Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8068615.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      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
  Additional Tags:
      Blood_Drinking
  Series:
      Part 1 of #DioPucciWeek
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-18 Words: 9311
****** Precious in my Sight ******
by conceptofzero
Summary
     The first thing he does before Dio comes to visit is to cover his
     window up. The old curtains were white and gauzy, the kind of things
     that barely kept out any light. They matched with the the rest of the
     house, all purchased and installed at the same time. Pucci doesn't
     even remember when exactly that happened. When he was young probably,
     whenever mother had last brought in an interior decorator to change
     things.
     When he changes his curtains, he doesn't tell her. Pucci folds them
     up and puts them in the linen closet so they can put up again once he
     moves out. The replacements are dark and heavy, so thick that they
     blot out all the light once you shut them. When they're drawn and the
     light in his room is off, the room is a dark as the corridors within
     Dio’s mansion.
     Even before Dio arrives, he starts to keep them drawn to get used to
     it. Nobody notices. Nobody says a thing.
Notes
     For #DioPucciWeek on Tumblr. Prompt 1 was Date Night.
The first thing he does before Dio comes to visit is to cover his window up.
The old curtains were white and gauzy, the kind of things that barely kept out
any light. They matched with the the rest of the house, all purchased and
installed at the same time. Pucci doesn't even remember when exactly that
happened. When he was young probably, whenever mother had last brought in an
interior decorator to change things.
His mother had been talking about doing that a few months ago, mostly just
thinking out loud about what she wanted to replace them with. Now she does
nothing but sit in her room and cry. Pucci makes a point of coming to see her
once a day. It seems like the kind of thing he should do. He never stays long.
They both prefer it that way. It’s too painful for her to see him and to
remember that he’s the only one of her children left. At least, that's what he
assumes. She’s never told him anything like that, but her body language speaks
louder than everything, a deafening message that he gets every time she
stiffens up when he speaks.
So when he changes his curtains, he doesn't tell her. Pucci folds them up and
puts them in the linen closet so they can put up again once he moves out. The
replacements are dark and heavy, so thick that they blot out all the light once
you shut them. When they're drawn and the light in his room is off, the room is
a dark as the corridors within Dio’s mansion.
Even before Dio arrives, he starts to keep them drawn to get used to it. Nobody
notices. Nobody says a thing.
There's not much within the house that poses a threat to Dio. He idly wonders
if he should take down the crosses, then decides against it. If God was any
threat to Dio, he wouldn't have taken shelter in a church. All of the books
depicted vampires as unholy creatures, as things forsaken by God. But they
weren't. At least, Dio wasn't. All things holy loved Dio.
But still, he takes the few vampire books he purchased and hides them away
under the folded curtains, not wanting Dio to see them and to... to laugh at
Pucci for reading them maybe. He sets other books in their place, the
recommendations from Dio, and a few of his own selections he hopes Dio might
enjoy. Pucci reads through them first. He wants to be able to talk about them
with Dio. He wants to to follow along, to impress him with his thoughts. Pucci
wants to see the way Dio’s mouth turns up into a smile when he’s heard
something clever.
At church, while he helps with a service, he adjusts the inventory and takes
two bottles of wine with him when he goes home. It’s probably not right to take
them, not when they’re meant for services, but he feels God will understand and
forgive them. They’re for Dio after all. He takes a pair of wine glasses from
the kitchen and sets them on his dresser with the wine. Nobody notices either’s
missing. Nobody asks him why he’s got wine in his room. After all, nobody comes
into his room anymore. His door stays shut and everyone stays out.
In the days before Dio’s arrival, Pucci cleans his room. He removes all the
lingering reminders of his childhood, the items that had belonged to a boy but
now had no place in his life. There was a sharp divide between him and who had
been a few months ago, before Perla's death. Back then, he had thought he was
an adult, sixteen and eager to prove himself. Now he knows the truth of it.
That boy died in the river when the arrow split his throat in two. He choked on
his blood and clung to the corpse of his sister and drowned with her in the
waters. The man had woken then, along with his Stand.
When he's done, his room is tidy and clean. The bookshelf is noticeably emptier
without the children's books and boy's adventure novels that had filled it, and
without the small toys that he had not paid much attention to over the last few
years. Most had been dusty, and most had simply been thrown away. Some were
packed away, the ones he remembered fondly. Of the things he saved, nearly all
were gifts from Perla. Pucci made room for them in the plain cardboard boxes he
filled and labeled and then tucked into the back of his closet.
Across the hall, Perla's room was the same as ever. The maid went in every day
to dust things and tidy up. Pucci looked in there now and then and was reminded
of a museum. It was unsettling. Perla had hardly ever closed her door and
usually the first thing you saw when you came by her door were the piles of
items she kept everywhere - clothes on the floor the maid hadn't gotten to yet,
her tape player and her cassettes sprawled over her rug, half a dozen magazines
left open to some new look or a beautiful girl wearing make-up. They were all
put away, the tapes stacked in the carrier that Perla had rarely used, the
magazines set on her bookshelf. Everything about who she'd been was gone,
drained away. It was a relief that the door remained closed these days. There
was nothing of her here. Everything that was Perla Pucci was in Enrico's room,
in the silver CD he kept in his bedside drawer.
The day before Dio's arrival, he sets those CD's out. Pucci's found himself a
way to display them, along with the other stands he's learned to take. They
glitter and shine when he turns on his lamp and if he sits and watches, he can
see familiar faces swim across the disc surfaces, people and stands caught in a
moment. He knows Dio will like this, and he’ll enjoy picking the discs up to
see what they are.
Perhaps it’s juvenile of him to want to impress Dio, but he does. He wants Dio
to step into Pucci's room and to take it in, to smile and look at him and
embrace him as an equal, just as he did when Pucci came to Egypt.
But in Egypt, Pucci had been alone. Downstairs, his parents go about their
lives. His mother cries. His father says nothing, slowly wasting away. He rises
in the morning and goes to work, and he comes home every evening and goes
straight to his study where he closes the door. Pucci suspects he cries too,
but he's never caught his father in the act. His eyes are never red when he
comes out to dinner, but he's always silent and he rarely reacts to Pucci's
questions or statements. Mostly they eat in silence before he returns to his
room. Pucci prepares a plate for mother and brings it to her at night. He
doesn't know if she eats it, or if the maid throws away the dinner when she
comes in the morning. It doesn't really matter. What matters is how little they
mean to him now. Pucci looks at his parents and sees two strangers whom he
simply lives with. They don't treat him as their son, and he doesn't treat them
as anything more than the ghosts they are.
Will Dio do the same? Or will he look at them and see Pucci as what he used to
be - sixteen and strange, desperately trying to pass himself off as an adult
while wearing clothes that aren't cut just right. He agonizes over this the
night before Dio's arrival, holding a bottle of church wine in his hands. It
isn't as good as the kind Dio will be expecting. He'll notice, and he'll ask,
and he'll know-
That night, he slips downstairs to his father's study and sends in Whitesnake.
His stand returns with two things. The first is confirmation that his father
does cry when he's alone. The second is the key to the wine cellar. Pucci isn't
forbidden from going there, but only because there was never any chance he ever
would. The wine cellar is locked and always has been since he was a child. But
he's not a child anymore.
Downstairs, he finds dusty bottles of wine here and there among a cellar that
hasn't been well maintained. Whitesnake hisses out recommendations as Pucci
sorts through them, brushing the labels clean to read the names, the years, the
vineyards they were bottled in. He takes two that look good and leaves the
church wine in their place, letting them fill the holes left, though he
suspects no one will ever notice. Whitesnake returns the key and Pucci takes
the bottles upstairs, arranging them with a pair of glasses.
Somehow that makes the difference. When he lies in bed, he finds himself able
to sleep, comforted by the knowledge that Dio will see him as he should. He
won't doubt Pucci's loyalty, not if he looks at Pucci as an equal and not as a
lovestruck servant.
This sustains him through the day. He goes about his routine as if things are
normal and ordinary - attends school, visits the church to assist with basic
cleaning, returns home for another silent dinner, brings a plate to his mother,
then mounts the stairs to his own room. Pucci hums under his breath, going
through hymns and then pop songs, grasping at any melody he finds calming. He
runs through half a dozen albums, most of which were Perla’s. Enrico’s half
tempted to borrow her player and her tapes, but the noise might draw his
parents upstairs. The last thing he wants is for them to finally be roused from
their inaction and to descend on him on this night.
When songs start to fail and falter, he switches to primes. Primes are
indivisible. Primes do not falter. They remain as they are for eternity. He
counts up, through the easy hundreds, slowly as the simple numbers drop away
and he’s left having to think and focus on each number as it comes by him,
dividing his way back through the numbers.
He’s reached the seven hundreds when there’s a sound at his window, a gentle
rapping. It must be dark out by now, as dark as this town ever gets. The
curtains are drawn and for the first time in weeks, he pulls them apart,
letting the streetlights in.
Dio sits in the windowsill. He smiles, lit from behind by the light. His eyes
are gold and his teeth are white.
Pucci is quick to unlatch his window from the inside, pulling it up. He almost
wants to laugh. How many times over the last few weeks has he read a scene like
this? Pucci feels like he should be in something thin and wispy, something more
like the curtains on the other windows the house. He’s wearing slacks and a
comfortable sweater, his bare feet steady on the wood floor. “Do you need an
invitation?”
Dio leans in past the threshold of the window, the shadows slipping away from
his face and revealing his eyes. He looks terribly amused, and terribly young,
as if he’s only a little older than Pucci rather than a hundred years older.
“Have you been reading, Enrico?”
“Of course. I’ve had little else to do.” He moves to the side and lets Dio
through. The vampire slips inside easily, his body surprisingly flexible
considering the size of him. Pucci doesn’t shut the window, letting it stay
open instead and welcoming the cool night air in.
He’s had so many thoughts on what to say when this moment came. Pucci’s thought
through this conversation a dozen times, trying to plan for anything. But with
Dio before him, golden and glorious, he feels tongue-tied and all too human, an
ant crawling on the earth beneath God’s watchful eyes.
Dio’s eyes slide along Pucci’s room, stopping firmly on the bottles of wine
sitting on his dresser. He heads for them, picking up the first to turn it over
in his hands, reading the label. “This is older than I am.”
“I thought you might enjoy something as rare as you.” Pucci finds his words
quickly, far quicker than he expected. His feet are somewhat under him again,
and he feels bolder now, able to see Dio as he is and not as he one day will
be, once he brings about his vision of Heaven. “Assuming it’s still good and
hasn’t turned to vinegar.”
Dio’s quick to uncork the bottle and sniff at it. It seems it hasn’t soured and
he’s quick pour them each a glass. They toast each other (“To Heaven” Dio says
and Pucci echoes it, “To Heaven”) and Dio drinks deeply. Pucci is slower to sip
his, trying to sense the difference between this and the plainer bottles. And
there is a difference - not just the taste, but the power of it, the way it
seem to come to life the moment it touches his tongue. It’s good wine, very
good, far richer than the kind they serve every Sunday at church. He’s glad he
thought to swap the bottles, especially as Dio pours himself a second glass and
stops to savor that one.
They end up on his bed when they sit, Pucci dragging the bedside table closer
so they can both easily reach it. The wine sits on it, but they mostly keep
their wine glasses in their hands as they get to drinking. Pucci sits up near
the headboard and Dio sprawls out in what’s becoming a very familiar sight.
“Have you had a chance to see much of America?” Pucci asks and Dio nods.
“I spent most of 1985 here. I returned to England originally but quickly grew
tired of it. After that, it seemed only right to experience the world I had
been denied.” He drinks his wine and Pucci’s impressed at how Dio can do that
without spilling when he’s sitting the way he is. Pucci has to sit upright and
keep a close eye on himself whenever he brings his glass to his mouth. He
doesn’t want to spill and make a mess of it, and he doesn’t want to choke on it
either. But, then again, he supposes a vampire doesn’t have to worry much about
choking. He doesn’t have to worry about his lungs filling with anything at all.
“And you, Pucci? Have you seen much of America?”
“A little, though I’ve seen more of Europe.” His legs reach out. They’re nearly
close enough to touch Dio, though not too close, not too close. “We visit Italy
at least once a year, and I’ve been on a few pilgrimages.”
“I thought you were devout, but I had no idea you were a pilgrim as well.” Dio
takes up so much space, it’s remarkable that there’s room left for Pucci to
stretch out as well. But there is enough room, and there is also not nearly
enough room as Dio easily sets a hand on Pucci’s foot, tracing along the arch
of it. “I would have thought your foot would interfere with such long travels.”
“If I went on the long pilgrimages, it would have. But a Pucci would never
spend months walking anywhere.” He smiles a little to himself, his eyes on
Dio’s hand as he so easily runs his fingertips over the sole of it. It tickles
a little, but not enough to make him withdraw. “The longest I’ve walked was
from the hotel to the Basilica of St. Thérèse, and that was only because I
slipped away in the early morning before the rest of my family woke. I was very
tired when I was done, but it was worth it. I still plan to go on a real
pilgrimage the summer after I graduate.”
“Which will it be? The Way of St. James?” Dio asks and Pucci nods, and he’s
rewarded with the slightest smile from those beautiful lips. “A well travelled
route.”
“It’s less popular these days, but I’ve wanted to walk it for years.” It had
always been somewhat of an impossible dream, something he knew he would likely
never be able to do alone but had set his sights on anyway. But his foot was
healed and he could walk forever now without any pain or swelling. There was no
reason not to follow the path.
Dio finishes his glass and upon seeing him tip it back, Pucci sips some of his
more. As Dio fills his glass, he offers the bottle to Pucci, who allows his
glass to be topped up even though very little is missing. “If I recall
correctly, an indulgence can be earned by those who travel that path.”
Pucci lets out a soft huffing laugh. Of course Dio would know that. “Not any
longer, not since before my birth. Vatican II removed anything that had not
been previously removed and reformed the church. There aren’t ways to ‘earn’
plenary indulgences any longer, not without going through sincere prayer and
doing good works.”
“How terribly disappointing. Catholics were far more exciting when you were
more openly corrupt.” Dio almost seems to bemoan the changes and Pucci can’t
help but grin, shaking his head somewhat at Dio’s ever so strange ideas about
what exactly consisted of Catholicism. The more they spoke, the more he was
sure that Dio longed for something far more tawdry and fetishistic, the kind of
Catholics that had undoubtedly featured as villains in the novels he read when
he was still human. Pucci must be quite a disappointment in comparison to those
colourful caricatures full of repressed lust and guilt.
The conversation flows steadily onward, following various trails and Pucci
becomes calmer, either from how easy things come, or perhaps from the wine
that’s currently filling his belly.
Pucci’s had wine at church since he was small, and glasses on special occasions
at dinner since he was thirteen. But he’s never had more than a glass at a
time. Even in Egypt, he was able to nurse a single glass for hours at a time,
reluctant to make a fool of himself in front of Dio. Tonight, they top off each
other’s glasses every time they dip below half, and Pucci quickly loses track
how many half-glasses and quarter-glasses he drinks with Dio. The further into
the bottle they get, the more Pucci realizes that Dio, despite his age, really
isn’t that old at all. Ninety four of his hundred-some years were spent under
the ocean, the rest split between his human life, and the four years that he’s
been awake and free in this modern century.
In many ways, Dio is eternally twenty-one. It’s strange how he can feel both
ageless and eternal, and yet only a little older than Pucci. They trade
philosophy and questions and passages in books and Pucci feels so comfortable
with Dio. He’s never felt this way before, like he’s truly being understood.
And does Dio feel the same way? Pucci hopes so. It’s so hard to tell with Dio
sometimes.
“You look very thoughtful. What is it that’s caught your attention, Enrico?”
Dio looks at Pucci with those honey gold eyes of his and Pucci just laughs a
little.
“I was thinking about you.” He confesses and smiles a little, knowing this must
be familiar territory to Dio. “I’ve learned to put people at ease but you… you
do it effortlessly. It’s amazing to me. You amaze me.”
Dio returns the smile, his mouth quirking upwards. “Amazing. One of the things
that surprised me most was how the language changed while I waited beneath the
waters. Everything is amazing, or astonishing. All the large words we rarely
used are now scattered through sentences, pearls strung alongside glass beads.”
“I could call you awesome.” Pucci teases, the wine helping him feel bold
instead of embarrassed. “Father Carrizosa hates how the word is used in casual
conversation. He loves to lecture us when he hears anyone call a movie
‘awesome’.”
“Am I awesome? Do I fill you with awe?” Dio smiles so beautifully. Pucci’s
heart longs when he looks at him, that sweet face and those sharp eyes, just
like staring into the face of an angel. Pucci brings his glass to his lips and
drinks down the wine.
“Awful.” Pucci smiles and Dio makes a bit of a face. It’s worth it. It’s worth
the teasing. Pucci sits up and sets his empty glass on the tray, shaking his
head when Dio moves to fill it. “I’ve had enough. I don’t want to be hungover
tomorrow.”
“We haven’t finished the bottle. Don’t tell me that Enrico Pucci can’t hold his
liquor.” Dio fills the glass anyway and offers it to Pucci. Of course, the
truth is that Pucci can’t. Of course he can’t. A sip of wine at church, a glass
with dinner, and a few nursed drinks in Egypt are hardly proof of anything.
He’s already had a few glasses and his face is warmed and flushed. All of him
feels very hot in his sweater and he’s reconsidering his choice to wear this,
but usually he’s a little on the cold side. Heavy layers are something he
prefers to dress himself in.
Dio keeps the glass outstretched until Pucci finally takes it, and the smile
that breaks over his face is like the sun rising over the water. Pucci can’t
help but respond with a smile of his own, though he does his best to stifle it
with a more subdued answer, “If you insist, then I will. We’re all servants of
fate.”
“That we are.” Dio agrees, perhaps more solemnly than Pucci expects. He swirls
the wine in his own glass and he taps his fingertips against the glass. “I once
thought that I could reject my humanity and rise above it, and in doing so,
rise above those small-minded fools who stood in my way. But fate is cruel. It
cares not for the desires of mortals or immortals, only the desires of fate
itself.”
This is a truth that Pucci knows painfully well. The room and the closed door
across the hall, the wistful face reflected on the surface of the CD sitting
just five feet away, the stand that follows his footsteps everywhere he goes;
they’re all inescapable markers along the road that fate has forced him to walk
along. He brings the wine close to his lips and drinks deeply from it, trying
to chase the warm flush he felt only a moment ago.
The hand on his foot squeezes lightly, drawing Pucci’s eyes back to Dio. His
eyes are so warm and golden, the colour he would expect to see some wild beast
have. But Dio is no monster. He’s more human than anyone Pucci’s ever met. He’s
charming and vicious, flawed and flawless, thoughtful and impulsive and
careful, all at the same time. Dio is ageless and yet always eternally twenty-
one, pivoting between the different aspects of himself with ease. No one has
ever been like Dio.
“Pucci,” Dio shapes his mouth around the name, kissing the air briefly as his
lips slide from one sound to the next. No one has ever said his name in such a
beautiful way. No one has made Pucci feel like this before. Dio’s fingers trace
along the arch of Pucci’s foot and up, over the heel and up his ankle. His
fingers are cool against Pucci’s skin and they slide underneath his pants leg.
Pucci licks his lips and he lets out a soft little sigh as they rest on the
back of his calf. Those long, sharp nails just trail over his skin.
“Dio.” He answers and raises an eyebrow after a moment, looking at Dio from
over the top of his wineglass. “Are you tired of drinking wine? Or are you the
one who’s having trouble with his liquor?”
Dio’s mouth twists up into a small smirk and he tips his wineglass back,
draining it. He sets the empty glass on the bedside table and shifts, pulling
his body up. The mattress beneath rocks and Pucci stays still as Dio moves to
lean over Pucci, his shadow falling across Pucci’s face. He’s so large, maybe
the biggest man that Pucci’s ever been around. His fingers squeeze the stem of
his own glass and he just looks up at Dio, up at those shining eyes.
He tries to think of something to say - something funny or witty, something
clever maybe or cutting. But his mouth is dry and he stalls out. Pucci just
drinks his wine instead, finishing his glass as well. His face is so warm, as
is the rest of him. He sets his glass beside Dio’s, his eyes drawn to the
lipstick prints around the rim, the green waxy remains of his lipstick
decorating it.
All he can think about is what it will be like to have those prints left on his
own body.
Pucci turns towards Dio and he reaches out, resting the back of his hand
against Dio’s chest. His fingers stay curled in towards his palm, pointing
towards Pucci. He relaxes the fist and lets it spread out, his knuckles
brushing over the thin spandex covering Dio’s skin. This isn’t the first time.
He has no reason to be nervous.
And yet, he does. The first few times were in Dio’s mansion, sober and
surrounded by his minions. There’s no one here but him and Dio, no one to
interrupt or walk in. There’s nothing to draw Dio away or distract him. There’s
just him and Dio.
“Pucci.” Dio says again, his mouth curling up. The smile seems a little unlike
the others and Pucci wonders if Dio is drunk. Can Dio get drunk? Dio seems
young when he smiles like this. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Everything.” He laughs softly and shakes his head. “You, I suppose.
I’m always thinking about you.”
“A popular topic among those who know me.” Dio teases and Pucci gently swats
his chest. But he doesn’t move back, and Pucci doesn’t either. They stay as
they are, so close to one another. “What are your thoughts? Carnal?”
“Some of them. But… not most of them.” As lush as those lips are, as much raw
sexuality that drips from Dio, it’s not sexual fantasies that haunt him. “I was
thinking how extraordinary you are. I never dreamed I would meet someone like
you, or that someone like you existed at all. We almost never met. You would
have been gone by the time I was born. That, or you would have been- what? A
hundred year and a little more? You could have been my great-grandfather.”
“Are you trying to make me feel old?” Dio asks and Pucci just laughs, shaking
his head no. Pucci suspects that if anything makes Dio feel the weight of time,
it isn’t Pucci. Still, Dio sets a hand on Pucci’s hip, the touch so casually
intimate. “We might not have. But we did meet. Fate willed it so.”
Fate… if not for the cruelty of fate, Dio would have never been trapped beneath
the ocean and he would have never met Pucci. If not for the cruelty of fate,
Pucci would have never sought Dio out again. He would have served at the church
and felt a quiet discontentment he would have never had a name for, and he
would have spent his life without ever knowing Dio. He could have missed this.
“Fate guided our steps.” Pucci echoes. He shifts, moving closer to Dio. His
hand turns and he presses his palm down against Dio’s chest, letting his
fingertips drag along the spandex. He’s so close to Dio’s mouth, his lips
nearly touching his. Those eyes fix on Pucci and Dio’s lips part, showing a
flash of white among the green. His hand squeezes Pucci’s hip, and all Pucci
can do is look at Dio and want him in every way someone can want another.
“You’ve given me answers that no one else ever could.”
Through the open window, the sounds of the night fill his room - the far off
hum of engines, the rustling of tree leaves and branches as they sway together.
Dio is silent and still, an oasis in an ever-changing world. Pucci’s heart
pounds in his ears and it feels as if his every move is telegraphed as he leans
in, all his bones and muscles shifting to angle his body up. The bed creaks and
his mouth presses over Dio’s, their lips finally meeting.
The taste of wine is thick in Dio’s mouth and Pucci’s eyes slide shut. He gives
in easily, focusing on the sensation of their mouths moving together, how soft
Dio’s lips are against his own. Dio comes to life, as if he was waiting for
Pucci to breathe it into him. His hand strokes along the curves of Pucci’s body
and Pucci feels goosebumps break out where Dio’s cold skin has pressed up
against his own. Pucci puts his other arm around Dio’s shoulders, using Dio’s
neck as leverage as he pulls himself in closer. He shivers slightly when their
hips press together, as their legs tangle and suddenly the space that was
between them has completely disappeared, and the only thing separating them is
their clothes.
The curtains flutter in the light breeze, the gentle rippling sound so loud
when everything else is quiet. Pucci’s heart pounds in his ears and his thighs
squeeze around Dio’s leg, feeling how thick he is. He’s not a small man, but
when Pucci is pressed up against the wall of muscle that makes up Dio, he feels
tiny by comparison. He squeezes again and rocks forward, pressing his cock into
Dio’s thigh and rubbing against him. It feels so good, and against his own leg,
Pucci feels the outline Dio’s cock. He’s hard and the thin bodysuit does
nothing to hide it. Pucci’s able to feel every inch of Dio’s shaft against his
thigh.
Pucci feels too warm, his face and other extremities flush with blood. His
clothes are too heavy, the sweater too thick, too hot, and he twists his body
to let his shirt ride up. Pucci’s stomach presses against Dio’s body, the heat
seeping out quickly. But not quickly enough. He wants more of the relief that
the cool body against him brings.
“So eager,” Dio murmurs when Pucci’s forced to draw back, taking a breath when
his lungs start to burn. He’s hardly caught it when Dio kisses him again, or
when Dio turns them, moving so Pucci’s sprawled on top of Dio. Those broad
hands slip under Pucci’s sweater, slowly pushing it up his chest. When they
break apart, Dio pulls it over Pucci’s head and tosses it aside, throwing it
into a heap on the floor. Pucci glances at it, wanting to stop a moment so he
can fold it and put it in the closet, but it’s only a passing thought.
Any concern for his clothes slips away as Dio’s hands stroke along Pucci’s bare
chest, those fingers greedily squeezing and caressing Pucci’s skin. He moans
then, soft and greedy and his hips shove forward. Pucci nods - yes, he is
eager. “I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”
Dio smiles, flashing those sharp white teeth at Pucci. He leans in and kisses
Pucci’s chest, his lips giving way to his tongue and teeth as Dio gently nips
at Pucci’s nipples and his shoulders. It feels good, the gentle pressure of his
teeth followed by the soothing balm of his tongue as Dio sweeps it over the
marks he leaves behind, little indents where the skin is bent but not broken.
Pucci squeezes the arm around Dio’s neck and encourages him to continue, but
Dio pauses, those dark eyes looking up at Pucci while his mouth hovers over a
wet stripe on Pucci’s chest. “And yet, you made me wait. You made me work.”
“Was it so unpleasant to talk and drink that you would have rather we went
straight to this?” Pucci bites at his lip, his hips rolling forward as he rubs
himself against Dio’s thigh. He encourages Dio to do the same, his own leg
firmly pressed against that hard cock. It must feel good to Dio, because right
now it feels wonderful to Pucci. He puts both hands on Dio’s shoulders,
stroking over the width and breadth of them before they slip up to touch the
scar on Dio’s neck, following the thick line of unhealed tissue.
“Weeks of waiting, for you as well as for me.” Dio is so cold, cold as the
night air and it feels like a relief after the way Pucci’s body has been
burning up. There’s heat in the pit of him, a furnace cranked to high, all
because of Dio. All from the way Dio looks at him - from the way he’s looking
at Pucci even now. “And yet, we spoke for hours before this.”
“You don’t believe a word of what you’re saying. You liked it as much as you
like this.” It’s true. Pucci knows it’s true. That was foreplay for them both.
And when this is over and they’ve finished rutting against each other like base
animals, it’ll be the conversation they both remember best. Pucci rubs his
thumbs over Dio’s scar, tracing along the seam of his neck. “You didn’t come
all the way to America just to fuck me.”
Dio’s lips are slightly parted and his teeth are so sharp, so inviting. The
look he gives Pucci is inscrutable for a moment, a mix of too many things to be
easily ready. But, then he settles on amusement and Dio’s hands slide over
Pucci’s hips and around the back, resting on his ass. His fingers dig in, the
nails poking at Pucci through his pants and all he can do is sigh a little, the
slightest moan falling from between his lips.
Words fall aside, giving way to action. On the bedspread, they grind against
each other, hands running over each other’s bodies. There’s no one to interrupt
here, no other followers to walk in and disturb them. Pucci can take his time
and so he does, focusing on the building heat in his belly each time he grinds
down and puts pressure on his cock. Dio’s pants are low on his hips, the fly
wide open and his cock almost entirely pushed out of them, held in place only
by his bodysuit. Pucci bites at his lip when he feels it twitch against him,
feeling his arousal spike. If he’s not careful, he might come like this, just
rubbing up against Dio’s thigh.
When Dio kisses him again, he bites at Pucci’s lip too, playing a sort of tug-
of-war. Pucci yields his lower lip to Dio, but it’s not enough for him, and his
fangs dig in deep this time, breaking the skin. He feels the sharp pain and
tastes blood, and Pucci has to push himself away from Dio, out of easy reach.
“Dio… No marks where people can see.”
“Are you afraid of being seen, Pucci? Do you fear that they’ll know what you’ve
done if they see it written on your body?” Dio’s hands give him a squeeze
before they slide up to the top of Pucci’s pants, and then- then they push
inside of them. Each hand grasps as a cheek, squeezes them and then stroking
over them. Those sharp fingernails scratch along the surface and Pucci just
groans at the sensation.
“They’re inconvenient for the both of us. Someone might ask questions. They
might wonder why I’m suddenly so interested in Cairo.” He tries to be mindful
and tries to encourage Dio to do the same. But Dio doesn’t. He just pushes
Pucci’s pants down as far as they’ll go when he’s got Dio’s thigh between his
legs. The night air is cool but refreshing and Pucci shivers as Dio’s hands
return to his ass. His nails dig into the flesh deep enough to leave
indentations. “S-someone might wonder why I’ve locked myself away in my
bedroom. You can’t leave marks where they can be seen.”
“And where they can’t be?” His nails dig in deeper and Dio’s hips shove up,
grinding hard against Pucci. It’s so intense, the sudden flare of pain and
pleasure, and he barely manages to bite back a moan. It’s just encouragement
for Dio to do it again, to rake his nails along Pucci’s ass and cut him open.
“Dio-” Pucci moans out, unable to quiet himself this time. Dio’s eyes are gold
and hungry and he shifts them again, this time sprawling them out backwards on
the bed. Pucci’s pants are easily pulled off of him, thrown onto the floor with
his other things. Dio is still clothed (if you can call what he’s wearing
‘clothing’) and Pucci feels as if this isn’t fair. Dio should be as naked as
Pucci is. “Your clothes are still on.”
“Hmm.” Dio disregards it. He looms over Pucci, his eyes raking over Pucci’s
body. Dio sets a hand on Pucci’s chest and runs it over him, sliding it up to
Pucci’s neck to touch, and then down, following one of his arms to pause at
Pucci’s elbow. Again it returns to the trunk of Pucci’s body and slides down,
over his chest, over his belly, down his hips and thighs, following the length
of his legs. He’s measuring out what parts of Pucci’s body usually aren’t
exposed. Pucci realizes now just how much territory he’s yielded to Dio, just
how much of his body he’s granted him control over.
“Nothing permanent either.” Pucci tries very hard to be firm. Too many marks
and someone will ask questions. Pucci does plan on seeing doctors in the
future, and occasionally, he needs to change somewhere public. He’s young
enough that people will ask questions if they see anything too extreme on him.
“I’m serious.”
“One thing.” Dio leans down. His mouth presses over Pucci’s chest, his tongue
first licking along Pucci’s pec, and then- oh God, and then his fangs dig in.
They break the skin and sink into the flesh, digging deep into the muscle.
Pucci shoves a hand over his mouth to stop the pained noise that’s desperate to
escape him. Dio withdraws his fangs and sucks at the wound, licking it until it
seems to clot before his mouth slides down. “Two things.”
Again, he bites Pucci and again, Pucci reacts. He’s so hard right now and the
pain doesn’t diminish it at all. If anything, it makes it worse and his cock
twitches when his body feels Dio dig his teeth into Pucci’s stomach, wanting
some kind of pressure on him. But while Dio holds himself over Pucci, he
doesn’t touch his cock, leaving it to desperately twitch away, seeking some
kind of relief that it won’t come.
Dio makes his way slowly and steadily down Pucci’s body, his mouth stopping
here and there to bite at him. Sometimes it’s hard enough to break the skin.
But then without warning, Dio simply puts his mouth against Pucci’s flesh and
sucks at him hard enough to leave Pucci twisting on the bed, only the hand in
his mouth keeping him from crying out loud enough for the whole house to hear.
There’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow, dark and large in the shape of
Dio’s mouth. Every time Pucci bends over, he’ll feel it ache. Every time his
sweater shifts over his chest, he’s going to feel it catch on the wounds Dio’s
leaving behind.
Pucci’s teeth dig into his palm and he whines deep in his throat as Dio’s fangs
sink into his hip. He glances down and Dio’s settled himself between Pucci’s
thighs, his long blond hair falling over his face like a curtain. Pucci’s flesh
is covered in small wounds and goosebumps, and the smell of fresh blood lingers
in the air. Dio tips his face forward and Pucci sees a flash of fangs. “Pucci.
Let me hear you.”
He shakes his head no. His family’s here. It’s too quiet. They might hear him.
They will hear him, and then-
Dio runs his hands over Pucci’s thighs, caressing the flesh there. His nails
dig in and pull slowly down it, leaving lines along his skin. Dio’s eyes are
burning and Pucci is reminded of stories he’s heard about night terrors, about
people waking to find demons crouching over them. But Dio is no demon. Gold and
glorious, handsome and terrifying, it’s obvious who Dio truly is. Pucci
gingerly lifts his hand from his mouth and lets it fall to the bed. He wants
nothing more than to pull it back, or to turn over on his stomach and hide his
face against the mattress. But if he did that, he would miss out on the pleased
smile that spreads over Dio’s face, just like the sun rising over the ocean in
the early dawn. He’s always so beautiful, but the way he looks at Pucci when he
gets what he wants…
Nothing can compare.
Pucci parts his thighs when Dio’s hands encourage him to, spreading himself out
wide. His cock twitches, desperate to be touched. Dio lowers his head and his
mouth fixes itself to Pucci’s right thigh. He can feel Dio’s lips part and his
tongue smooth over Pucci’s flesh, followed by his fangs. Those sharp teeth
pinch at first, and then… then they slowly sink in. Pucci moans, his head
falling back and the sound clawing its way out of him. Dio’s hand squeeze
Pucci’s thighs and his teeth sink in deeper. He never thought pain could
possibly ever feel good, but it does. And more than the pain, it feels good
knowing that Dio is leaving marks on him. Through the next week, he’ll feel
these marks, maybe even longer than that.
On his other thigh, Dio’s hand strokes steadily. His fingers press against the
skin, and then, they press into it. It’s a different pain from Dio’s fangs and
Pucci cries out, his body jerking as he feels his flesh part and tear as Dio’s
fingers sink in. Pucci’s seen Dio do this before. When he bites with his teeth,
it’s for fun, a leisurely activity. But his fingers…
When Dio sinks his fingers into someone, he’s truly drinking from them. The
pain is so different, more of a deep-down burn. Pucci pulls in air, his
breathing ragged and raw as Dio drinks from both his thighs. It shouldn’t feel
so good, but it does. Everything Dio does to him, everything Dio says to him,
they all feel wonderful. It’s like he’s spent his whole life waiting for him,
wandering aimlessly until the moment Dio tripped him in church.
“Dio!” He calls out his name, and Pucci should be afraid of being heard but he
isn’t. In this moment he knows no one will discover them. And if they did and
by some impossible chance, mother or father left their grieving to find out why
Pucci was making the sounds he is-
Dio would take care of it, wouldn’t he? It’s a sin to have such thoughts, but
Pucci feels them kindling in him anyway. Dio would charm them into submission,
or else he would dominate them by some other means. A flesh bud. Or perhaps
just death. And then Pucci would be free of them and this house, free from
another day of living across from Perla’s closed door in this house of the
dead.
Pucci feels those teeth dig in deeper, hard enough to tear and Dio’s fingers
sink in his flesh, into his vein and he welcomes it all, his voice loud and
desperate, gasping for air and moaning on each exhale. It hurts, but he likes
the feeling of pain mixed with pleasure. It feels real in a way that nothing
else ever does.
His cock is so hard. He has no right to like this as much as he does. When he
looks down the length of his body, he sees Dio’s blonde head buried against the
side of Pucci’s thigh, his mouth so red where it can be seen. Dio’s eyes slide
off of Pucci’s skin, turning up to look at him. When his teeth detach and slide
out, Pucci’s left trembling. Blood rolls over Dio’s lips and he lets it slide
over his chin. He leaves his fingers buried in Pucci’s thigh and he pushes his
hair out of his face as he raises his head. His eyes never look away from
Pucci’s, not even as he parts his lips again and slides his mouth down Pucci’s
cock. It’s Pucci who looks away first, his eyes falling shut as he’s
overwhelmed when Dio starts to suck on him.
Pucci wants to hold out but he can’t. He’s too hard and too desperate. Those
fingers are still buried in his thigh, crooked as they drink from him. He might
die. Dio could kill him. Pucci finds himself unable to worry about that. All he
can focus on is Dio’s mouth, his tongue and lips and the soft but demanding
suction that pulls on Pucci. His hips hitch up and Dio pulls him deeper in,
until all of Pucci is inside of Dio’s mouth. Pucci calls out his name again,
crying it out as he throws aside all worries about being heard or discovered
and puts himself completely at Dio’s mercy.
He comes like that, Dio’s gold eyes on him, his mouth coaxing every drop out of
him. The pleasure is wonderful, spiked through with pain. Nothing will ever be
this good again. Fate will never be as kind to him as it is now. That’s all he
can think of.
Dio settles Pucci on the bed as his body twitches gently with aftershocks. His
mouth withdraws, as do his finger, and Pucci opens his eyes, watching as Dio
licks the wounds clean and seals them. There’s blood on his sheets. He’ll have
to throw them away. He doesn’t care though. It’s not like anyone will notice.
“Dio,” Pucci calls to him and Dio comes, sliding the bulk of his body up the
bed. He pins Pucci against it, and he works his pants down, hooking a few
fingers around his bodysuit and pulling it to the side, until his cock slips
out. Dio’s so hard right now, fully erect and clearly eager as he presses his
cock between Pucci’s thighs and starts thrusting. It’s not a great angle
though, and Pucci coaxes Dio to roll them over, to move Pucci so he’s perched
on top of him. From here, he can change the position slightly, pressing his
knees against Dio’s stomach and trapping his cock back between Pucci’s thighs.
The head sticks up between them and he rubs the palm of his hand along it,
smearing precum over him. It’s not quite enough though. “Bend your knees up.
Support my back.”
“How demanding of you, Pucci.” And yet Dio does it anyway, his knees settling
against the middle of Pucci’s back. It’s just what he needs and as he rocks his
weight onto his knees, his back uses the top of Dio’s kneecaps as leverage to
pop his hips up and down. Pucci’s legs are a little weak from coming but he
simply takes his time, letting his back do most of the work. Dio’s hands grasp
at Pucci, his long nails raking along the outside of his legs before they trace
back up, digging into his ass. They pass over the scratches his nails left
before and dig in, and Pucci hisses at the sudden flare of pain. Dio just licks
his lips, passing his tongue over the blood still on his mouth. “Have you
tasted yourself?”
“No.” Pucci says. Dio pulls him in close, pressing his mouth to Pucci’s. He
tastes blood, thin and coppery, and beneath it- oh. Oh that’s- Pucci’s face
flushes red as he realizes what else is in Dio’s mouth. That’s his cum. Dio’s
hands squeeze Pucci and move his hips faster, his cock thrusting up between
Pucci’s thighs. Pucci tugs his mouth away when he needs to catch his breath,
ducking his head down to look at the head of Dio’s cock. He thinks about the
taste in his mouth, and he thinks about Dio, and though his face is red, he
squeezes his legs tighter. “Do you?”
“Every time.” Dio smiles, all his teeth showing. His nails dig in and Pucci
shudders, his cock lazily twitching at the implications of Dio’s boast. All
Pucci can do is think about it - about Dio licking his semen off his fingers,
or off of his partner’s flesh, his tongue lazily tracing over breasts and
faces, over stomachs and asses, of probing inside-
“And if I let you fuck me? If I let you come inside of me?” Pucci challenges
him. It takes everything he has not to stumble over every filthy word, “Would
you still taste yourself?”
The way Dio’s pupils go big says it all. His mouth falls open and his hips
thrust up hard and fast and Pucci can do nothing else but hold on, riding Dio
and letting his fist stroke the head of Dio’s cock. It’s hard and fast and Dio
is entirely silent, but his cock surges and he comes over Pucci’s hand, and
over his bodysuit as well, the black splattered with cum. Staying on top of him
is a feat in itself and Pucci knows he’ll never forget how all of Dio flexed in
the moment before he came, his body so grand. Riding him was like being astride
a horse or some other creature, a being of pure muscle and power.
How would it feel to actually ride Dio like this?
But that’s a question that won’t be answered tonight. Dio’s spent and he falls
to the bed, silent as the grave. He seems to forget to breathe, or doesn’t go
through the charade of it. Pucci just lifts his hand and looks at what Dio left
behind. It’s a mess. Pucci glances down at Dio’s limp body and he extends it
out to Dio, holding it above his mouth. “Open up.”
Dio does just that, his lips falling open and his tongue slipping out. Pucci
lets his cum drip into Dio’s mouth, watching as he takes it without a moment’s
hesitation. No one Pucci’s ever met has been as much of a hedonist as Dio is.
And when most of it is gone, Pucci lifts his hand to his mouth as well and lets
his tongue snake over the last remains of it. It’s cold and bitter, but he
licks it anyway, just so he can say he did. Dio’s eyes are wide and his mouth
curls into a smile, his big hands grasping as Pucci’s hips to stroke and
squeeze him. “You spoil me. Will you speak about this in confession? Will you
describe it to the priest how you sinned? Will you tell him how I tasted on
your tongue?”
Pucci rolls his eyes. “You’re such a Protestant sometimes.”
Thankfully, Dio seems amused more than anything. Pucci relaxes his thighs and
he slides off of Dio’s lap. But before he lies down, he pulls at Dio’s clothes,
forcing him to actually undress himself. Pucci wants to see him bare, and
though the body suit is a bit of a nightmare to figure out when Dio isn’t
helping any, Pucci does manage to undress him. Dio’s magnificent, just a wall
of pure muscle that starts at his shoulders and continues all the way down.
Pucci doubts there’s anyone in the world half as handsome as Dio is.
But Pucci keeps that to himself. If he says it out loud, Dio will just let it
go to his head. It’s cold and Pucci draws the blankets out from underneath them
and tugs them over them both. It doesn’t help much with Dio, who’s still cold,
but at least it keeps him from getting even colder as the breeze blows in over
them.
“You can stay with me if you want. Those are blackout curtains, and nobody else
will bother you. No one comes into my room but me.” And it seems that even if
Pucci yells, no one will come to see how he is. His parents would rather drown
in their grief and ignore anything else, no matter how strange. It’s a relief.
It’s easier that they care this little about him. It means he can simply return
the favor.
Dio stirs a little, lifting his head. He wraps an arm around Pucci’s waist and
rests his hand along the curve of his ass. “I was told it was traditional for a
date to end with a kiss. How am I meant to get that kiss if I don’t leave?”
“This wasn’t a date-” Pucci starts to say, but he pauses as he turns it over in
his head. Perhaps they didn’t go on a traditional date - no meal out, no movie
- but… The past few weeks of preparation, the wine from the cellar, the books
and the conversation… In a way, he supposes that’s more of a true date for
himself and Dio than going out would have been. But if that’s so-
Then that means that this was their first true date. And Pucci put out on it.
He groans, covering his face with his hands. Dear God.
Dio lets Pucci wallow for a little while before he takes hold of Pucci’s hands
and pulls them away from his face, coaxing Pucci to look up at him. “Pucci.
That kiss.”
“You kiss on the third date, not the first.” Pucci stops tugging his hands up,
relaxing them in Dio’s grip instead. His cheeks are still red, but he simply
accepts the truth of the matter: that this was a first date and that he gave
Dio everything. But, he would do it again. Pucci would give Dio anything he
wanted, just to be near him, just to be with him. No other person in the world
has ever made him feel as Dio does, like he’s finally found someone who
compliments him perfectly. “You owe me another two dates.”
Dio’s mouth shifts into a pleased smirk. “Then while I am here, I will have to
deliver those dates.”
While he’s here. Pucci knows it won’t be for long. Dio has so much to do, so
much waiting on him. But while he’s here...
While he’s here, he can be Pucci’s alone. And won’t that be novel? Six months
ago, he had never turned a single thought towards the idea of dating anyone.
Even yesterday, he hadn’t spared a single thought for it. And now-
Now, he ducks his head down and presses a kiss to the back of Dio’s hand, one
for each of the hands holding his wrists gently. “Good. I look forward to it.”
He’s tired and yet, he’s not tired at all. Though he settles with Dio beneath
the blanket, he doesn’t close his eyes or try to sleep. Instead, he makes
himself comfortable, nestling into Dio’s arms, and asks him, “What have you
been reading recently?”
Dio settles an arm around Pucci’s waist, his fingers idly resting on Pucci’s
stomach, and as he tells Pucci about what he’s been entertaining himself with,
Pucci listens carefully and hopes that this is how every date he has will end
from now on - nestled in Dio’s arms and speaking softly to one another.
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