Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6455797.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ジョジョの奇妙な冒険_|_JoJo_no_Kimyou_na_Bouken_|_JoJo's_Bizarre_Adventure
  Relationship:
      Dio_Brando/Enrico_Pucci
  Character:
      Dio_Brando, Enrico_Pucci
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-04 Words: 3954
****** 03-80-00 ******
by conceptofzero
Summary
     Pucci's not sure he'll ever get used to the desert's temperatures.
     They go from sweltering highs to freezing lows all in the same day.
     Soon as the sun dies, the cold comes creeping into the mansion,
     filling every room along with the darkness. Pucci wraps himself in
     his clothes and his coat, trying to stay as warm as he can while he
     explores Cairo.
     Thankfully there are plenty of things to help warm him up.
Pucci's not sure he'll ever get used to the desert's temperatures. They go from
sweltering highs to freezing lows all in the same day. Soon as the sun dies,
the cold comes creeping into the mansion, filling every room along with the
darkness. A fire would drive out the chill, but they don't light fires in here.
Not that Dio would ever fall prey to such a simple threat, but Enya is
insistent that they not even try.
So Pucci simply wraps himself in his clothes and his coat, trying to stay as
warm as he can while he explores Cairo.
Thankfully there are plenty of things to help warm him up. The vendors just a
few blocks away sell hot teas and other drinks, along with a number of warm
foods. He often heads out to eat when Dio's busy working on his newest
converts, dining under the yellow light of lamp posts.
This is where Dio finds him, and where Dio joins him, taking a chair beside
Pucci. He looks strange outside of the mansion's walls. Pucci likes him better
out here. There's a more human look to him, and yet, a more sainted look as
well. When he doesn't have to play at being a monster, Dio seems to enjoy the
opportunity to simply be himself.
Pucci has his hands wrapped around his glass, the heat seeping into his palms.
Under the table, Dio's knee rests against Pucci's, as cold as the night air. He
can't seem to hold any heat in his skin anymore, though he shines as glorious
as the sun.
"I haven't eaten yet." Dio says, lips parting in a sly smile. "Join me."
Pucci raises an eyebrow. "I think I'd get in the way. I don't have the same
charm as you, not in this." And he gestures to his wardrobe, dark and
shapeless, hardly worth looking at twice when Dio sits next to him, wearing
glorious yellows and greens. All of him breathes life, even though the heart in
his chest doesn't beat at all.
Dio grins then, a flash of sharp white teeth exposed to the lights. "You have
no idea how charming you can be, my devout friend."
The knee rubs against his. Pucci sips his tea. He's quite aware that he's
hardly unattractive. There were certainly many passes made his way, both before
and after he decided to take up the cloth. But until Dio, none held much
attraction to him. The girls simply weren't to his tastes, and the few boys
were either fumbling and far too shy, or too old to be playing this kind of
dangerous game. Pucci has his family's name and a responsibility to them, a
gentle pressure that started when he was twelve to embrace the Church rather
than be tempted to sin.
When he speaks with Dio, he realizes how silly it is that he ever thought he
had to choose. This is what the Lord wants for him. God has set out this path,
and it's not a fork in the woods, but an intertwining trail, one foot firmly on
each side as he sways his way down the middle. It's certainly a good thing he
still knows how to walk unevenly, even though his feet are now both the same
shape.
He finishes his tea, stealing the last of the warmth and stands. Pucci sets
down a few coins to cover his bill and wraps his scarf around his neck to keep
from growing too cold. "If you insist. Where should we start?"
They start in the poor quarters. Dio's not an unfamiliar sight here, and while
some windows and doors close shut, others come from their doorways to see the
rich man and his strange friend. Dio prefers to drink from women and in an
unfamiliar language, he hears mothers and fathers attempt to sell their
daughters, wagering their lives on money and favours that could buy them a
better life. Others turn to Pucci himself, reaching for his hands. He returns
their reach, gently brushing his hands along theirs, saying prayers for those
who seem to welcome them. The children want money of course, and they're the
first to drop away when they realize there's nothing to be gained, or when they
look upon Dio and think better.
When they return to the mansion, there's a pair on Dio's arms, a boy and a
girl. Siblings, by the look of them. The girl is afraid. The boy is eager. Dio
keeps them in close, murmuring to them in languages that Pucci does not yet
understand. Pucci follows, trading the chill of the night for the chill of the
mansion. The lights here burn white and the shadows seem darker still where
they lurk in the corners.
Vanilla Ice watches them ascend the stairs. He's loyal to a fault. Pucci
doesn't have many thoughts about him, other than that he's very useful. His
eyes fall to the brother and sister, a hungry look in them. Does he want them?
No, not them. He doesn't want them. He wants to be them. Vanilla Ice wants to
be where they are, tucked beneath Dio's arm, receiving the attention he's
currently pouring on them.
They are all lambs in the Lord's eyes. They are all livestock for Dio. One day,
Vanilla Ice will get his wish. But not today. He stays below, while Dio, Pucci,
and the siblings rise up.
Pucci retrieves his book to read while Dio sates his appetites. He feeds them
wine and engages them in conversation, dismantling their minds first. Pucci
takes up a seat in the corner of the room and watches now and then when he
grows tired of his book, before his attention returns to it once more. Dio is
magnificent. His body is pale and handsome, an object to be coveted and lusted
for. Sometimes, he wonders about Dio's body, the one he wore before this one.
But, Dio seems completely at ease within his new skin and it doesn't matter
what he once wore, only what he wears now.
The boy and girl die screaming. They boy is slaughtered first, his throat
ripped apart as Dio’s hands sink deep into his flesh as he drinks. The girl
tries to flee, only to find the doors are shut and the windows nailed tight.
While her brother proves a welcome feast for Dio, she throws herself at Pucci's
feet, begging him to help her. She's so young. How old is she? The same as as
Pucci's own sister? He studies her closely, reaching out with his hand.
She stills when his fingers touch her head and sink into it. The disc is there,
eager and waiting to be drawn out. Pucci plucks it from her head and turns it
in his fingers while her body goes limp and falls forward, her head falling
against his knees. He raises her disc to his head, touching it to his temple.
It's taken practice to do this without absorbing it fully, but he's learned how
to dip it in just enough to read parts of it.
Her name is Safa. Her brother was Mido. She often played with a stray dog,
before some other boys killed it. This is not the first time her parents sold
her and her brother together. They weren't told what awaited them, of course.
The boy planned to steal from Dio when it was done. She only wished to finish
this business and to go home with enough money to pay for tomorrow's meal. He
was thirteen. She was fifteen. Older than Pelma. Younger than him.
Dio rises from the bed, blood splattered down his mouth, his hands red up to
the wrists. Pucci take the disc from his head and slips it back into Safa's
head. Her eyes blink, her lungs heave, her mouth an ‘o’ of surprise and then of
terror as she turns her head to see Dio stalk towards her. She's quick. He's
quicker. Pucci closes his book so it doesn't get splattered with blood. Dio
feeds off of her greedily, slopping blood across his bare chest and hands.
Pucci waits until he's drained her and dropped her body before he rises. He
sets his hands on Dio's face. The blood's still warm. So's Dio, now that he's
full of the blood of the lambs brought to slaughter here. He's not human, never
warm enough for that, but he's warm enough that Pucci can touch him and not
feel as if he’s pressing his hands to cold stone. He leans in close to touch
their mouths together, parting his lips just so. The copper taste of blood is
soothing and so familiar.
Sharp fangs press against his lips but they don't break the surface. Dio just
smiles madly, looking as if he's come out of the wilderness. There’s blood on
both their faces from Dio’s careless feasting. That's fine. There's blood
everywhere in this world. Most of it you never see, but it's always there, the
lubricant that allows the machinery of the world to run. He slips his hand up
higher, letting his fingers stroke over Dio's forehead.
Pucci’s fingers run along the skin, feeling it part easily for him. The edge of
the disc is just beneath, and the edge of the other beneath that. Pucci runs
his fingers along both of them, knowing just from touch which is the stand and
which is Dio himself. Dio is still, as he always is when Pucci does this, his
eyes dark as he watches from under his lids.
Once, he asked Pucci when he would take the stand from Dio’s head and seize all
that power for himself. Dio doesn’t ask anymore. He's seen directly inside
Pucci’s mind, right to the core of his motivations. Pucci’s desires may be
utterly foreign to someone like Dio, but he knows they’re as sincere as
anything ever can be.
Pucci raises his fingers to his own head. He breaks the skin, just as he did
with Dio. His two discs are there as well, Whitesnake and his memories. He
grabs them. He brings their heads together, forehead to forehead, close enough
to taste the blood on Dio's breath. It's a delicate process, what he's about
the do. He takes his time, savoring the heat coming off Dio's naked body.
His disc slips forward. Dio's slips forward as well, both moving smoothly
against his fingertips. The skin parts, the memories pass, and there's a
horrible lurching moment when one is out and the other isn't in yet, when he's
left with a feeling like the floor has dropped out under his feet and he'll
never find solid ground again. But then he does - he finds solid ground in
Dio’s memories.
There are reflections of you that stay, even with your memories gone. The
details slip away but the personality remains, if your will is strong enough.
Pucci can hardly remember his own name, but he knows it because Dio knows it,
because Dio’s memories are in him. He knows everything Dio knows intimately, as
if he lived every second of it. When his eyes shut, his mind drifts to his
childhood among the dark and filthy streets of London, to a room in a mansion
in the countryside where plans were made to ensure he never lacked for anything
again, to a dark box beneath the ocean where he slept with a dead man’s skull
in newly taken body.
His eyes open. Dio looks at him. How strange it must be for him to have Pucci’s
memories. Pucci doesn’t remember his family, but he knows the story anyway. He
remembers himself telling it to Dio. In the memory, he sprawls carelessly
across a couch, unaware of the tempting shape of his body beneath a holy man’s
clothes. There’s a remembrance of lust - Dio’s, not Pucci’s - and the careful
stroking of eyes along his body. It’s odd to see yourself wanted so badly by
another, to feel it as if it were your own lust. It’s a bit narcissistic.
How does Dio feel, seeing his body through Pucci’s eyes? Judging from the
smile, he’s very pleased. His hands go to Pucci’s sides, dragging him in close.
Dio pulls them down onto the couch, pinning Pucci beneath him. He remembers
doing this before, doing this even a few minutes ago as his (as Dio’s) hands
pushed the boy down, his fingers sinking into the skin, ripping it to pieces as
he drank deeply from the frail figure. His heart pounds in his chest, foreign
and strange. His (Dio’s) heart hasn’t beat in the better part of a century. The
vampire above him is very warm to the touch. All the blood coursing through him
has kept him warm and brought colour to his face again, making his mouth so
very red.
Dio slides a hand to the middle of Pucci’s chest, resting it just above his
navel. “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.” He says softly, his
mouth shaping around words that he remembers now with Pucci’s memories. “For
your love is better than wine. Your anointing oils are fragrant. Your name is
oil poured out. Therefore virgins love you.”
He laughs softly, a smiling curving on his face. Neither of them could be
called that anymore. Not Dio, not since he was very young indeed, still human
then and impatient and furious. Pucci can’t remember his own experiences, but
he remembers Dio’s, and he remembers his body reacting to Dio’s touch, his eyes
closed and his throat thrown back. What a tempting target. The tips of his
fingers itch, even though he’s not the one who needs to feed.
Pucci draws him down again into another kiss. The blood tastes lovely on their
lips and he licks his way down Dio’s chin. Those impatient hands grasp at his
pants, working them down his hips and off Pucci’s legs, baring himself from the
waist down. Dio’s lips are so soft. He remembers how it felt to have them split
by his father. He remembers what it was like to steal a first kiss from a long-
dead girl. He remembers how it tasted, the first time he drank blood. None of
them are his, and all of them are his.
When they break apart, Dio finishes undressing Pucci, pinning him down on the
mattress the moment the layers are gone. He shoves their hips together, cock
pressing against cock, and begins to rub against him. Pucci remembers this as
well, from the other way around. He remembers himself straddling Dio on his
third night here. Pucci’s face had looked so desperate. Dio had kept his calm,
but beneath the surface, he had hungered for it. He had wanted to see the
priest debauch himself, to be shattered and rebuilt under his hands.
“I didn’t go the way you had planned, did it?” He teases, sighing as Dio grinds
down steadily. Flesh slides against flesh, the bed soft beneath his back.
Above, Dio is magnificent. And he knows that. His memories are full of it: Dio
looking at himself in mirrors, practicing again and again how to smile so
cunningly, so attractively; Dio always aware of others watching and lusting;
Dio learning how to shift his weight this way and that until he was posed in
the perfect way. Pucci can’t remember if he did that. But he can see himself
being watched by Dio, and Dio approving of the way he moved, how his hips
swayed, how his mouth was always so plump and full and begging to be bitten. He
doesn’t remember, but he sees his mouth turned dark with bruises from an
overeager Dio. Pucci remembers how it felt to bite down on his mouth with those
sharp teeth.
He returns the favour, dull human teeth sinking into Dio’s mouth. Dio’s eyes go
wide, and his hips stutter hard against Pucci’s, a quick three thrusts down
before he draws back. Pucci licks his own lips. No, Pucci didn’t turn out how
Dio expected. He thought he would break him. But he didn’t. He didn’t need him
broken.
Dio doesn’t want him broken, not anymore.
He wraps his arms around Dio’s broad back. That was once Jonathan’s body. Now
it’s Dio’s, and he wears it better than Jonathan ever could have. Beneath
Pucci’s hands, he feels it shift, all the muscles pulling this way and that.
“Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Behold, you are beautiful. Your eyes are
doves.” Dio whispers. Pucci’s mouth moves along, half-remembering this. Even
without memories, the muscles remember. They know this. His cock twitches
lazily, trapped between their bodies. Each thrust down just traps him tight,
squeezing him in the perfect way. His thighs grip Dio tight. Pucci’s mouth
moves ahead of Dio’s voice. “Beautiful, you are beautiful, my beloved. Truly
delightful.”
One hand sinks into Dio’s long hair. The other holds tight to the broad expanse
of his back. His cock is leaking. His heart pounds madly in his chest. It’s so
strange to hear his heartbeat again, after so long without it. It’s so strange
to feel arousal this powerful surging through him. His body is young again,
desperate again, eager and aching.
He licks a stripe along Dio’s chin, sour copper flooding his mouth. It’s so
much stronger in this body. Careful now, careful. Already, Dio’s memories are
melting into his body. If he’s not careful, they could melt in too deeply. Then
switching back would be difficult, if not outright impossible.
They need to be careful. He presses their foreheads together. Pucci can’t
remember how exactly, but he sees it as Dio saw it, and his fingers mimic the
positions. He’s on the edge of coming, each motion of Dio’s hips pulling Pucci
closer and closer, until all he can think about are the discs, and the mounting
pressure in his groin. There’s a sliver of silver. He feels his memories start
to pull apart again, coming free from his mind a strand at a time. Like a
spiderweb being pulled down by heavy prey, he feels it come free-
He doesn’t know his name, but he’s coming, he’s coming, crying out as his hands
hold tight to the body above him. All he feels is the release and the relief
and the burn that runs through him hot and cold, and the desperate need for
this to never end. He feels-
Pucci’s memories settle back into place, and he’s settling too, falling to the
bed. His belly’s a mess, wet with his come. Dio’s still hard and Pucci
struggles to get his hands on Dio’s body. He coaxes him to slip up, to move
from his hips to straddling his chest. Pucci puts his mouth on Dio’s cock and
worships him.
He tastes himself on Dio, his own cum splattered over the shaft of the cock.
Dio kneels and looks down at Pucci, those eyes of his so pleased, and yet so
hungry. He’s always so hungry. Pucci takes Dio in as deep as he dares, mouth
sliding up and down the shaft. His hands stay wrapped around Dio’s thighs,
using the leverage to lift himself up when necessary.
Dio’s so warm. All the blood’s brought him to life. One day, when they achieve
Heaven, he won’t need blood to feed himself any longer. He’ll always be this
warm. And Pucci will always be here to serve him, to anoint him, to praise him.
And he thinks to himself, the fig tree ripens its figs, and the vines are in
blossom, and they give forth a fragrance. Arise, my love, my beautiful one, and
come away.
He does. The taste is salty and the liquid warm, and Dio’s eyes are open
through it, staring down at Pucci without ever once looking away. He comes and
Pucci swallows it all, his mouth staying on the surging cock until there’s no
more motion at all. Only then does he let it slide out, letting it come to rest
on his lips. He kisses it softly, the sacred and the profane all one and the
same when he is here with Dio.
Dio moves, taking his weight off Pucci. He comes to rest beside him, pressing
his body near Pucci’s. The night air is cold, and Pucci takes comfort in the
warmth of him. Dio’s temperature is already dropping though, and it won’t be
long before he’s cold again.
But not forever. Not forever. There’s always more blood. And there will be
Heaven one day.
Dio nudges his mouth against Pucci’s, seeking out the drying splatters still on
his face. “What was I saying when I was you?” He asks, mouthing out the words.
“Your eyes are doves?”
“Song of Solomon. I memorized it when I was fourteen. It seemed scandalous to
do so. I never imagined I would ever use it.” No reason to ever say such words
to another, not when you were Enrico Pucci and your life was meant to be begin
and end with a vow of lifelong chastity. He nudges his nose against Dio’s
cheek, smiling as he feels Dio’s tongue slide along his jawline. “I suppose you
never had any use for it.”
“Not for that one.” He seems to find the last of the spots on Pucci’s chin and
after one more greedy kiss, he finally pulls back, contenting himself to simply
rest near Pucci. The cold comes then and Pucci reaches for the blankets,
pulling them over him before he can become too cold. Dio doesn’t bother,
lounging naked and content on top of the sheets. “At fourteen, you memorized
biblical ponography. What would you have become without me?”
Pucci takes Dio’s hand and kisses his knuckles. “Disenchanted.” He is willing
to admit this. It’s true. What kind of priest would he have been? The kind who
did his duty out of resignation, not out of love. But he will never be that
kind of man again. So long as he has Dio, and so long as they have their plans,
he will never question again. God has sent him here, to serve the King of Kings
and see him sat upon his throne. So long as he draws breath, Pucci will spend
each moment serving that purpose.
How glorious it is to know what you’re meant to do. How comforting to feel so
loved by all things holy.
Dio brushes a hand along Pucci’s head, his fingers following the rows in his
hair. “There was something else I wanted to say when I was you. Something for
me, from you, from the song.”
Pucci thinks and smiles as he realizes he knows exactly what Dio wants to hear.
He shifts, resting an arm on Dio’s stomach. What a vain creature he is. And
yet, something of his ego is enchanting enough to make Pucci want to indulge
Dio.
“My beloved is radiant and ruddy, distinguished among ten thousand.” He says,
smiling all the while. “His head is the finest gold, his locks are wavy.”
“Talk about my lips.” Dio prompts and Pucci laughs, letting himself be drawn in
again. There is no finer place than this, held to Dio’s chest as they lie in
bed.
“His lips are lilies, dripping liquid myrrh.” Pucci teases, leaning in close to
kiss, but holding back at the last second. Any further recitation of the poem
is forgotten as Dio closes the space, demanding Pucci’s uninterrupted
attention. He gratefully gives it.
Perhaps he’ll never get used to the cold that comes with Egypt’s nights. But so
long as he has layers to wear, and Dio to serve, he can bear anything.
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