Archive of Our Own

Having to comb through the memories of all kinds of rabble was the most distasteful part of his mission for Pucci. He’d heard enough of people's disgusting life stories at the confessional while previously working at a regular church, let alone now in a state prison housing the worst of the worst.

So in exchange for being subjected to the rank inner workings of his subjects, Pucci felt no remorse in taking whatever he selfishly wanted from them, if for nothing else then to get the foul taste out of his mouth.

Usually he limited himself to intellectual tampering: Molding these people in small ways closer to what he held as the ideal. Plucking out some bad habits here and there and enhancing the desired ones. Was it not a Priest's duty, to try and make the world a little more As It Should Be?

But it didn’t have to end with taking pious little liberties with their brains. Some of the people he "worked" with were just too alluring to not... appreciate more closely.

Pucci had Westwood sitting in the front row of the pews in the prison chapel while he told him his orders: Find Cujoh, defeat her, take back what she had stolen. And be mindful that you now posses a newfound power. It is a part of you, look inside and try to coax it out, it will be useful in the upcoming battle.

His second order to the man was going to just be a treat for Pucci himself, as a fair payment for the peek he had to take inside this asshole’s head.

In order to insert new thoughts into people, one has to weave them in seamlessly with their pre-existing memories, like adding a thread of a new colour to a textile rug. That is why Pucci had to at least skim through the memory disc of every person he worked on.

And for Westwood it was a cesspit of bullheaded egotism, violent fantasies and questionable actions.

Not that it already wasn't obviously clear why he had chosen the profession that he had. Pucci reckoned he could redirect at least some of this energy and aggression towards a better goal. If not for the betterment of society, then to at least bring some little excitement to this bleak workplace. 

Westwood was a robust man. Only a little taller than Pucci, but his arms and torso were nearly twice as thick as his. Ugly in the face, but it wasn't like Pucci would have to look at the bastard much, not with the plans that he had for him. And through his memories, he was familiar with the dimensions of the rest of his body too.

So the other instructions were to bend Pucci over the altar and not hold back on being rough. Westwood had the perfect heavy type body for overpowering someone, holding them down pinned and forcing them to take what's given to them. An act that Pucci would not normally agree to, but with Whitesnake's influence over the man, he felt comfortable in indulging now and then. 

The chapel was chosen as the location because it was completely empty at night. No one would hear or walk in on them. Plus, the polished altar that it had would be the least rough elevated slab of stone available within the prison grounds, blasphemy be damned.

Or maybe secretly even enjoyed.

With all the necessary information relayed, Pucci initiates the session. Turning away from where Westwood sat, he walked up to the altar.

He starts with his little spiel of humanity and its downsides. Of the universe, of God's plan. Of honesly whatever his half-distracted mind was most easily coming up with at that moment.

It was for both comfort and control. Speaking to people, swaying and making them listen was Pucci’s trade and business.

So he tells Westwood of how important his task is. How this mission that he's been set on will bring forth great things. The words he says imply it is about Westwood’s dayjob of punishing criminals. What he subliminally wants to relay is about his part as a cog in Pucci’s mission to bring forth Heaven.

What still ends up slipping though is Pucci’s need to achieve a more mundane sort of rapture, somewhere within the next 10 to 20 minutes.

Pucci hoped his careless words would not be of any consequence. Despite him currently preaching to an audience of one, and in a church of all places, he was aware enough that he was essentially just talking to himself.

Westwood rose and walked up behind him. 

"Yes, whatever you say, Father"

That tickled Pucci just right. After having to deal with how arrogant the guards here usually were, that was music to his ears.

Westwood’s meaty hands settled on his waist. Pucci let out a breath. His "toy" was now automated and properly programmed, so he could just relax and enjoy the ride. He’d done this before with men he had deemed attractive enough, and so he had full confidence in his stand’s abilities.

The rough fingers made their way down from grabbing his hips to kneading his ass.

It felt good to receive that kind of attention. And even better in Pucci's opinion, when it was from a man who after this would have no idea that any of it happened.

At this time, when Pucci did not have a close trustworthy friend in his life, it was both the safest and the least annoying way to satisfy his needs.

After getting his fill of being thoroughly fondled, of the thrill of having a stranger's hands all over where they don't belong - and enjoying the feeling of a big man's breath caressing the back of his neck, Pucci opened the bottom half of his cassock, and flipped the hem to one side, out of the way. This was his work uniform after all, it would be unprofessional to let this brute scuff it.

He also unfastened his belt and bared himself, before the other man had the chance to start yanking on his expensive garments. Pucci didn't trust the guard to respect the price tag on his personal items either.

Westwood now caressed the naked skin of his ass.

Then a solid hand pressed down between his shoulder blades, and Pucci obediently bent over. 

What was done would have to suffice as the foreplay. Pucci had no interest to kiss and pet this ugly bastard.

But never the one to be able to keep his mouth shut, Pucci continued on to pester Westwood:

"Though is it not wonderful, to once in a while stop and enjoy what god has made available to us, despite being so busy with fulfilling one's duties?", he started, and arched his back, almost as a mockery of pleasant smalltalk among colleagues. Something Pucci had always made sure never to involve with.

"Oh I get plenty of joy from my job here, priest. It's you who always runs around with a stick up your ass."

Alright then, so much for some light detached banter.

"I mean I get ya, this place is a shithole. But when you're in the right position, you can have aaany kind of fun with the customers here. Make them listen to your every whim and command."

Yes, Pucci had seen some of that on his disc too. How distasteful.

As was the wet sound that Westwood next made, and then a glob of spit landed right onto Pucci's hole.

He flinched from the first touch, and then those half-dry fingers try to rub the saliva deeper into him.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Pucci remarked sharply.

The fact that Pucci had to verbally remind him about the lube gave him a pause. The instuction to fish the bottle out of Pucci's pocket should have been on his disc. Did he not remember to give the order, could he have slipped up with anything else?

Or maybe the other man's head was just too thick to follow simple instructions. Pucci was as confident in himself as ever.

Westwood got to work spreading the lube and carefully pressing in inside with his fingers.

His movements were clumsy, in a way that was almost endearing. Pucci could imagine being prepared by a man who'd never been into homosexual activities, but whom he had managed to seduce anyway.

Which was... in a way what was happening. Just in a much more convenient way, that didn't require Pucci to actually experience the undignity of seeking out casual hookups.

Still this was all just pretend, so Pucci made sure to follow closely that Westwood prepared him correctly, as to not actually hurt him even a little. He was not about to let any stranger leave a mark on him.

And not that unpracticed fingering would be a problem, because the main event would be Pucci getting stuffed with cock and pounded, which he knew Westwood to be perfectly capable of.

Hearing the sound of a zipper opening behind one's back was always just as exciting.

Westwood pulled out his own cock, which had filled out to its full size during this time. He poured some lube onto his palm and thoroughly coated the erect organ with it. Pucci did not glance back but he knew what to expect.

Which was not that Westwood wasn't yet done with their earlier conversation.

"And you know how much that pisses me the fuck off?"

"Concentrate on your task," Pucci snapped at him. Breaking into a rant right now would kill the whole mood. 

This was now Westwood's own personality shining through. An annoying side effect of the fact that Whitesnake could not fully control people, only manipulate them using their own weaknesses. Best Pucci could hope was that the rude bastard might channel some of his anger into a good hard fuck.

"Us cops deal with the worst of the shit here on a daily basis. And what do you do, Father? Aren't you supposed to herd these sheep back onto the right track? Off of our asses?"

As if this man had ever cared about any of that. But still he went on ranting.

"When we've all seen how you conduct yourself. Turning your nose up at every person here. And when you do lower yourself to greet us mere mortals, you talk such nonsense bullshit that it makes the sight of you insufferable."

Pucci had no reason to listen to any of that.

"You think you're too good for this place, huh?"

"I'll show you your place too", he growled in Pucci's ear.

The cock pushed itself inside Pucci's hole.

Fuck it was fat. Warm as the hot-tempered man wielding it, and stretching him out almost to the limit. Feeling that thing rub his insides raw was going to be worth all of this hassle. Westwood started pumping his hips almost immediately.

"Ahh, and yet... and yet you –", Pucci tried to get a word in.

"Shut your mouth."

The sharp command triggered a shiver in Pucci.

Fine... This was fine. He had lost interest in chatting anyway. Nothing that either of them would have said mattered anyway, Westwood's actions were predetermined by what Whitesnake had done to his disc. 

They both adjust to a more comfortable position. Pucci leaned further onto the altar, allowing his back to arch and his rear to meet Westwood's thrusts at a better angle. Westwood in turn leans over Pucci, and snaked his arm under his chin, now able to press Pucci harder against the stone surface with each thrust. And for a little while it feels absolutely amazing.

The man's cock filled him perfectly. His thrusts were fast and deep, and his hold on Pucci's waist was unwavering. 

Pucci relaxed enough to let out small soft moans with each delicious thrust. The guard above him was grunting and huffing, but Pucci paid him no mind. The pleasure was mounting and he closed his eyes and bit his lip. Westwood was giving him the best service he had had in years.

"Hey! Let me adjust, you–" Pucci tried to protest, but was cut off by a small squeeze that Westwood's forearm gave him. His neck was released immeditely after, but the threat that it communicated was clear.

"No use screamin' now. Night Patrol doesn't walk past near enough to hear you through these wallls"

And that had been a part of Pucci's plan anyway...

"And if they did find us, Father, what about it? Would they listen to your word over mine? Don't you think they'd want to join in? To teach you a lesson."

The thought of how god that would be so hot actually, slipped through Pucci's inner filters before he managed to supress it. What was Westwood getting at though, bringing that up now-

The arm that was under his chin suddenly tightened, completely cutting off air from Pucci's lungs.

And then the grip was held for several more seconds.

It would not be able to pry Westwood off of Pucci, so it reached for his forehead instead.

Only to have its wrist grabbed by a fibrous red hand, like a mass of muscle tissue rising from the other man's body. Westwood's stand had manifested. It held Whitesnake in a bone-crushing grip, staring it straight in the eye. All the while while Pucci was losing consciousness, mind clouding over trying to remember what kind of a stand he had given to Westwood.

The slap of skin against skin (balls against his ass, Pucci tried not to think) and the jingle of a keyring on the guard's belt became the only sounds that Pucci's clogged ears could pick up.

He bitterly realised that Westwood was not trying to choke him out cold, he was squeezing just hard enough to have Pucci stay half-aware, have him wriggle and squeeze on his cock, but unable to resist at all.

But would he eventually stop on time before–...

He'd seen this headlock being used before. It was standard protocol in this hellhole. He'd seen the permanent neck injuries it could lead to.

No matter how hard he clawed, in his weakened state he could do nothing against Westwood's treetrunk of an arm around his neck, and grabbing the cloth on the altar gave him no leverage, it only slid off the smooth stone.

With a violent yank Westwood stood straight and pulled Pucci up with him. Now standing with his legs wide apart he had the leverage to buck his hips with even more force, each impact jostling Pucci's spine. One hand moved up to grope at his chest.

Hit after hit, and even with Pucci's body aching all over, the steady rhythmic rubbing of his hole was making a warm feeling pool in his stomach, and the almost inhuman strength that was used to restrain him thrilled Pucci almost as much as it terrified him.

No way was this abuse going to make him come. No, no, no– 

Westwood finally put all of his weight into strangling Pucci's neck. The edges of his vision were the first to go dark. He only felt the very first rising tremors of his orgasm before passing out.

Pucci woke up on the floor, alone. Pants around his ankles, legs cold from the stone tiles. His hips and shoulders protested painfully when he tried to lift himself up. His head was spinning as he crawled to a more upright position.

With shaking hands he covered himself up. After which had to kneel back down to breathe.

His behind felt wet, a thick droplet of something trickled down to his thighs.

How long had...

The realisation hit him that Westwood had kept fucking his unconscious body until he had finished inside. Pucci was frozen with horror.

Logically... logically this had been a risk that he signed up for, choosing a man like that to mess around with. And he had to assume Westood should now be completing his mission without further problems.

This must have been his punishment for straying off the right path, for playing around when he had an important mission to fulfill. Pucci had to take this as a lesson. One on choosing his targets better.

The thought that this could be taken as a sign to reconsider these activities alltogether didn't even cross his mind.

Sore and shaken, Pucci hurried back to his personal quarters. The amenities that the prison provided him did not offer much warmth and comfort, but it was the only place he could escape to right now.

Bitter about his situation, about the deep loneliness he refused to acknowledge, Pucci had to force himself to disrobe again. He hoped that a long hot shower might wash away the feeling of disgust still lingering all over him.