
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8110615.
  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, Vanilla_Ice_(Jojo)
  Additional Tags:
      May/December_Relationship
  Series:
      Part 5 of #DioPucciWeek
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-22 Words: 4554
****** Pointe Of No Return ******
by conceptofzero
Summary
     Pucci is going to die. That’s not even a question. He’s going to drop
     dead right here and now in the middle of the studio. The EMTs will
     come and find him wearing a unitard and they’ll know in an instant
     that Dio Brando has danced another pupil to death.
Notes
     For #diopucciweek. The prompt was "High School/College AU", but after
     Doritohat outlined a ballet AU on twitter, I knew I had to do
     something for that instead.
     Phantom Blood AU where Dio and Jonathan were ballet dancers and still
     ended in Dio murdering Jonathan and being shunned from the world for
     the next five decades. Stardust Crusaders AU where Dio is now
     basically Norma Desmond and lives in a big reclusive mansion and
     teaches REAL BALLET!! to his various pupils. Everybody is human and
     Dio is Old.
Pucci is going to die. That’s not even a question. He’s going to drop dead
right here and now in the middle of the studio. The EMTs will come and find him
wearing a unitard and they’ll know in an instant that Dio Brando has danced
another pupil to death.
This is the third time through this routine and Pucci is barely keeping up.
Everyone else has been dismissed but not Pucci, of course. Pucci needs to work
on his positions. Pucci isn't hitting his marks dead on. Pucci needs to
practice. And so here Pucci is, dancing himself to death, while Vanilla Ice
shows him up. There's still a minute left to go. Vanilla isn't even straining
and Pucci can barely see through the sweat in his eyes.
Good God, he’s never going to see his seventeenth birthday at this pace.
Still, he pushes onwards, following Vanilla Ice’s movements as best he can
until finally, the song comes to an end. He’s barely keeping himself together,
sweat coursing down his body and his heart pounding. He can feel every last
inch of spandex clinging to his torso, plastered there by the sweat pouring
from him. Meanwhile, Vanilla Ice is perfect, body as steady as a rock. Pucci
can feel his legs trembling, all the muscles twitching in protest. He wants so
badly to sit down and drink something.
Dio passes behind them and Pucci keeps his head pointed straight ahead. The
only sound besides his laboured breathing is the steady tap of Dio's cane on
the studio floor. Pucci keeps himself together, head tipped up and eyes locked
in the distance. When his legs start to wobble, he takes a starting breath and
holds himself as still as he can. He grasps at anything to take his mind away
from the pain starting in the arch of his feet. Two. Three. Five. Seven.
Eleven. Thirteen-
“Sloppy work Pucci. Again.” Dio says and Pucci can’t do this. He can’t. His
arms fall down by his sides and he sags onto the soles of his feet, shaking his
head. Dio promptly gives up on using the cane, discarding the charade of
needing it as he uses it to turn Pucci to face him. “You can do better. You did
better the first time around.”
“Of course I did. It was only the first time and I wasn't tired then.” Pucci
runs his forearm over his face, trying to wipe away at some of the sweat
rolling down his forehead. He stinks to high hell right now and he’s going to
need to soak his clothes when he goes home. “I need to rest. Just give me
fifteen minutes.”
Dio looks Pucci up and down with a critical eye. For a moment, it seems like
maybe he will hear reason and let Pucci at least hydrate. For a moment. Then
Dio turns his head and breaks the illusion. “Vanilla, do you need to rest?”
“No, ballet master.” The response is automatic, Vanilla delivering in the same
deadpan voice he uses for every answer he gives Dio. Pucci usually tries to
hide his eye rolling but he’s too tired to do so. He does manage to bite back a
sigh, but only because his breathing is already laboured enough to disguise it.
“Don’t make that face.” Dio brings the cane up, tapping it against Pucci’s hip.
Any other time, having Dio this close would thrill Pucci, but right now he
wants to be as far away from him as possible. Dio doesn’t let Pucci’s silence
stop him, stepping in even closer. “Vanilla hasn’t danced professionally in
four years and he kept up just fine. Is there some reason you’re unable to do
the same?”
Normally this is the point where Pucci takes a breath, counts a few primes, and
answers back something pat - of course I can do the same, of course it’ll be
easy - or something teasing instead. But not this times. He takes the breath
and finds his lungs burn, and he grasps at his numbers, but they slip through
his fingers like sand through a sieve. Pucci is bone weary with an ache that
runs all the way through him, and he knows that next time he pushes himself,
he’ll stumble and fall. Next time, he might tear a ligament. He’s given his
best three times now and each time he’s failed to deliver. There’s no more
water in the well.
Dio’s still waiting on an answer.
“I’m not Vanilla. And I’m not you. I can’t do this.” Pucci finally says. He
wants to be angry and biting but it just comes out resigned. It’s the truth. He
can’t do this, not the way Dio wants him to. He was trained in classical ballet
and his poses are precise. But the leaps, the bounds, the action-
This dance was meant for someone bigger in mind, someone with pure, raw power.
Pucci’s been trying but all of this was designed for him to fail at, not
succeed. He feel awful and he knows he’ll never be able to dance this how Dio
wants. Pucci’s legs are trembling as he takes his first few steps, away from
Vanilla and Dio.
“Pucci, I didn't dismiss you.” Dio is using his “I danced when ballet meant
something” voice, the one he saves down when he's about to dole out a lecture
or a punishment. Pucci doesn’t bother answering. Its pretty clear that he
doesn't care if he was officially dismissed or not. Pucci’s done and he heads
for the change rooms. Vanilla says nothing. He doesn’t even look at Pucci. But
he doesn’t have to when every part of him radiates smugness.
He manages to keep his composure up until he’s out of sight. At least the
change room is empty. Everyone is gone and it’s just him and Dio and his
goddamn butler. Pucci grabs his bag and fumbles with the zipper, struggling to
get it down. His mind is panicking and he tries to focus, thinking about the
next steps. Get showered. Get changed. Call someone for a ride home, since he
knows he can’t expect one from Dio after what he just did. Write up a letter of
apology and resignation. Look for a new studio. Or- or maybe not even that.
Because he couldn’t cut it here, so why bother trying somewhere else? He should
just go home and call this an experimental disaster.
“Pucci.” Dio’s voice behind him. Pucci doesn’t dare turn around. He just gets
his towel from his bag. If he didn’t smell so bad, he would just grab his bag
and leave but he doubts anyone will let him into a cab smelling like he does.
Again, Dio speaks to him, his voice so low. “It isn’t like you to quit.”
It isn’t. But Pucci isn’t stupid either. There’s persistence that brings the
promise that eventually, there will be a payoff if you simply try hard enough
and commit yourself to it. And then there’s smashing your face into a brick
wall. “This is a waste of our time. Everything you choreograph is meant for
someone twice my size. I can’t possibly perform to your standards.”
He walks towards the showers, hoping Dio will give him some space to cool down.
Pucci throws his towel on the hook and turns around starting to strip out of
his unitard. But Dio is right there behind him and Pucci pauses, his hands
hooked into his shoulder straps. A part of him was hoping Dio would be angry,
but he’s not. And a part of him had hoped maybe, just maybe, a miracle would
occur and Dio would perhaps even look apologetic. An actual apology was
impossible of course, but maybe he could pretend for a moment like he actually
cared.
But he’s not apologetic either. Dio’s face is cold and composed, almost
contemptuous. Pucci’s chest is tight and he knows he’s close to tears, but he
tips his chin up and he sets his jaw. He doesn’t back down, no matter how badly
a part of him wants to. It’s time to be honest. “You have no interest in
teaching me to be the best dancer I can be. You want to teach me to be the best
dancer you could be. This is bound for failure. I’m not you Dio. I’m not
Vanilla Ice. I can’t dance the way you want me to. I don’t have boundless
energy. I’m about precision, not power and everything you have me dance
requires the latter.”
There’s no response from Dio. Pucci hesitates, his hands still on his unitard.
He takes a breath and he pushes one shoulder off and then the other, working
the top half down to his waist. But he can’t make himself take it off
completely. His hands falter when they get to the top of his hips and he has to
accept that he’s stripping naked in front of Dio. It’s like some of the
fantasies he’s thought of while lying in bed at night, but usually in those
daydreams, things are far more equitable.
“I’ll write up my resignation tomorrow.” Pucci continues when the silence grows
too long. His voice aches and chokes up and he struggles to keep it level,
failing miserably as he talks more to fill the unbearable emptiness. “You can
expect it as soon as I finish it. I would appreciate if you allow me to find
another studio but if you won’t, then I will- … it doesn’t matter. You do what
you want, I’ll do what I-”
“Pucci.” Dio’s voice is soft. His face finally changes, the cold retreating to
reveal something more nuanced - something almost fond. Dio steps in close and
he sets his hands on Pucci’s bare shoulders, his hands squeezing Pucci tightly.
He’s so handsome. It makes Pucci’s heart hurt to look at him, still so handsome
even in his old age. He’s three times Pucci’s age, maybe even more, and yet
time only made him all the more attractive. There’s something wrong with him
that he looks at Dio Brando and finds himself wanting him so badly…
Pucci’s been trying to hold himself together but it’s too much. Dio’s hands are
on him and Pucci feels his face start to twist up as he’s betrayed by his
emotions. He hands grasp onto each other, his fingers lacing tight together.
“I’m not them Dio, I’m not you, or Vanilla, or- or Jonathan, I can’t dance like
them.”
“I know.” He squeezes Pucci and then… then he pulls him forward. Pucci’s a
sweaty mess and yet Dio draws him in close, pulls him to his chest and holds
him. There have been so many times that Pucci’s felt Dio’s touch on him, but
always in a corrective way - hold your leg in this position, lower, tighter,
back straight and chin up, tilt this way, or tilt that way. It’s never been
this gentle or intimate. His face is red and he must smell terrible, but Dio
just pulls him close anyway, his hands sliding from Pucci’s shoulders to his
back and to his face, those broad palms stroking over Pucci’s skin. “I’ve asked
the wrong things of you. You have a determination that I admire. I wanted you
to overcome your limits.”
“I wanted to overcome them for you. I tried to push past it.” His voice is
cracking. Pucci feels like such an idiot. He rests his cheek against Dio’s
chest and he wants so badly to promise to Dio that he’ll try again, he’ll try
harder. But no matter how he tries, and no matter how good he becomes, he can’t
measure up. Vanilla Ice hasn’t danced regularly since his injury a few years
ago, and he kept pace with Dio’s choreography. Pucci is at his peak and no
matter how hard he tries, he can’t manage eight fouette turns in a row and then
a grand jete immediately afterwards. Even at his best, the seventh fouette is
shaky and the jete never gains the height it needs to truly be grand. “I can’t
be that kind of dancer. You need a student who can do what you need.”
“I have the only student I want.” Dio coaxes Pucci’s head up. He feels his
stomach twist a little and his breathing shortens when Pucci meets Dio’s eyes
and sees the look in them. It feels like something from a fantasy. But he must
be reading into this. Dio is simply saying what he needs to keep Pucci. That’s
all. Tomorrow will be more of the same. Dio will say what he needs until Pucci
agrees to return, and he will go back to expecting Pucci to do what he can’t.
No matter how nice it is to feel Dio’s hand on his face, this is just Dio
ensuring that Pucci returns.
Pucci turns his face away, out of Dio’s hand, before he can do anything stupid
and read into this. “I should shower. I’ll speak to you once I’m done.”
Dio’s hand caresses Pucci’s cheek, his fingertips trailing over his skin as Dio
drags his hand down. It slips along the length of his neck and over his chest,
moving in a way that makes Pucci’s heart clench up. Is he- He is. Dio is
touching him and it’s more than just a reassuring affection. This is
deliberate, his hand running along Pucci’s chest and over his ribcage.
“You’re right. You don’t have the frame to dance the way I expect you to.
You’re far too delicate for that.” Dio’s eyes linger on Pucci’s chest, as if
seeing him for the first time. His hand slips further south, grasping at
Pucci’s hip through the bunched up cloth of his unitard. Pucci is barely
breathing, unsure if he should step away or- or step closer. He doesn’t know
what to do. He knows that Dio’s relationships with past students have had a
physical component, or at least, that’s the rumor. From seeing the way Vanilla
interacts with Dio, Pucci had assumed there was some truth to it. But that
attention has never been focused on him. Dio evaluates Pucci, the hand pushing
underneath the unitard, grazing his nails along the curve of Pucci’s ass.
“Precision, not power. Perhaps I’ve been pushing you too hard in the wrong
directions. You have other talents.”
Pucci swallows. There’s a hand on his ass. And then- then Dio’s other hand
moves, shifting down Pucci as well. His breath hitching as it follows a more
direct path down the front of Pucci’s body, over his stomach and over the
bunching cloth as well. Pucci’s hands fly to his mouth, clamping over his lips
to trap the sound that threatens to come out of his mouth the moment Dio’s hand
finds its destination - directly resting on Pucci’s groin. His cock responds
instantly to the touch, his hips pressing against Dio’s palm. This can’t be
real. He just told Dio he was quitting, and now Dio’s touching him-
No, he supposes in a way, this makes sense. Dio wants Pucci to stay. He’s
willing to do whatever it takes to achieve that result. Pucci can’t understand
why Dio wants him to stay, not when he isn’t ever happy with Pucci’s
performance. But it’s hard to think about that when Dio backs him against the
shower wall and presses Pucci against it. He squeezes him through the thin
spandex, his hand rubbing up and down the length of Pucci’s cock. Pucci doesn’t
risk asking him what he’s doing, not when the hand just keeps moving on him
over and over again.
“Drop your hands, Pucci. There’s no one who else who can hear you.” Dio’s
squeezes Pucci again, one hand on his ass and the other on his groin and Pucci
does moan, though he doesn’t drop his hands. Vanilla Ice is out there and Pucci
doesn’t want him to hear. Dio just chuckles and the hand slides out of his
unitard, leaving Pucci feeling terribly disappointed. It doesn’t last long, not
when Dio simply picks Pucci up. He’s so sure footed as he carries Pucci out of
the showers and into the change room, taking up a seat on the bench in the
middle of the room.
Pucci’s hands fall away from his face, holding tight to Dio as he’s carried,
and he doesn’t loosen his grip even as he’s settled in Dio’s lap. “Dio, this-
this doesn’t change anything. I’m still- I can’t be- This doesn’t change
anything about what I said.”
Dio simply smirks, his eyes boring holes into Pucci. His hands rest on Pucci
again, first stroking over Pucci’s hips and then returning to his groin, the
flat of Dio’s palms rubbing along him and up his inner thighs. “Of course not.
I agree with you. My expectations were unfair.”
Unfair. That’s Dio admitting he was wrong. That’s Dio acknowledging that
perhaps he wasn’t right. That’s- that’s impossible.
And yet it’s true. Dio agrees with Pucci. His hand is on Pucci’s cock, stroking
him and squeezing him, and Pucci’s mouth just drops open as he moans at the
sensation. It’s so different when he’s being touched by another person’s hand
instead of his own. It’s Dio’s hand too, so big and strong, so direct and
determined. There’s no shyness and no rushing. There’s just Dio taking his
time, one hand rubbing Pucci through his unitard, the other stroking along
Pucci’s thighs and ass, working him into even more of a sweaty frenzy.
“Perhaps my choreography could use an adjustment. Nothing modern, I refuse to
bow to pressure on that front. But, perhaps a routine that is less demanding
could be designed. There is a certain joy to be found in seeing precise
movements over more strenuous actions.” Dio speaks as if they’re having a
casual conversation, as if it means nothing to him to have Pucci sprawled in
his lap as Dio touches him. Pucci’s face is burning up and his breath is coming
in short pants. His hands hold tight to Dio and he leans into his space, all so
his hips can keep rubbing up against Dio’s palms. It feels so good to be
touched. Pucci never wants it to stop. He wants to stay here in Dio’s lap
forever, rocking forward and hearing Dio admit that Pucci was right.
“M-minor changes,” Pucci agrees, gasping as Dio squeezes him tight. His head
falls forward and both his arms wrap around Dio’s neck, holding onto him like a
drowning man clings to a piece of wood. But he tries to speak anyway, to prove
that while he’s affected, he isn’t foolish. “Just enough that I c-can- I can do
good work all the time. And not- not mediocre work. Dio, don’t stop, it feels
so good..”
Dio chuckles softly and he squeezes Pucci’s thigh. His fingers creep up to the
top of the unitard and then push inside, shoving the wet spandex out of the way
so he can reach Pucci. Being touched through the cloth was nice, but bare flesh
against bare flesh is something else entirely. Pucci moans and his eyes close,
his hips rocking forward at a frantic pace. He can’t last. He can already feel
the pressure building and his face keeps growing hotter and hotter.
“So eager. Have you been waiting for his moment? If I’d known, I would have
acted sooner.” Dio shifts him, and then he presses his mouth against Pucci’s.
His lips are soft. His kisses are experienced and even though Pucci’s left
fumbling and helpless, Dio easily coaxes him into a good kiss, something that
leaves Pucci squirming against Dio rather than cringing at his own
inexperience. “I should have known you fifty years ago.”
Pucci laughs a little, even as he ruts mindlessly against Dio’s hand. He wants
to come so badly. “Y-you know me now…”
“So I do. I plan on knowing every inch of you.” His teeth scrape along Pucci’s
throat, gently biting down on him and that- that’s it. That’s the point of no
return. The pressure of his teeth against Pucci’s skin, the gentle pain, and
Dio’s hand squeezing him tight. Pucci’s hips hitch forward again, once more-
twice more- and he’s crying out as he comes, his body shaking as he promptly
makes a mess in his unitard. Dio strokes him all through it, his hand running
up and down Pucci’s shaft as he squeezes out every last drop of cum into the
spandex. Pucci’s been reduced to a shaking, whining disaster of a person, his
mind completely shattered by the orgasm and the overwhelming pleasure that
fills every part of him.
It’s never felt this good before. This is what it’s like with another person.
Nobody’s pushed him this hard before. Dio keeps touching him, his mouth on
Pucci’s neck, biting and sucking. Pucci keeps rocking his hips against Dio
until it changes abruptly from a pleasurable feeling to a painful one. Only
then does he shove a hand down his pants, intercepting Dio’s hand and turning
it away. “E-enough. Dio, enough.”
Dio lets go and presses another kiss to Pucci’s neck before raising his head.
His eyes are so bright, so young even in the midst of an aged face. Dio pulls
his hand out of Pucci’s unitard and strokes his palm over Pucci's ass, giving
him a fond look. “It seems we need to work on your stamina. You have no staying
power anywhere.”
Pucci flushes and tries to bury his face against Dio's chest but Dio doesn't
let him, coaxing Pucci's face up and into a kiss. He falls into it, letting Dio
set the pace. Pucci tries not to falter but Dio presses on until Pucci's lungs
are burning and he has to pull apart to fully catch his breath. Dio's right -
he doesn't have any staying power. But-
“You’ll have to come up with a practice regimen for us. But, something more
reasonable than your ballet routines.” He teases a little, feeling bolder now
that he's seen that Dio doesn't want to lose him. Pucci means something to him,
even if its only his refusal to lose a possession. Pucci supposes he doesn't
mind being kept by Dio, long as he doesn't work Pucci to death.
“We will. Next time. I've kept you too long. You must be starving.” Dio's hands
soothe Pucci, putting him at ease. No wonder so many people remained loyal to
Dio through the years, through all the scandals. “I’ll have Vanilla make you
something to eat before we drive you home.”
Pucci can’t help but laugh a little to himself. Dio’s going to have Vanilla
make him a snack. His life is sometimes ridiculous.
“I think I need to shower more than I need to eat. I’m going to need to soak my
unitard right away.” He shifts a little, all too aware that there’s more than
sweat making the spandex cling to him now. And on the heels of that thought,
Pucci’s hands slide down to Dio’s chest, resting against him. “Do… do you want
me to return the favor?”
“Eventually. But that needs a little… planning on my part. I’m not as young as
I used to be.” Dio says this, as if he’s only a few years older than Pucci
rather than few decades. Or. More than a few decades. But Dio just kisses him
again, and Pucci is more than content to lean into his mouth and let himself
focus only on how nice it feels to kiss someone else. When Dio pulls back, he
gives Pucci’s hips a squeeze. “Next time you come for practice, you will stay
for dinner. And after dinner, we can begin your training.”
Training… Pucci feels himself heat up again, a flush running through his body.
Exactly what kind of training Dio has planned… His imagination is running wild,
but considering what Dio expects from his dancers, Pucci knows he’ll expect far
more from his paramours.
“I’ll be prepared for it.” Pucci slides a hand back up along Dio’s neck,
burying his fingers in Dio’s long, silver hair. He knows he likely won’t be,
but he’ll try anyway. Just like with the dancing. He’ll do his best to meet
Dio’s expectations, no matter how high they are. Though just like with today,
he might need to dig within himself and correct them if Dio’s sights are set
beyond anyone’s reach. Pucci gives Dio’s hair a gentle tug and then slides out
of his lap. “I’m going to wash up.”
“Leave your unitard on the bench. I’ll have Vanilla wash it with the rest of my
things.” Dio’s eyes slide up and down Pucci’s body, no longer evaluating him
but simply admiring his form. Pucci makes a bit of a face and Dio immediately
catches onto it. “Vanilla’s washed far worse than a dirtied uniform.”
“I’m sure he has. I still don’t like the thought of him washing mine.” Pucci
flicks his eyes towards the exit of the change room. Is Vanilla Ice outside
right now? Hopefully not, though he suspects Vanilla is never far away. He
always seems to be lurking nearby. “But, if you insist-”
“I do.” Dio goes to stand, pausing and scowling as his body seems to pause a
little as he pushes up. Pucci waits a moment to see if Dio can make it on his
own before he steps in, grabbing hold of Dio’s arm and giving him the little
pull he needs to get up. It seems that Dio does need his cane, mostly just to
help him stand up. Dio just keeps on frowning. “These benches need to be
replaced. They’re too low. How’s anyone meant to stand up easily from them?”
“You should talk to Vanilla about that.” Pucci is tempted to tease him, but he
can see the sharp look in Dio’s eyes and he decides to pass it by. Instead, he
just leans up and gives Dio’s chin a quick kiss before he backs away again,
heading for the showers. “I’m sure he’ll find a throne to put in here for you.”
Dio’s mouth curls up into a smirk and Pucci knows he’s considering it. Dear
God. And this is what he’s gotten himself into? He shakes his head and slips
away before Dio can call him back. Pucci strips down and starts the shower,
stepping under the hot water and letting it pour over him. His body’s starting
to ache again as the endorphins from coming wear off. If he feels like this
now, he hates to think about how much he’ll hurt when he gets up tomorrow.
But… for the first time in weeks, he feels excited to think about coming back
to see Dio again rather than anxious. Pucci smiles and without anyone watching,
he lets himself show exactly how giddy he feels inside. Dio’s going to adjust
his routines for Pucci. Dio’s going to have dinner with him.
Dio’s probably going to have Pucci for dinner. He goes red and he buries his
face into his arms for a moment, trying to overcome the intoxicating mix of
glee and shame. But when he doesn’t and he can’t, he immerses himself in it and
lets that wonderful feeling throb through every part of him instead.
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