Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13081227.
  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:
      First_Time, Religious_Imagery, Secret_Santa, Biting
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-31 Words: 4199
****** king of kings ******
by Nomette
Summary
     Pucci's day begins in Dio's bed, alone with the covers tucked around
     him by loving hands. Dio is so gentle with him. Sometimes Pucci
     wishes he would be rougher. He is blessed, he knows, to be able to
     spend so much time discussing art and literature with Dio. Every word
     from his friend's lips is a gift. But he wants more. Pucci is a
     person with a wretched void at the center of his heart, and Dio is
     the only one who could ever make him whole.
     He lies back a moment more, summoning up the strength to ignore his
     longing, then sits up. There's a spot of white tucked in among the
     velvet bedsheets. It's a note from Dio.
     "Come to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities at 8, and take your place
     among the possessions of kings."
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Enrico arrives to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities an hour after closing
time, and wonders if he misread Dio’s instructions. The museum is a tall,
elegant building that shines rosy-red in the last light of evening, the many
windows dark and empty. No one can enter now. Enrico feels a faint pang of
disappointment. Since coming to Cairo, he has traded the light of the sun for a
spot in Dio’s nightly court, and while he does not regret the decision, the
trappings of his old life still call to him. A year ago, before Perla, before
Dio, before his stand, Enrico would never have dreamed that there would be
anything in Cairo so bewitching that it could keep him from such a museum. But
Dio is Dio, and a few words from his lips are worth more to Enrico than all the
treasures of the world.
This morning, or perhaps this afternoon, or yesterday- the time is all a blur-
Enrico awoke alone in Dio’s ornate bed, the covers pulled over him by a loving
hand. Dio is so gentle with him.  Sometimes Enrico wishes he would be rougher.
There was a note with him in the bed, a spot of white in all the imperial
purple of Dio’s sheets.
“Come to the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities at eight.” Dio’s writing is
unmistakable. He is the only person Enrico knows who uses an inkwell.
Enrico takes out the note and checks it in the light of a streetlamp. As he
fumbles out the note, a wail rings out across the courtyard, and he nearly
drops it. Another voice joins the call, and then another, and another, until
all of Cairo is enveloped in the call to prayer. Fives times a day, the many
mosques scattered across Cairo broadcast a reminder to the faithful to turn
towards Mecca. Enrico cannot understand the words, but he loves the sound of
them, loves to hear the chorus of combined voices rising like a prayer towards
heaven.
He is not Muslim, but he does not fault anyone looking for God.
The call winds on and on, amplified by the microphones of a hundred mosques,
and Enrico lifts his head from his note to see Dio standing at the top of the
steps leading into the museum. Enrico’s heart beats faster. Tonight, Dio is
dressed in cloth-of-gold pants and a tight, immodest leotard that reveals the
powerful lines of his shoulders, his forearms, his hips. Enrico stands there
like an idiot, frozen by his beauty, and then he hurries forward to meet his
friend.
“Dio,” he says, uncaring of the dumb adoration he’s sure is visible on his
face.
“Enrico, always so punctual,” Dio says, and smiles down at him. Enrico is not a
small man- he stands taller than the average man in Egypt- but Dio’s height and
beauty are something otherworldly, as if he were made from an entirely
different cast then other men.
“Come in,” he says, and gestures to the door. It swings open, and Enrico enters
into the lobby. One by one, the lights come on, filling the cavernous darkness
with light and color. Dio places his hand gently on Enrico’s lower back,
steering him forward. The doors close behind them, and they are alone.
“I’ve arranged for a private tour,” Dio says, his voice low and intimate.
“Thank you,” Enrico says. Part of him is surprised, and part of him feels
intimately that everything is exactly how it should be. He lets the second part
win.
Dio takes his hand. His fingers are cool and pleasant after the long heat of
the Egyptian summer. They walk, hand in hand, through galleries of glittering
objects, their steps echoing in the wild, empty halls. The ceiling is arched
like a cathedral or a mosque, and Enrico finds that he is fiercely glad of it.
These objects have their own sacredness to them, a value given by endurance
through time, proof that as long as human beings have existed they have had
their eyes set on God. Enrico can hardly contain his delight. He doesn’t want
to let go of Dio’s hand, but his eagerness overcomes him when he catches sight
of the Mask of Tutankhamun, and he finds himself craning his neck like a child.
“Sometimes I forget how young you are. Your enthusiasm is so charming." Dio's
voice is gentle and fond. Enrico's never been so embarassed in all his life. He
freezes. As a child, he had a fascination with ancient Egypt, but when he
joined the seminary he decided it was time to stop obsessing over pagan things.
He regrets it now. Isn’t that what man gained when he bit the apple? Knowledge?
He can hardly unbite it now.
“I knew a man once with a similar fondness for artefacts,” Dio says, and to
Enrico’s mortification, he takes Enrico’s hand and begins to walk towards the
mask. They stop in front of the display. Dio’s voice is reminiscent, almost
longing. His hand comes up to play absently with the necklace at his neck. The
mask tugs at Enrico’s attention, but he can ignore it for now. This rare moment
of candor from Dio is far more precious.
Dio touches his hand to the glass and speaks, his voice wistful. “Like you, he
was a rare kind of person. From the moment I met him, we were drawn together by
gravity.”
“What happened to him?” Enrico asks.
“He died,”  Dio says simply. “Over a century ago.”
Enrico thinks about offering consolations, or prayers, but neither of those
things seem right. Instead, he reaches out, placing his hand over Dio’s. Dio
smiles.
“Go on,” he says. “You wanted to look- go ahead.” Enrico allows himself to look
away from Dio and look, finally, at the treasured object. As a child, he had a
book with a picture of this exact mask in it. He stares, taking in every curve,
every color, every line. Human hands created this object this over 3000 years
ago, long before the birth of Christ. The thought of all that time transfixes
him, makes him dizzy.  
“Would you like to touch it?” Dio asks, and Enrico startles, both at the sound
of his voice and at the suggestion. Without waiting for an answer, Dio beckons
to The World, and in a flicker the mask is in his hands. He holds it out to
Enrico, who recoils.
“You love it, but you don’t want to touch it,” Dio observes. “Is that why you
haven’t touched me?” Enrico flushes. He takes the mask carefully, his face hot.
He can’t meet Dio’s stare.
“It’s precious,” he mumbles, staring at the treasure clasped in his hands. “My
fingerprints wouldn’t improve it.”
“I disagree,” Dio says easily. “What gives an object meaning? Only age?
Material worth? What do you like so much about this object, Enrico, that it
distracts you from even me?”
Enrico flushes and raises his head to meet Dio’s eyes.
“If you asked me to, I would destroy this,” he says. “Willingly and out of
love.”
“I know,” Dio says carelessly. “But you don’t want to. Why?”
Enrico breathes in, then exhales, trying to drive away all his doubt. He is
always honest with Dio, and in return Dio is honest with him. He is lucky, to
be able to trade question for question, but it scares him too. There is
something terribly dangerous in Dio. It is not a question of if Dio’s love will
destroy Enrico; it is a question of how and when.
“The story is a little boring,” he says quietly. “I liked to read when I was a
child, but none of the people in the textbooks or stories ever looked like me.
Only the slaves. But the Egyptians… they built monuments and temples, and we
remember them even now. There are egyptian kings with faces like mine. And they
were not slaves.”
Dio steps closer, and closer, until he takes up Enrico’s entire field of
vision. He cups Enrico’s cheek in one cool hand. The mask is clasped between
them, forgotten.
“Oh, Enrico. What is the worth of a virtuous woman? I say to you, her value is
above rubies." The bible verses are sharp as daggers in Dio's mouth, and the
sound of them ringing from the museum walls makes Pucci dizzy. Dio places his
hand on the mask and lifts it to Pucci's face. "This- this is nothing. Only a
mask. Do you not know that you belong here, among the possessions of kings, and
yet more precious than any of them? For you belong to I, Dio, who is destined
to remake the world.” 
“I am not a woman,” Enrico stammers out.
“And yet, you are still mine, are you not?” Dio demands.
“Yes,” Enrico stammers out, “yes, of course.” He lowers the mask. Dio’s face
tilts towards him, and Enrico forgets- forgets Cairo, Georgia, Tutankhamun,
Perla- everything, even his own name. There is no room in him for anything but
the soft brush of Dio’s lips against his own.
“O-oh,” he stutters out. He wants to say thank you. Is that appropriate? He’s
never kissed anyone before. He’s never beenkissed.
“First time?” Dio says teasingly, and Enrico nods. Dio’s smile is broad, his
sharp teeth making little dents into the soft skin of his lower lip without
breaking the skin.
“Whatever you want from me, I want to give it,” Enrico says, mesmerized by the
sudden, electric closeness of Dio’s body. His heart is thumping wildly in his
chest.
“And if I want to walk through the museum, and never touch you again?” Dio
says.
“Then I want that too,” Enrico says.
“But you don’t,” Dio replies. “You want me to kiss you.” He trails one long,
clawed hand along the bare skin of Enrico’s neck, raising an involuntary
shudder from Enrico’s skin.
“If what you want from me is denial of my body, then I will give it to you,”
Enrico says, and means it. He is long practiced at denial. Even before he
entered the seminary, even when he was a child, he learned how to duck his
head, how to swallow his temper, how not to ask and how not to want. It would
burn a hole in him to have Dio so close and be denied, but it is a fire he
longs for. He wants to throw himself away into the hole of Dio’s desires. He
wants to give himself away until there is nothing left, and he willdo it,
whether by consummation or by abstention.
“Last year I abstained,” Dio whispers, his lips careful around each syllable.
“This year I devour/ without guilt/ which is also an art.” His eyes are hot and
hungry, and their gaze scorches Enrico worse than the Cairo sun. He kisses
Enrico again, this time with more force, his lips hungry and demanding, and
Enrico opens his mouth and lets Dio taste him. The mask is digging into his
chest.
“What is it?” Dio asks, drawing back.
“Nothing,” Enrico says. “I remembered the mask.” He hands it off to Whitesnake,
not caring what his stand does with it, and Dio laughs.
“You’re so conscientious,” he says.
“I don’t want anything between us,” Enrico says, embarrassed.
“And yet, you’re still wearing clothes,” Dio says. Enrico gives him a look,
then draws his shirt up over his head and tosses it to the floor. It feels
silly. Part of him thinks that the end game of this will be him walking through
the museum of egyptian antiquities naked, and part of him doesn’t care. He’ll
have his stand retrieve his clothing if he has to.
Dio stops him with a single finger on the naked skin of Enrico’s stomach as he
is making to unclasp his belt buckle.
“How foolish of me to doubt you,” he says, smiling. “But I want to unwrap my
present, Enrico, so save the rest for me, hmm?”
“As you wish,” Enrico says, and Dio laughs. He backs Enrico into a pillar and
kisses him hungrily, his body pressed tight against Enrico’s blocking him in.
His cool hands caress the skin of Enrico’s naked back, holding him in place. It
feels like being conquered, and also like surrendering. Nothing’s ever felt
better.
Dio pulls away from him only to drop his mouth to the crook of Enrico’s neck,
his teeth scraping gently against the soft skin there. Enrico shudders as Dio
works his way up to the hingle of Enrico’s neck in little kisses and bites,
until his mouth stops at the hinge of Enrico’s jaw.
Dio inhales and nuzzles his nose against the side of Enrico’s neck like some
large, dangerous animal.
“I have kissed other men, and smelled the touch of other lovers on their
skins,” he murmurs, and his voice is a caress. “But you, and you alone, smell
like my bedsheets, and incense for prayers, and no one else.” He presses
another kiss to Enrico’s skin, and bites down. It hurts. Enrico’s body goes
taut, his muscles all protesting, but he doesn’t pull away. There’s pleasure in
greater measure than pain- a heavy, overwhelming pleasure that makes his
eyelids dip and his toes curl. Dio’s lips on his body, Dio’s arm around his
waist, holding him up- Enrico could never deny these things which he’s longed
for in such great measure.
Dio’s teeth slide painfully free from Enrico’s skin, and he scrapes his tongue
against the side of Enrico’s neck in languorous strokes. A moment of skipped
time, and then the liquid on Enrico’s neck is gone, his skin dry. Dio presses a
last row of gentle kisses to Enrico’s inflamed skin, making him shudder.
Enrico’s skin will be marked with lipstick when he looks in the mirror
tomorrow. He can’t wait.
Dio is smiling at him, his red eyes shining like rubies under the lights of the
museum hall. Enrico’s blood is shining and wet on the cold marble of his mouth
like lipstick. His eyes are twin stars of glory and hunger.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth, for your love is better than
wine,” Enrico says, recovering his breath. “Your name is oil poured out,
therefore virgins love you. Draw me after you; let us run. The king has brought
me into his chambers.”
Dio laughs.
“Go on,” he says, and Enrico’s voice catches.
“I am very dark, but lovely,” he begins, his voice wavering, but growing in
strength as Dio looks at him. “O daughters of Jerusalem, like the tents of
Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon. Do not gaze at me because I am dark, for
the sun has looked upon me,” he says, and trails off. Dio’s finger is on his
lips, prompting him to silence. Dio whispers to him and Enrico can smell his
own blood on Dio’s lips, mingled with the scent of perfume. His head is dizzy
with it.
“You are dark,” Dio says, a smile curving his lips, “because the sun has looked
upon you.” He places Enrico’s hand in the glorious fall of his golden hair. “Do
you understand? You are no one’s slave. Not even mine.”
“I feel like a king when I am with you,” Enrico says hoarsely.  
“Good,” Dio says, and kisses Enrico’s mouth chastely. “Me too.” He lifts Enrico
easily, holding him like a bride in his arms, and gestures to his stand. In a
moment, The World has returned Tutankhamun's Mask to the display and collected
Enrico’s shirt and undershirt, and then they are up and away.
Enrico doesn’t bother with questions. He tucks his head into the crook of Dio’s
neck, one hand fisted in the fabric of Dio’s leotard, and savors the feel of
Dio’s arms around him, the smell of his skin, the stinging feel of the bite he
left behind on Enrico’s neck. He hangs on as Dio takes him up the stairs, time
stuttering in little fits and stops as they go. Dio takes him to the highest
level, past the doors marked employees only, and lays him down on a four-poster
bed, incongruous among the other artefacts.
For an insane moment, Enrico thinks they’re back at the mansion, and then he
realizes that all of this was planned. He sits up on his elbows, feeling
vulnerable and exposed, and finds Dio staring at him hungrily.
“Did you plan this?” he asks.
“Of course,” Dio says, and crawls onto the bed, his hands on either side of
Enrico’s shoulders, trapping him between the expanse of Dio’s perfect body and
the bed. “All for you. I, Dio, do not need to seduce. I only need to command.
Where I wish to have someone, I will have them. But you are special, Enrico.
For you, I would move heaven and earth.” He smiles, and it lights up Enrico’s
body like an electric shock. His fingertips linger gently on Enrico’s shorn
hair. “I made this evening for you and I. Is it to your liking, little
scholar?”
“Yes,” Enrico breathes. “Yes.” No words could ever express the terrible aching
shock of being loved like this, but he tries anyway. He wants Dio to know. “I-”
he begins, breathlessly, and Dio presses a large hand on his collarbone and
pushes him gently down. Enrico is flat on his back, wonderfully, terribly
helpless in the face of all the beauty and power pressing him to the bed.
Dio lowers his head, and for him Enrico opens his mouth and permits himself to
be tasted. At some point, Dio removed his shirt. His skin is cool against
Enrico’s burning skin. He weight presses Enrico into the mattress, and it dips
under the burden of their bodies. Enrico doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t
know how to think, how to breathe. Dio’s tongue is in his mouth. Dio’s hands
are on his hips, his thumbs stroking the lines of Enrico’s hip bones.
“Stop worrying,” Dio tells him gently.
“I want to please you,” Enrico stammers out. “I wish I could make you feel how
you make me feel.”
Dio laughs, very gently.
“You give me things no one else does, Enrico. People bring me their devotion,
but it doesn’t change who they are. A libertine who loves me is still a
libertine. You were a man of discipline before you met me.”
“I want to be more than just me,” Enrico says. “For you, I could be a saint.”
Dio laughs again, his face filled with affection.
“This is the part where you’re mine,” he says, his finger unbuttoning Enrico’s
pants. “Trust me.” And Enrico does. Completely.
He wants to touch Dio’s hair, and so he does. Carefully, very carefully, he
winds his hands through Dio’s shining locks as Dio slides his pants off.
“Do you buy all your clothes at the priest supply store?” Dio teases, one
finger hooked under the elastic of Enrico’s plain black boxers.
“Yes?” Enrico replies, confused. “There’s a catalogue.” For some reason, Dio
finds this hilarious. He kisses Enrico warmly, then bends his head to kiss
Enrico’s neck, his shoulders, his collarbone, his chest. His mouth travels down
Enrico’s naked chest and stomach, leaving Enrico breathless. Dio lips move over
the tented fabric of Enrico’s boxers, and he shudders. Dio pulls his boxers
down, and time blinks again. Dio’s clothes are gone, his body displayed
gorgeously in the filtered light of the four-poster. It feels like they are the
only two people left in the world.  
“Maybe I wanted to unwrap you,” Enrico says. He did. He wants to touch every
inch of Dio he is permitted to feel.
“Next time,” Dio promises, and bends his mouth to Enrico’s cock. Enrico’s hands
form fists in the sheets. His back arches. His mind is scattered, his body
filled with hot, immediate pleasure. Dio’s mouth is making wet sounds as it
slides over him. Enrico already feels like he’s about to fall to pieces, and
they’ve only just begun. He puts one hand over his mouth and bites at the skin
there in an attempt to stifle the noises threatening to escape his lips.
Dio’s mouth slides free of his cock with a wet pop, and he advances up the bed.
Enrico can taste himself in Dio’s mouth. He doesn’t care. Dio’s hand slides
down between them to stroke Enrico’s cock.
“I’m going to prepare you,” he murmurs. “Relax.” His finger trails circles
around Enrico’s hole before slipping in. Enrico tries not to gasp. Dio’s body
has him pinned to the bed. Dio’s lips are raising warm bruises on the soft skin
of his neck. Dio’s hand is on his cock. It feels so good. His heart is beating
against the cage of his ribs like a trapped animal. He lets his head roll back
and lets go of his discipline and his control, lets go of everything he’s known
before and just gives himself over.
“Enrico, my beloved,” Dio says, and pulls his fingers free. Enrico can’t see
what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter. He trusts Dio to do what both of them want.
Dio’s cock pushes against his entrance, and then it’s in. Enrico bites back a
gasp. Dio waits, petting Enrico’s hair gently.
“How does it feel?” Dio asks.
“Overwhelming,” Enrico admits. He tries not to let his discomfort show as Dio
pushes in, but Dio knows. He moves slowly, inch by inch, distracting Enrico
with kisses as his body gives way to Dio’s massive cock. Every movement is
better than the last. Enrico’s control is slipping away from him, and he moans
into Dio’s mouth. His eyelids flutter, his senses all overwhelmed with feeling.
Dio’s cock is so big, so hot, filling him up, making his back arch. Dio’s slow
pace, previously a mercy, becomes maddening. Enrico wants more. He wants to
feel Dio tomorrow when he sits down. He wants to feel Dio to the core of his
spine, wants that rhythm, that friction.  
“More,” he begs, and Dio gives it to him, until Enrico’s whole body is rising
and falling on the rhythm of Dio’s hips. Every thrust, every slide, every
sloppy wet sound of their bodies coming together is better than the last.
Enrico is unraveling, his body shuddering to pieces. He’s wanted this for so
long.
“Let me hear you,” Dio murmurs, and bites at Enrico’s lower lip, forcing his
mouth open. Dio is inside him, above him, his tongue pushing into Enrico’s
mouth, tasting his breaths, taking every last part of him, and it feels better
than Enrico ever dreamed. Little shameless moans of pleasure escape from his
mouth, and Dio swallows them. His nails scrape along Enrico’s scalp. Enrico
loses all track of time. There’s nothing but sensation, nothing but pleasure,
nothing but Dio.
Enrico’s orgasm hits him all at once, his cock spilling out onto his belly, his
entire body drawn taut, and then even that leaves him. It’s so much- too much-
too unendurable to last long. It wipes him clean of thought and leaves him
trembling under Dio’s body as Dio drives into him, his rhythm stuttering as he
finishes inside of Enrico’s body.
“Oh, God,” Enrico stutters out. He can feel Dio’s cock moving inside of him,
filling him up with cum. Dio catches Enrico’s hand in his own and pins it into
the mattress, and holds him there as he finishes.  
“My Enrico,” Dio says, and kisses him hungrily as he draws his cock out of
Enrico’s body. There’s a wet spot forming on the bed under him. Enrico doesn’t
care. He’s breathless, overwhelmed by the force of Dio’s kisses. Even as they
slow, his mind is scattered, his body limp and loose. It’s a long time before
he can speak.
He and Dio lie side by side. Dio’s hand is splayed over his thigh. It’s dim in
the museum storeroom, the light filtered through the fine curtains of Dio’s
four poster bed. Everything is dim and shadowy, a secret world created just for
the two of them. They turn to each other in the dim light, corresponding by
touch. Dio’s hand rises along Enrico’s thigh and over the curve of his hip, and
comes to rest on his waist. His eyes shine like rubies in the dark.  
“If God made the world such that I would find you, than it is good,” Enrico
whispers quietly. Dio’s teeth are sharp and white, shining and dangerous. His
smile is an invitation, and Enrico will take it every time it is offered.
“All of time- every king and queen, every empire, every lover and every
executioner- all of them aligned so that you would find me in the church,” Dio
murmurs. “What a gift we have been given, my beloved.”
Enrico kisses the corner of his mouth.  
“We must share it with the world,” he says, and for a moment he can see it- all
the expanse of time, thousands of years passed, and thousands of years to come,
and every moment at Dio’s beck and call. His stand stirs within him, and he
meets Dio’s gaze, unmerciful as the eyes of God, and sees his own hunger
staring back.  
End Notes
     Written for the Server Christmas Exchange!
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