Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6778138.
  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
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-07 Words: 4487
****** the singing of telephone bells ******
by conceptofzero
Summary
     Dio doesn’t call every night - he’s busy and Pucci’s seen first hand
     how much the mansion depends on him and demands his attention. But he
     calls often enough, and always at the same time - 3am in Cairo.
     There are nights they talk philosophy. There are nights they talk
     business. But most nights, they do this.
Cairo is six hours ahead of Jacksonville. Whenever Pucci looks at a clock these
days, his mind automatically adds six hours to it. If it’s 3pm in Jacksonville,
his mind quietly reminds Pucci that it’s 9pm in Cairo, that Dio would be awake
by now. He’s likely taking his breakfast, feeding from another of those willing
lambs who lie on the altar and turn their throat to the knife. If it’s 1am, he
knows in an instance that it’s 7am for Dio, and in a coffin at the top of the
mansion that Dio considers his home, a still and lifeless body slumbers without
dreams and waits for day to fall, and for life to return once more. If it’s 9pm
his time...
If it’s 9pm his time, Pucci waits by the phone in his father's study, doing his
schoolwork as best he can when all he can do is focus on the phone beside him.
Dio doesn’t call every night - he’s busy and Pucci’s seen first hand how much
the mansion depends on him and demands his attention. But he calls often
enough, and always at the same time - 3am in Cairo.
Tonight is no exception. His eyes slide over his English homework, trying to
make his mind focus enough to properly answer them. His lackluster work has
been excused time and time again. After all, he's lost his sister and his
family has fallen apart. Mother's gone to stay with her sister and has been
away for a month. His father comes home and locks himself in his bedroom every
night. Of course Pucci is doing terribly in school. Of course there are long
absences. What else would they expect after such a tragedy?
Pucci sighs under his breath, glancing at the clock again. It's twenty-five
after nine. Dio might not be calling. Usually, he phones by now if he's going
to call at all. It would be best to pack up and move elsewhere in the house,
maybe somewhere he could make himself focus in silence. He would still be
distracted but without the phone nearby, he could still force himself to do his
work. And wouldn't it be better if he hands in at least a few assignments done
properly?
He eyes up the phone and scowls at it, turning his attention back to the work
in front of him. Pucci manages to pencil in a few of the answers, adjusting the
provided sentences to be grammatically correct and providing a few examples
when prompted to. He draws from the Bible for most of them, smiling to himself
as he knows that when he speaks of the world yet to come, he is being more
literal than the teacher could ever imagine.
Pucci's chewing a little on the end of his pen when the phone rings, startling
him. He drops the pen on the table, reaching for the phone. Perhaps it isn't
best to answer it so quickly but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to miss Dio,
in case he decides he's been too late.
"Hello," he answers with all the gravitas he can muster. "Pucci household."
On the other end of the line, eighteen hours by plane and six hours off the
clocks, Dio chuckles into the receiver. The sound goes all the way up and down
Pucci's spine. "Have I left you waiting long, Enrico?"
"I've kept busy with other things." He glances at the study. Maybe he should
lock the door... but it's not as if anyone will come in. It's late - the
servants have gone home for the day. Father's here, but the man is locked in
his room, likely drunk at this time of night. No one will come in to ask Pucci
what he's doing. No one will listen in to this conversation. "There's always
work to be done. How go your own endeavors?"
"They come. They go." His voice creeps through the phone and wraps around
Pucci, pulling him in close and tight as if Dio was here with him right now.
It's so easy to picture him lounging in the library or one of the sitting
rooms, shirtless as always, pants slung so low around his hips. He would smell
like sex, like cloves and honey, like blood and saltwater. No matter how far
inland he goes, Dio always smells like the ocean. Pucci thinks of him each time
he goes down to the seaside and sits on the beach. The winds blowing over the
waters and bring the scent in towards him, filling his lungs until he feels
soothed. Dio speaks with a smirk in his voice. "Sometimes, they do both at the
same time."
There are nights they talk philosophy. There are nights they talk business. But
most nights, they do this.
Pucci leans back in the office chair he's sitting in. He keeps his free hand
flat on the desk, not touching himself. Dio prefers it that way. "What did they
do tonight?"
He can picture that wicked smile, that secret grin that Dio shows when he's
particularly pleased. "Whatever I asked of them. Will you do the same for me?"
"Of course. Anything you ask for is yours." Pucci keeps his voice level. He
closes his eyes and pictures Dio there on the other side of the desk. "Just
tell me what you'd like."
He doesn't answer right away. Dio makes no sound when he isn't speaking. He
doesn't even breathe and all those small background noises you expect are never
there. There's nothing on the other end of the phone to assure him that Dio is
still there, listening in, other than trust that he is still on the line.
Still, he waits for an answer.
Dio speaks, breaking the quiet easily. "Touch your right thigh for me. I want
you to rub the scar."
Pucci shivers and nods, before he remembers he needs to speak. "Of course," the
answer comes smoother than he means. In the office where no one but him ever
comes these days, Pucci lifts his hips and works his pants down to his knees,
close enough that he can cover himself if needed. He ignores his cock and goes
to the wound, just as Dio asked. The two puncture marks are along the side of
the vein that runs down there. They're bigger than teeth marks, spaced too far
away to be part of any human mouth. But Dio doesn’t need his teeth, not when
his fingers can slide through flesh like a knife and drain a person that way..
"The scar tissue's gotten thicker since you last saw them." Pucci describes the
mark to Dio, knowing how much he likes hearing about it. He's taken a few
photos, all carefully cropped to avoid his face. The school has a photo lab and
so long as you go after hours, nobody asks what you're doing and nobody pays
much attention. The photos are still hidden in the back of his bible. Pucci's
never gotten up the courage to send them, but maybe after tonight... He looks
down at himself, fingers running circles over the two scars. "It's lighter than
the rest, pale and pinker. Sometimes, I feel it rub against the inside of my
pants."
"Does it hurt? Pinch them." Dio commands. Pucci does so.
"It hurts as much as any pinch does. The wounds all healed up a long time ago.
I think they might chafe one day, if I let them rub for too long. But they're
so smooth, just two little bumps on my thigh." Pucci runs the flat of his palm
over them, feeling the lumps rubs against his hand. They're so small. He likes
having them there, a permanent reminder of Dio that’s always on him skin, that
Dio is always with him. Pucci smiles to himself. "You should use your teeth
next time."
Dio lets out a pleased sound from a thousand miles away, a low rumble that
makes Pucci’s heart flutter at the sound. It feels as if he's here with Pucci
right now, just leaning over his shoulder. "How sinful of you. Doesn't your God
frown upon his followers hurting themselves?"
"If my God doesn't like it, I would suggest he stop doing it first." Pucci
teases, though his voice grows a little husky as he asks Dio, "Do you frown on
it?"
"For you, my dear friend, I will do as you ask. I will sink my teeth into the
soft flesh along your legs and drink from you until your thighs are slick with
blood. I will lay my head on your open wounds, and watch them heal, just so I
could tear you open again and again. I will cover you with scars only I will
ever see." Dio purrs into the line and Pucci closes his eyes, his mouth falling
open as he pictures it so vividly - that blonde head between his legs, that
mouth mauling him until the chair is stained red...
His cock is reacting, thickening and slowly lifting in response to the fantasy.
He ignores it and continues to only touch his thigh. Pucci is careful to keep
the back of his hand from accidentally grazing anything else, preventing his
cock from finding any satisfaction.
"Would you like that?" Dio asks and Pucci nods. God but he would. Again, Dio's
voice comes, prompting this time. "Enrico."
"Yes," He whispers when he's reminded to speak. Pucci wishes there was some way
for him to see Dio as he is now, for Dio to see him with the phone pressed
tight to his ear and his palm on his thigh. He wants so much for Dio to see
what he’s done to Pucci with just words and an old scar. "God, yes. I like
everything you do to me."
"That feels like a challenge. Would you like it if I made you watch me with
others?" Dio shifts and if Pucci listens closely, he can hear noises coming
through the phone line. He must be touching himself. Dio fists his cock and
describes absolutely filthy situations over the line. "I would make you sit
with your bible and I would have you watch as I fuck them. I'd take them on
their knees and rut with them. I'd put their face against your knees, and you
could listen to them moan and howl and beg, while you sit there. Would you like
that?"
"Yes," Pucci moans, feeling his arousal build. In the study, in this chair, he
can picture it all so clearly. He can hear the desperate cries from the person
between them, some anonymous human wanting so badly to be blessed. Pucci
tightens his grip on his thigh to keep from touching himself, but his cock bobs
all the same, trying to find some friction to rub again. "I would. To see you
bring them to ecstasy would be divine."
He's so quiet. Only the sound of flesh can be heard. Pucci bites his lip and
fights not to beg to be touched. He waits for Dio to tell him that it's okay.
He waits for his God's blessing.
"Would you like it if I took hold of you and fucked you until you were
screaming? Enrico, would you let me break you? Would you want me to fuck you
until you forgot your own name? Until you couldn't walk a step?" Dio asks and
to each question, Pucci moans out a yes. Yes, he wants to break. He wants to
forgot his own name. He wants to be left raw and numb, legs useless, body limp.
"What do you want Enrico?"
"Whatever you want. Anything you want. I want to please you. I want to serve
you." Pucci means it all, every last word of it. It tastes so sweet on his
tongue. He looks down at himself, hard and wanting. The head of his cock shines
wet by the light of the desk lamp, beads of precum gathering at the tip. The
sight begs to destroyed, to be gripped and for the precum to be smeared down
his shaft. He whimpers softly into the phone, just looking at himself and
seeing his desperation written out vividly. No one has made him want the way
Dio does. No one has ever reduced him to this, to begging over the phone. "I
want to draw you from the pit of the world and set your feet on bedrock. I want
to make your steps secure. I want to see you brought high.”
"And when I am, you will sit at my right hand. Touch yourself, the way I
would." Dio commands and Pucci does so, his hand going to his cock. He runs his
fingers along the shaft greedily, fist going tight and starting to move before
he's ready. Pucci cries out, pouring his sounds into the phone receiver as his
hand moves hard and rough, just as Dio's does. He always goes so fast, making
up for a lifetime spend alone beneath the seas. Pucci smells saltwater and
cloves and he buries his face against his shoulder, his breath becoming ragged
and hard as he's dragged in Dio's wake. The voice on the phone is distant but
attentive, soft and tinny as Dio says to him, “Good. Just like that.”
His hand is like a stranger’s, following a will that’s not his own. In his
seat, his hips squirm and writhe as he fists his cock too fast, too hard, too
everything. He’s so sensitive and desperate. Pucci knows he’s gotten loud and
he’s grateful for the thick study door because each stroke down drags out
another embarrassing sound - a moan, a grunt, a whine - as he’s pushed beyond
his limits. “Dio,” he gasps when he can get air, through the pace never stops
being unrelenting. Pucci can barely keep up, even as he tries to keep the pace
as Dio wants. He feels too sensitive, and it’s too easy for his hand to falter,
for the pace to slow, even just a little bit. It’s not enough. Pucci calls
another name them - soft, a little regretful - summoning someone to fill the
role he can’t. “Whitesnake-”
His Stand is there in a moment, knocking Pucci’s hand away and wrapping his own
around his master’s cock. Those hateful eyes stare up at Pucci, pupils dripping
with contempt. Across the line, he would swear he can hear Dio grin. “Did you
need help Enrico?”
“Yes.” He chokes on his words, moaning all the louder. Pucci covers his mouth
with a hand to contain the noise he makes as Whitesnake pushes harder and
faster than Pucci’s hand ever could. His cock is slick with precum, smeared
from tip to base, and when he throws his head back, he imagines that the hand
on him is Dio’s. “Oh God, God, Dio!”
“Yes, yes, oh me,” Dio laughs, and then there’s a twist in his voice, something
low and lusty and- and that’s all. Pucci’s face is red as he comes, pushed over
the ledge by Dio’s voice. Whitesnake refuses to let up, stroking Pucci hard
through his orgasm and wringing every last drop from his body, until the
ecstasy is replaced by pain and Pucci’s left begging softly to stop, stop,
please- Dio grants him release from it after what seems like eternity, his own
voice quaking lightly as he says, “Enough, release yourself.”
“Whitesnake, stop-” He says and his stand does. Whitesnake leans against the
desk, looking at the mess on his palm. He disdainfully flicks it off, onto the
hardwood finish, and dismisses himself. Pucci feels a spike of annoyance for
his stand, and for himself for granting it a will of its own. His body is
drained and he aches, but he manages to muster enough energy to grab a tissue
and to start to wipe himself and the desk clean. Even if his father never comes
in here anymore, Pucci doesn’t plan on leaving any evidence of his evening
calls.
As he cleans, Dio goes quiet. He hears the sound of flesh on flesh. Dio’s
touching himself. He’s touching himself to the sound of Pucci, to the image of
him…
With a wad of dirty tissues in his fist, Pucci says what he’s kept to himself.
“I took pictures for you. Pictures of… me.”
“Have you sent them?” Dio sounds hungry. His eyes must be so dark. The man is
gold and green, but his eyes are pits where a man might fall happily. The
darkness draws Pucci in and he rests his hand against his chest, feeling it
beat wildly inside his ribcage like a caged bird.
“Not yet. They’re in my bible.” And… He licks his lips, tongue scraping on his
teeth. He feels his heart squeeze tight in his chest as he pushes a little, as
he finally says what he wants in return. “If you want them, you’ll have to come
see me.”
Silence on the other end. It leaves him tense and nervous. Pucci looks at the
clock on the wall. He grasps for primes - two, three, five, seven, eleven,
thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-
seven, forty-one, forty-three, forty-seven, fifty-three, fifty-nine-
Then Dio sighs across the wires. “Pucci,” he calls out his name like a drowning
man grasping at a piece of rope, as if salvation is finally in hand. Pucci is
flushed but he finds it in himself to go redder, to burn in delight at the
sound of his name on Dio’s lips as he comes. He imagines it then - Dio’s naked
flesh, taut and arched on a bedspread, his throat and the scar there bare, his
cock spilling on his belly. Pucci presses a few fingers over his mouth, trying
to hide the sound that comes from him - another soft aftershock.
The only sound then is the ticking of the clock on the wall and the quiet rise-
heave of his own chest as it draws in air. He waits, though he already knows
the answer. It was given to him the moment Dio called his name.
“Two weeks,” Dio says when he speaks again. Pucci nods and splays his fingers
wide over his mouth. Two weeks. He’ll deal with his schooling. He’ll deal with
his time at the church. Pucci will sort everything for when Dio arrives, so he
can be at his side and his service. “And when I come, I will bring my own
camera.”
Pucci shivers, his mind quickly filling with images, anticipating Dio’s
desires. His voice is surprisingly calm. “Of course. I await your arrival.”
He half expects Dio to hang up the phone and leave him alone in the study to
compose himself and return to his homework. But, instead, Dio speaks again, his
tone conversational. “What have you been reading Enrico? Any more books about
adulterous priests?”
Pucci smiles a little on his end of the line. “No. But something nearly as
good. Have you heard of ‘The Screwtape Letters’? I’ve been reading it lately.
It’s interesting.”
“Is it blasphemous?” Dio asks and, anticipating Pucci’s clever retort, adds,
“Is it blasphemous to others?”
“To some, I suppose. It’s a series of thirty-one letters written by a senior
demon to his nephew, instructing him in the ways of demons. The nephew is
charged with temptation of a human, but he struggles with it. He’s impatient
and eager to find some single damning action that would be the lynchpin, while
the uncle preaches the importance of taking the slow and easy road. I think you
would find something appealing in it, and perhaps somewhat familiar.” Pucci
smiles as he says this, teasing Dio into a reaction.
“And who am I then? The uncle or the nephew? Is my temptation of you slow and
easy?” Dio’s voice drips through the phone and pools in Pucci’s ear. “Or am I a
demanding and greedy master?”
“The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness.”
Pucci provides Dio the answer he seeks, a verse to help him remember that he
walks the middle path, not the right nor the left. “Instead he is patient with
you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”
“Answering my questions with bible verses is the same as no answer at all.” Dio
sounds somewhat testy and it just makes Pucci smile. He hates to be teased. And
yet, Dio seems to enjoy it anyway, because he always returns for more. “I want
to hear your thoughts, Pucci.”
“I think you’re neither. And I think you’re both. The nephew is too impatient.
The uncle too concerned with the long game. I think you move as you should,
thinking each move before you make it, but making each move swiftly once
decided.” Pucci spools his thoughts out for Dio, knowing how much he likes to
hear thinking splayed out. Dio likes to do it just as much. His questions are
often leading in a particular direction, towards some point he already has in
mind. “But. I think you would find the nephew’s impatience to be relatable,
just as I do. His path may not be the wisest, but there’s something very
appealing about ending it all with one grand blow.”
“There’s satisfaction that comes from the quick win that the long path will
never have.” Dio speaks from experience, though which particular experience,
Pucci isn’t certain. “The high of it is incomparable to anything else. The low
is the same as the slow path. No matter how you fail, fast or slow, the taste
of it is always bitter. It doesn’t matter which path you chose in the end. What
matters is that you pick the path you are able to stand firmly on and won’t shy
from.”
He leans his head back on the chair and reflects on this. Pucci knows it’s
true. And despite what he just said, he knows his choice would be the slow
path. That’s one he’s more able to walk. But, there’s one thing that comes to
mind as well, something worth saying. “I think failure’s different when it’s
slow though. On the slow path, it won’t always catch you unaware. And I think
it’s different when you know how it’ll turn out, and you can prepare for it.”
“Hmm.” Dio goes quiet for a long moment. Pucci rests a hand on his bare thigh.
He should finish tidying himself up, even if it is a nice warm night. But, he
leaves his pants around his knees, stroking his fingers along his bare flesh
instead, over the scars there. When Dio comes to see him- “Are you touching
yourself again?”
Pucci freezes, then laughs a little. Dio must have heard his breathing change.
Even over the phone, even thousands of miles away, he hears so much. “No. Just
touching the marks you left last time. Dio, did you know that two is a prime
number? It’s the only even prime.”
“Is it? Then I shouldn’t add any more to your thigh?” Dio’s voice curls up at
the edges, his tone shifting in a second from conversational to predatory. It
makes Pucci shiver a little. “Or should I add them in odds?”
“You-” He starts to say, but the study door cracks open. Pucci feels a little
cold panic curl in the pit of his stomach. His fingers stay fixed on the scars
and he slides his chair in, pressing the phone to his chest. Two. Three. Five.
Seven- “Yes?”
His voice is steady and calm.
In the light of the doorway, father stands looking like a shadow. His face is
pale and he holds himself uncertainly. From his place at the desk, Pucci smells
the faintest shade of brandy coming from his father. Father’s less able to keep
his voice steady when he speaks, but he tries to hold a conversation anyway.
“Who are you talking to?”
“A friend from school. He had a few questions about our english essays, and we
got off track.” Pucci’s pants are still around his knees. He remains calm. It’s
not as if his father can see anything with the desk in the way. “I can hang up
if you want to talk?” And it’s cruel of him, but he lies a little, sliding the
knife in and twisting it. “Or, do you need the phone to call mother?”
In the doorway, his father falters. There’s a soft laugh near his ear - Dio, on
the other end of the line. He’s listening in. Pucci keeps his face still. His
fingers stay on the scars.
“No. I um. No. Don’t forget to…” He trails off, looking lost. Then again, he
is. Perla’s dead. His wife’s gone, retreated to stay with her family (and of
course she has, they’re her family. Father and Enrico are the ones she can live
without). All he has left is his son, and then they both know that Pucci isn’t
the one he would have chosen if he had any say in the matter.
Would his existence be less of a disappointment if his father had been
prepared? Would the deaths of his children sting less if he had known they were
coming? The question plagues even Pucci.
Father seems to remember himself. “Go to bed on time.”
“Of course. Goodnight father.” Pucci says. His father mumbles something back -
a goodbye maybe, or something meant to imitate it - before he closes the study
door. Pucci lifts the phone to his ear again. What had they been talking about?
… ah, yes.
“Whatever you choose to do with my body, I’ll be delighted by it.” He says and
smiles as Dio laughs. While the door’s closed, he stands and gets his pants up,
not wanting to risk it if his father comes back for some reason. One brush with
danger is enough. He settles himself in again and looks at his homework, at all
the assignments that mean nothing in the long term, but at the moment, they
mean everything. The slow path lies before him. He has to take it, step by
step.
And there is a reward at the end of it. In two weeks time, there will be Dio.
And beyond that? Beyond that, there will be a time when Dio achieves what he’s
meant to, when nothing will stand in his way, and even Heaven will bow to his
will. The sweetest reward will await them both once that comes to pass.
He knows he should excuse himself from the phone, finish his homework, do as
his father asked, mind the time.
It’s 4am in Cairo. There’s still an hour until sunrise. So instead, he holds
the phone close to his ear and asks, “What books have you been reading lately?”
And as Dio tells him, he sets his hand back on his thigh and feels the raised
scar on his skin, touching the divine and the indivisible.
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