Pucci has never known the doors of the mansion to ever be locked and that’s because there’s no need, not with the relentlessly ferocious gatekeeping guard bird that still unnerves Pucci every time he’s in its territorial line of sight.
Pet Shop silently tracks Pucci’s every movement and stride, from the open gates, up the long stretch of path, and right to the unlocked doors but Pucci is determined he won’t flinch or be deterred, not after travelling for so long and from so far.
Like clockwork, Vanilla Ice is making his routine sweep of the ground floor when Pucci lets himself into the mansion under Pet Shop’s razor sharp eye. Pucci is mildly concerned for Vanilla Ice’s neck at the speed his head whips around at the unexpected presence and if possible the severe look on his face turns even severer.
“Pucci.” It’s definitely more of an accusation than a greeting, but Pucci is long since used to it and the mansion wouldn’t bizarrely feel like home without this amusing little unwelcoming welcome.
“Vanilla Ice.” Pucci says cheerfully, making sure to sound as extra friendly as possible and smiling that wide smile he knows makes Vanilla Ice want to gouge both their eyes out.
Much to Pucci’s satisfaction, Vanilla Ice predictably doesn’t disappoint, he never does. Pucci watches as Vanilla Ice’s eye twitches minutely and Pucci can literally see the exact moment the eye-gouging thought flickers through his mind and the accompanying if brief flash of manic delight that follows. It’s one of the only few times Vanilla Ice ever truly looks happy and at peace, fantasising about Pucci-related harm and being down on his knees at Dio’s feet.
With visible effort, Vanilla Ice reluctantly rejoins him back in reality and glances Pucci up and down with a cold, narrow-eyed suspicious glare. “Lord Dio isn’t expecting you.” Again it’s another accusation, and Pucci doesn’t resist rolling his eyes this time.
“It’s called a surprise.” Pucci informs him helpfully, sidestepping Vanilla Ice to climb the stairs with his suitcase in tow. “You should think about trying it someday.”
As the sun sets beyond the thick walls of the mansion, Dio’s eyes slowly crack open and so do the grand wooden doors to his lavish room.
Dio sharply turns his head, rightly about to bite the head off the person suicidal enough to think they can just waltz in and disturb him but there stands Pucci in the doorway, a trembling grin on his face and a suitcase in his hand as he quietly shuts the door behind himself.
Dio is immediately in front of him, or as immediately as he can after just waking up, and Pucci is already in his arms before Pucci actually sees him move.
Pucci’s greeting is abruptly cut off by the force of Dio’s embrace. That, and the solid muscular chest Pucci’s face is snugly pressed between.
“Are you really here or is this just a cruel dream?” Dio asks lowly, cradling the back of Pucci’s head and practically crushing Pucci to his chest.
“I could pinch you if you like.” Pucci teases, hands tentatively touching Dio’s bare waist, but he’s so wonderfully warm and real and alive in Dio’s arms that no dream could ever hope to compare.
Dio grins fiercely, and finds for the first time in a century that words are beyond him. With a carefully tight hand curled around Pucci’s throat to feel for himself the intimately familiar rush of Pucci’s blood, Dio kisses him. And again and again until Pucci has to turn his head to the side and gasp, laughing brightly and breathlessly like he’s never been more happier in his entire life than at this exact moment.
“Some of us actually need to breathe, Dio.” Pucci pants, even as his hands slide up into the golden mess of Dio’s hair and tightly grabs two handfuls to keep Dio exactly where Pucci wants him.
Dio’s grin only widens as he lets him, lets Pucci tilt his head this way and that as Pucci kisses him with something like desperation, or maybe it’s relief, this feeling thrumming between them. Here, reunited and together like this, Dio knows that rare feeling all too well.
“Breathing is utterly overrated, Enrico.” Dio says against Pucci’s parted mouth and just can’t resist only half-jokingly adding. “If you were a vampire you wouldn’t need to breathe.”
Pucci sighs, somehow even managing to make it sound fond, and warningly tugs Dio’s hair. “I’m not having this argument again, Dio.”
“It’s not an argument,” Dio smugly points out, not for the first or last time and knowing exactly how much it exasperates Pucci. “It’s a discussion.”
“I’m not having that argument either.” Pucci says firmly, trying and failing to fight a grin.
Dio smirks in triumph and abruptly ends the discussion-not-argument argument by scooping Pucci up into his arms and spinning them across the room just to greedily hear Pucci’s laughter again.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Dio presses their foreheads together as he pushes Pucci’s jacket off his shoulders. “What are you even doing here in the first place? I wasn’t even supposed to be here myself.”
And it’s true, he should be half a world away from Cairo and further still from Pucci if not for this maddeningly frustrating uncooperative body of his.
Even now, a century dead at Dio’s own hands (or eyes) Jojo was still causing him grief and ruining his meticulous plans by uselessly trying to resist and reject him. The shattered furniture and shredded books littering the room around them were the signs of his earlier blinding indignation at being trapped by his own stolen body. With little option and the sun soon rising, Dio had been forced to abandon his plans and postpone his trip, and the destructive rampage that followed had only marginally eased his fury.
Pucci smiles, fingertips at Dio’s jaw, and it instantly distracts Dio from his momentary brooding. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’re one of the precious few who can, Enrico.” Dio murmurs honestly, because Pucci truly never ceases to amaze him time and time again in numerous different ways, and Dio finds it an unexpected but much welcome and refreshing change from the increasingly mundane banal usual. Dio commands and expects complete and instant obedience, obviously, but some originality and spontaneity certainly goes a long way in his less than humble opinion.
But it’s what makes Pucci so special, what makes him deservedly stand tall above the rest because Dio knows down to whatever is left of his soul that Pucci doesn’t do it for the power, or favour, or riches.
It’s love, and Pucci’s unconditional love continues to take Dio by surprise.
With that sure thought burning in his mind and heart, Dio takes his time kissing Pucci thoroughly, stroking his hands up Pucci’s legs and thighs and back in time with the boiling rush of Pucci’s blood in his veins. With each eagerly shed piece of clothing, Dio eases the tips of his fingers into Pucci’s skin and sips from him here and there. Nothing lethal at all but enough for Pucci to feel it and feel it Pucci does.
In no time at all Pucci is writhing and panting in his lap, hazy with blood loss and heady with lust and almost completely incoherent with desperation.
“The seminary think I’m here for a trip with my parents.” Pucci manages to tell him between deep kisses. “My parents think I’m here for a trip with the seminary.”
“How very devious of you, Enrico.” Dio purrs with pleasure so obvious Pucci flushes red with the praise. “Whatever shall you do if you’re caught out?”
“I won’t be caught,” Pucci grins dazedly, crawling backwards into bed and taking Dio with him. “But if I am, I’m told I’m an excellent manipulator.”
“Yes,” Dio laughs as he lays Pucci flat in the rumpled sheets of his bed and presses him into the mattress hard enough to hurt in the best way possible. “You are.”