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Crumpled like a wet band of eels, Pucci lays in the damp sand halfway dead.
He knows he’s being hunted at this point. He’d made a grave error- he’d underestimated her. She’s not the stupid, hardheaded brat he once thought. He had watched from the comfort of his own ego, each underling sent out was ripped to shreds and gored and bled out like lambs. She’s nothing like her father- she intends to make their suffering a work of art.
Maybe he had placed too much faith in himself, and now he was to suffer the consequences. The gentle crunch of sand under jackboots tears out like a buckshot above the ebbing and flow of the ocean’s waves. The sea breeze is sticky enough with salt to be a mild annoyance on his bare skin, itchy and drying and raw to his body.
The sky is as white and every bit as silver as his hair. He’s not quite sure he’s got the strength left to keep running, as there’s an unfortunate lack of cartilage left in his hips and its terribly uncomfortable to trek on. Her footsteps are heavy, bedraggled and her toes are scuffing the wear of the beach. He doesn’t expect his death to be a merciful one when she catches up to him. His throat is raw, and his breath is tinged with the vapors of blood, and he thinks his heart is nigh about to beat through the confines of his ribcage. Each breath he takes burns like acid in his throat and thickens his spit to a viscosity too far away from anything he’s able to swallow.
Jolyne is every bit as terrifying as she is beautiful as she towers over him.
That wild gaze in her eye nearly drips from her sockets and rolls down her cheeks, black hair flaying in tendrils over the expense of her unblemished face. Her eyes almost burn to look at, that sickly green practically encompassing the mere pinprick of her pupils bordered by a blood shot sclera. He can tell she hasn’t slept in days, her movements too jittery and laced with the twinges of fettering adrenaline as she unceremoniously drops to a squat next to Pucci’s torso.
Pucci’s jaw is tight, the only thing left he has is his dignity as Jolyne seems to tremble like an animal before him, her palm pressing over the soft lift of his chest under his cossack. The sheer warmth radiating off of her seeps through the fabric, the touch of another human feeling foreign, much less that of the touch of a Kujo, no, Cujoh- a bastardization of a Joestar.
How droll- He won’t have his end met by the hands of a Joestar. He’ll suffer the same fate as Dio did, the unfinished job left to be cleaned up by a mere shadow of what was once a great legacy. Pucci can feel it gnawing in the back of his head, that iron tight grip of Dio’s claws crushing into his spinal cord at the sheer idiocy of the situation. Pucci wasn’t supposed to fail, not like the others.
He knows deep down this entire plan was a gambit destined to die and wither under the blind applause of idiots that had bowed down and surrendered their lives for Dio. Perhaps he was just seeking something to fill that void, isn’t what all of Dio’s underlings did?
Pucci was no underling though. Dio hadn’t sent him on missions to carry out mundane tasks, and more often than not they were arguing with each other under a veil of intellect and soft spoken flowery words. A weight of sorts finds itself nestling over his belly now, warm and soft. The taste of blood in his mouth is overwhelming once more and he internally winces at the sharp taste, only realizing too late that Jolyne is straddling over his long body, her thighs caging around him like a beartrap.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were to prolong this any further than you needed to.”
His voice is barely a wet rasp, gritted and fluttering through the thick wetness in his throat and dully burnt lungs. Her fist begins to ball the fabric of his cossack, trembling and sinewy and thrumming with barely contained rage. The tone of brittle righteousness in his voice seems to have struck her.
“I want to make you hurt, Pucci. I want you to die.”
He knows this and offers no words of acknowledgement, not even wincing at the way she chews up his name and spits it back out at him. Pucci is well aware that she knows he’s listening to every word she says.
Her calloused hands make quick work of his robes and shirt, her palms rough and hungry at the softness of his flesh and the warmth of his body. Jolyne’s touch is equal parts starved and repulsed when she drags her fingers down the priest’s belly, feeling over the soft trail of white leading down his defined navel.
It’s certainly an unorthodox manner of execution to say the least.
Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at this though. The girl was a maladjusted sexual deviant chock full of angst. The bowing of his stomach beneath the weight of her body makes him wheeze, his broken ribs digging into the membranous tissue surrounding his organs. A shockwave rips through him when her knees touch the sand below him, her Stone Free manifesting in a hazy flicker behind her as she rips off his slacks finally, her gaze burning with ire at the soft cock between his beautifully sculpted thighs.
Something murmurs past her candy apple lips, akin to “what a waste”, as she leans forwards and tastes his blood on her mouth. Her own lips are plump and cold like two sticky slugs against his own, yet they taste of dehydration and lime flavored lip gloss. It’s more than enough to leave Pucci growing delirious with waves of nausea and disgust.
Pulses of white light nearly have him drifting in and out of lucidity just enough for Jolyne to recognize that he’s slipping and he’s slipping fast.
“You’re not going so soon. I won’t let you.”
You don’t deserve it.
Her voice quivers as she bares herself before him, tummy flat and hips wide and boney- he thinks briefly for a moment that she could’ve been a supermodel instead of some washed up delinquent. Nestled between the thick bulge of her thighs is her apex, waxed silky smooth and dripping pink and velveteen. Pucci swallows.
He opens his mouth to say something, but words escape him. The sensation of excitement, rage, regret, despair, and panic are all moot. He feels absolutely nothing- He reasons enough its due to blood loss and shock and he swears its not his pulse ringing in his ears it’s a heavenly choir coming to escort him to the heavens above, but that’s beside the point. Jolyne Cujoh slips him inside of her and her fists ball at his velvet cossack, the heat of her cunt leaves him aching and sputtering for oxygen.
Bone clashes against bone, Pucci’s broken femur jostles with every aggressive cant of Jolyne’s hips, the pain is excruciating but he seeks peace in the fact he is suffering and soon to die. Is this repetency? He isn’t sure, he can’t recount any prayers, or any real cohesive thoughts and he can’t really be sure if he’s ready to die.
“You aren’t even sorry for what you did,” It is far less of a question and more of a statement. Pucci finds himself agreeing through the squint of his snowy lashes.
“Fuck you, fuck you.”
Righteously her ample chest heaves as she rolls her hips, sweat glistening on her handsome face as she slaps away Pucci’s soft hand on her leg. Beneath her, the priest sighs, eyes fluttering shut from sheer exhaustion and her hands unbunch from the fabric of his robe and instead replace the cloth with the silken unmarred flesh of his neck.
He knows what happens next, and thusly exhales in a final act of dignity.
“I hope you burn in hell,” Jolyne supplies, voice low and ragged and utterly venemous.
A choke rips through his mouth as she clenches between her legs and crushes his windpipe with her bare hands. Pucci flails for a moment, his eyes bugging wide as tears stream down her face with a myriad of emotions, flooding after the dam breaks. Jolyne watches as the vessels in his beautiful eyes rupture and flood and paint them pink. His heartrate skyrockets for a blip.
Eventually he stops writhing all together and beneath her lays a dead man. She’s no longer phased with the notion of death, the act of killing. A sick part of her prides herself in being the arbiter of so many’s undoing, wretched and beyond all morality. Jolyne Cujoh screams into sea, tearing herself away from the broken corpse of the priest and scrubbing her body with salt and sand until she bleeds. Her skin is pink and welted and her thighs are slick with shame and rage. The catharsis of it all is too much to take and before long she flops like a ragdoll into the seafoam, sniffling like a little girl and feeling utterly sorry for herself.
In the distance, her father watches, a cigarette halfway smoldered and clenched in his incisors, another one shakily being brought up to his lips as he begins to go and collect his daughter from the waves.