, he kissed his way to your ear and then moved towards your cheek. At this point, you were fighting him off with all you could, desperate to escape. You were panting with exertion, fear, and something else you couldn't describe. Dio gave you a single kiss on one cheek, the other, and then stopped. You were waiting, biding your time until he dared go for the ultimate prize. Your eyes were closed, your mouth slack. If he would be satisfied with just that, you could recover some amount of pride. If he were stupid enough to go farther, he'd find you difficult to subjugate.
You were suddenly released, and you stumbled backwards a little. You opened your eyes and watched him lick his lips. Shaking, you wiped your face with your sleeve and felt your knees weaken. He surely couldn't expect you to enjoy that. You dropped your basket and ran across the field, miraculously avoiding any holes or pitfalls, but you felt his eyes on you the entire way home. Your mother interrogated you upon your arrival, seeing your disheveled appearance and your flushed skin. You stood up to her questioning the best you could, pleading to a lesser crime of being outside without proper sun protection.
She sent you to your bedroom without supper, and you accepted your punishment gladly. Your stomach couldn't handle a meal. You splashed yourself with water from your vanity pitcher, not daring to look at yourself in the mirror, and drew yourself a bath. You couldn't wait for someone to heat it for you so it was ice cold when you submerged yourself. That suited you just fine. In the frigid water, you felt in control of yourself again. You scrubbed at your skin with soap, trying to erase all trace of Dio Brando, and tore off the handkerchief on your thumb--tossing it across the room. You would burn it later and hoped that would suffice to rid you of this awful feeling of violation.
You slept poorly that night and woke up late the next morning. Your mother, ever strict, set you to assisting the maid with her housework. You responded with unusual cheer, having pocketed the handkerchief. With any luck, you'd be able to dispose of it in private. The fear from the previous day was wearing off, your anxiety slowly soothing. You found a quiet moment to yourself and snuck off to the kitchen where a fire was always lit in the hearth. You pulled the handkerchief out like it was something dead and rotting and moved to drop it in the fire.
"Young mistress," said the maid, coming up behind you. You put the handkerchief back in your pocket, hoping not to draw any attention to yourself, and turned to face her, "a gentleman has coming calling for you. He says you have something of his he hopes to be returned and wishes to thank you for your company yesterday."
Your face blanched, your hands squeezing into fists. You felt a trickle of blood seep out of your thumb and drip to the floor.
Hesitantly, you spoke, trying your best to sound authoritative. "L-Let him in to the-the-the parlor. I will... be with him shortly."
The maid nodded and gave a curtsey before she left. Alone, you pulled out the handkerchief again, comparing the dry blood to your recently reopened wound. Remembering his touch, you shuddered. Carefully, as if you were handling a venomous snake, you threw the handkerchief into the flames--watching it burn.