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Dio seems distracted tonight. Pucci can tell from the way his eyes glance over the words of his book without really reading them and his tongue runs back and forth over his teeth in a restless rhythm.
“What’s on your mind, my Lord?” Pucci asks, marking his page with a bookmark before closing his book and setting it aside. He climbs onto the bed the two of them share and sits patiently by the side of the man staring off at nothing.
Dio’s skin looks extremely pale in the dim candlelight, almost sickly. The hollows of his cheeks are sunken in, making his already high cheekbones appear even higher. His normally amber irises are now dark pools that threaten to drag Pucci under.
“It’s been five nights since I last ate,” Dio confesses after a long silence. “This body is not entirely mine yet, and I can already feel it weakening from starvation. But it’s nothing to worry about. I’ll just have Vanilla Ice pick someone off the street when he goes out later tonight. That’s the great thing about a city like this,” he muses, gesturing out the window at the vast network of twinkling lights down below. “A free buffet around every corner.”
“No.” Pucci grabs his arm a little too quickly. He doesn’t like to see anyone else take Dio’s attention. A part of him dies every time he sees a new victim being led away to Dio’s bedroom, not out of any compassion for the nameless and unfortunate soul, but rather an intense, admittedly immature jealousy.
“Please. Use me.”
Dio stares at him, then laughs. The mocking sound echoes off the bedroom’s high stone walls. “You realise that by asking me to drink your blood you’re basically signing your own death certificate?”
“You could stop, right? You could take only as much as you need and I would live.”
“I’ve never stopped before,” Dio murmurs. “I don’t know if I even could. What if I lost control and drained your body entirely? I could never forgive myself.”
“Please,” Pucci insists, his voice barely more than a breathless whisper. He pulls down his collar to expose the bare skin of his neck and hears Dio’s sharp intake of breath at the sight. “Let me be of use to you, my Lord.”
“So persistent,” Dio says, curling an arm around Pucci’s waist to bring him close to his chest. His lips curl around his sharp, sharp fangs, his eyes half-lidded and hungry like a predator regarding its prey. “So eager to please me even if it kills you. What did I do to deserve somebody like you, hm?”
His other hand snakes up to Pucci’s jaw and holds it still with a vice-like grip, although he really has no need; Pucci melts like butter at the mere hint of his touch anyway.
Dio presses his lips to the crook of his neck, leaving a series of lingering open-mouth kisses along the section of dark brown skin from his jawline to his shoulder. His tongue grazes over every inch of skin as if memorising it, peppering his neck with green lipstick marks and drawing out obscene moans from the priest’s lips. He pauses when he locates his racing pulse and marks it with a gentle peck, like anaesthesia before an injection.
“My friend.” The whisper vibrates against Pucci’s neck, sending a shiver of arousal up his spine. “Tell me when to stop.”
Pucci gasps at the sudden stab of pain as Dio’s fangs sink into his flesh and his lips quickly latch around the wound, creating a seal that blood begins to spill into. Despite the suction of his mouth, dribbles of blood still find a way to escape and roll down Pucci’s throat, staining his shirt with patches of red.
A cold, empty ache begins to spread through his body as the blood is slowly drawn from his carotid artery. It feels like every vein in his body is closing, but Pucci barely notices. His hand tangles through Dio’s blonde hair in a desperate attempt to bury those impossibly sharp teeth just a little deeper into his neck.
Dio grips his wrist, and Pucci feels his pulse jump under his thumb as his back makes contact with the headboard. He can’t suppress a whimper when he feels Dio run his tongue along the row of deep bite marks in the muscle of his neck, the tip of his tongue teasing the tender nerve endings. His mind almost goes blank from the sensation alone.
“You taste good,” Dio sighs, carefully removing his mouth from Pucci’s throat and leaving behind a string of pink saliva still connected to his tongue. His lips and chin are absolutely drenched in blood. “Sweet and intoxicating… like a fine red wine…” He regards him with a look, full of hunger and something else that Pucci can’t quite place. “The finest I’ve ever had.”
His mouth returns once more to suck at the bite mark, drinking deeply with a bloodlust that quickly gives way to actual lust as Dio’s nails dig into Pucci’s inner thigh. Pucci praises him with breathy whines and gasps of his name, repeated over and over until it becomes a prayer. It’s all he can do to stop himself from asking to be bitten all over.
As the blood drains away from Pucci’s body, Dio comes alive. His skin begins to warm up to the touch, his breaths come out hot and heavy and his eyes regain that sharp clarity Pucci is familiar with; to the untrained eye he seems almost human. The quickly hardening cock pressing against his stomach doesn’t escape Pucci’s notice either. It twitches, swollen with blood. His blood. The thought almost sends him over the edge with lust.
The distinct taste of blood begins to fill his mouth, warm and metallic. Alarm bells should be ringing, he should be fighting for his life like a wounded animal, but Pucci just holds still and lets the vampire drink until he’s sated. His vision starts to grow fuzzy around the edges, the cold ache in his veins becoming an unbearable numbness that spreads throughout his whole body, but he doesn’t fight it off. He embraces it.
This must be what Dio’s victims feel the seconds before they die, Pucci thinks through the fog clouding his brain and vision. But the difference between him and them is that in their last moments they struggle and cry, clinging onto life and begging to be saved. They feel fear as their life is taken away. But Pucci feels ecstasy.
Perhaps this is what it truly means to worship.
Dio’s mouth dettaches suddenly, causing Pucci to whine at the lack of contact. “Keep going,” he slurs, half-drunk from blood loss. He can barely keep his eyes open at this point. His head feels heavy, like it’s filled with sand. It falls forward and onto Dio’s shoulder, who quickly wraps his arms around the younger’s body once he realises how much blood he’s taken.
Pucci is vaguely aware of a cool palm held against his neck, stemming the heavy blood flow until it slows to a trickle. He feels a much gentler kiss pressed to his lips, staining them with red, before his eyelids close involuntarily and he falls into a dreamless sleep.
He makes sure everyone can see the two identical marks on his neck the next morning.