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The woods pulsate with life around Giorno, engulfing him in the rhythmic chirps of a thousand insects and the scuffling of creatures in the undergrowth. The tall grasses skirt along his legs, and the gentle sunlight caresses him through the leafy overhang of trees, prolonging the life of everything it touches—him included.
It’s a normal day for Giorno, beginning with foraging herbs he needs for his daily batch of salves and potions. His strolls are also a chance to reacquaint himself with his quaint yet constantly changing surroundings, allowing him to observe the families of animals that made their homes right next to his, and occasionally, make the rare rendezvous with death.
It’s a dreary reality of his existence, knowing that even if life has cloaked something in its gentle hands, death can always make its appearance and triumph. Death is inevitable.
Giorno stops short, the familiar dark leaves of irolfanor coming into his vision. With a gentle smile, he picks a few of them, dropping them into his wicker basket and moving onward, deeper into the woods where most people wouldn’t dare enter.
Living out here for years, Giorno knows of every creature that roams these woods, so he feels no fear. Maybe it’s his other capabilities that also makes him so fearless, or his knowledge that humans are capable of much worse things than animals.
His surroundings grow darker around him, and he takes advantage of the shade by scaling along tree stumps now, their roots large, gnarling, and at times towering over himself. Here he searches for dusted krole, a rare root needed for a healing agent that he is the sole creator of.
He hears a fly whizz by his ear, and he hardly flinches, feeling along another bulby protrusion of the root before he picks and drops another into his basket. Another fly zips by, louder this time, its flight pattern jagged and erratic. Before Giorno could pay much mind to it, an unknown stench suddenly invades his nostrils, pungent enough that the witch scrunches his nose and recoils.
Something must have died. His near daily appointment with death has finally come, blending in harmoniously with the life around him.
At first, Giorno feels nothing, only the soft thudding of his heart in trepidation, until the very sight he comes across causes him to forfeit any form of sanguinity he had just possessed seconds ago.
Before him is a bloodied pant leg of another human, the fabric of his garment torn and revealing a dark red gash. The rest of his body is mostly concealed by big leaves of the surrounding plants, yet Giorno eventually sees it. Smells it. All the blood, and on closer examination, a raw pink. The flies are there.
It’s taken years for Giorno to temper his penchant for wanting to be a savior for everyone and everything, knowing that time and death are the main forces working against him. But now he has no choice but to concede to his naivety.
Without another second of thought or examination, Giorno falls to his side, carefully lifting the man’s head, ignoring the trembling of his own fingers. The man’s face is unscathed for the most part, his eyes closed, the thick eyelashes fanning his cheeks, making his death seem almost serene despite the damage his body had endured.
He must have made some animal angry, or had an unlucky meeting with a particularly hungry beast. Giorno knows of hunters that frequented the forest, never once agreeing with such practices and almost feeling some apathy towards them. Yet, looking down into this man’s face, who looks barely older than he is, something in him refuses to ignore this.
Giorno fully shifts the man’s head onto his lap, ignoring the sticky wetness of blood against his skin and closes his eyes. With a deep breath, an electric-like energy begins to fill him, the sunlight seemingly reaching to him through the shade, kissing his face, and bolstering this fizzing energy. Behind his eyelids he sees clearly— things that no one is supposed to see.
He speaks the words of no language he knows or even recalls learning, but his soul knows, his spirit reaching out of his own body to search for the one that had been lost, asking the merchants of death for its return. It feels like a tug, a coolness washing over him despite the warmth. Giorno, for a moment, can only exhale shakily.
Then all is normal again.
As his senses return, the heavy weight of exhaustion begins to descend on him, and it takes all in his power to not slump down next to the man and fall into a restful sleep.
The man is already beginning to stir back to life, his head moving slowly in his lap before he shoots upright at dangerous speed. Because of Giorno’s spell, his wounds are nonexistent, only leaving dried blood and ripped cloth in their wake.
He turns to Giorno, stunned, before he stumbles back a little, almost hitting the large tree stump behind them. “Who are you? What happened?” His dark brown eyes are blown up, looking over Giorno with confusion, and an inkling of wonder.
Giorno smiles, bowing his head partially in greeting before getting back up to his feet with obvious difficulty. “I just found you laying out here. It isn’t safe.” he speaks vaguely, intending to not to allude to what he had just done. He hardly expects any form of thanks.
The man scratches the back of his head, curly locks still matted with sweat and dried blood, before it seemingly dawns on him, “What happened to me?”
“You were hurt.” Giorno continues skirting around the topic. “So, I helped.” he reaches over to grab his basket, hoping to not leave it behind.
The man frisks over his body, pulling at the tattered ends of his pants, feeling over his neck and face, even going as far as to lift up his shirt to check for wounds. Giorno finds himself swallowing at the sight of his tanned muscular torso, forcing himself to look away and take another step back.
“Th...thank you.” The man’s tone is still one of confusion, a wrinkle in one of his thick brows. “Why is someone like you out here?”
“I live here.” Giorno assumes he looks like some sort of androgynous forest spirit with pants resembling a long skirt and a shirt adorned with billowing sleeves. He starts to feel impish under his heavy gaze however, finding it prodding and intense.
The man sits up with newfound energy, approaching Giorno, but keeping his distance. He’s smiling, rubbing at his chin in thought as he gives the witch another lookover. “Man, I don’t know what the hell you did, but I feel amazing. Like I could do anything, take down one of those beasts easily.”
Giorno winces, reminded of the reason why the man had been here. It stings. “I’m glad I could help.” He offers a wry grin and begins to turn away. “I have to leave now. I wouldn’t suggest staying around for long, it’s dangerous here.”
“Wait!” The man grabs his arm, causing Giorno’s heart to leap into his throat at the sudden force and sensation. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched by anyone besides another witch (for ritual purposes, but that’d been a good month ago).
Giorno looks back with obvious hesitation, the desperation in the other’s face pulling at his heartstrings. “I don’t understand...I don’t have a single wound left behind. It’s like I healed instantly. How long was I out here? I don’t know how you did it, but I can’t just let you off without giving my thanks somehow.”
Giorno realizes the man hasn’t let go of him either, his hands soft and hot. Clammy, even. There’s something else Giorno senses too, but he doesn’t know what to think of it.
Right. Sometimes his magic makes humans go...frantic in one way or another. Which also hints that there must have been some sort of error in his process. Giorno bites the inside of his cheek in frustration, craning his mind to figure out where he had stumbled at death’s feet or had clipped off a piece of this man’s soul. Animals were never this difficult to deal with.
He retracts his arm calmly, shaking his head amicably, golden smile remaining in hopes that it’s enough to satiate this man’s growing need. “You were only out here for a couple hours, and I suggest you head back now before sunset. The rest of the answers to those questions are a secret.” God. He hopes that didn’t come out more flirty than he had intended. He knows well enough that his own chilled emerald gaze and pretty pink lips have landed him in more sticky situations than he can recall.
“I want to know that secret.” The man has stepped into his space now, having only a few centimeters on Giorno in height. Still, it’s enough for Giorno to start feeling a little frisky, his own cheeks flushed, though concealed mostly by the shade.
“I can’t tell you.” his voice weakens to a whisper, nearly cracking.
“Why not, pretty boy?” it doesn’t sound as threatening as it would from other people; it’s nearly endearing, the man’s voice husky and casual.
To prevent himself from slamming directly into his chest, Giorno takes another step back out of precaution, but stumbles backwards over a root. Before he could fall, the man catches him by his arm again and tugs him towards his chest, fingers descending into Giorno’s blond hair. Flustered, Giorno blinks a few times, at a complete loss for words, overwhelmed by this man’s audacity and aggression. He needs to get out of here, now.
“Please. Tell me something.”
Lost in the sensuality of his voice, Giorno doesn’t even realize the lips on his until the man clutches his hair with more force, nearly unraveling the braid, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Panicking, he shoves the man back, feeling utterly violated. A look of confusion and hurt flashes in the other’s eyes, but he doesn’t relent, grabbing both of Giorno’s arms, spinning him around, and slamming him against the tree, the breath knocked out of the witch.
“You did something to me, and I want an answer! If you don’t tell me, well, I’ll just fuck you until you do..it’s all my mind seems to want…” he speaks through gritted teeth, his tone harsh but dampered by the desperation reflecting in his eyes. Giorno can only stare back wide-eyed, his cheeks warmed by the threat of sex.
Despite being the perfect person to be burned at the stake a century ago, he still has his morals. He’s been talked to dirty before, even said a few lewd words of his own, so he’s annoyed that his body thinks this man is any different.
Giorno glares, though he’s practically quivering under the man’s grip. “Your threats are useless. I’ve already told you no, so let. Me. Go.” he pushes him back again but with hardly enough strength necessary to keep him off. Fatigue weighs down on him like a pile of stones, so much that his knees grow weak. Giorno stumbles forward, the rich soil looking like a perfect bed for an afternoon nap.
At once, the man lunges and catches his shoulders before Giorno could meet the ground, positioning him against the tree. His movements are still forceful, hungry, lacking any form of gentleness. “I want you so bad…please, I’ll make you feel good. You’re too damn pretty to not tear into...” he groans, kissing Giorno once more, and this time, Giorno can barely fight back. His hands attempt to shove at him again, but they’re only weak bats against strong shoulders, his nails too dull to penetrate skin and his legs supporting him like jelly. Not even the magic he conjures with a flick of his fingers— to pull the weeds and roots out of the ground underneath them and wrap around his assailant— comes into fruition. Instead, only a few green shoots sprout but nothing more, soon trampled by their small scuffle.
Giorno moans in helpless protest, his teeth against the man’s tongue hardly a deterrent. Instead, it seems to only make him more violent, his tongue plunging deeper into his mouth at the first drop of blood, as if to explore every inch of Giorno and his taste.
Tears well up in Giorno’s eyes out of frustration, shameful of how wrong this was, yet not denying how his body had already started to react. His heart beats rapidly, not out of fear, but anticipation and curiosity. The man’s boyish smile and handsome dark gaze weren’t lost on Giorno either, for he knows he could’ve discovered someone way worse.
So, he slowly melts into him, helplessly and with uncertainty, eyes fluttering shut while his hands fall limp at his sides. The kiss draws on, the other eventually breaking back for air, his mouth immediately descending down onto Giorno’s neck, bruising the fair skin with his teeth and lips.
“At least tell me your name…” he sighs against his flesh, hands running up to tug at Giorno’s wispy curls forcefully, a small whimper leaving the witch.
“You tell me yours.” Giorno huffs, reveling in the man’s sloppiness and assertion, his own need stirring in his garments.
He receives a grunt in answer, and Giorno is pressed more against the tree by the man’s raggedly moving hips, his cock bulging through his tattered pants, prodding at Giorno’s inner thigh. “...Guido.” his tone sounds almost feeble in contrast to his current actions, as though his true self had risen out of his sex-craved daze.
Giorno slides a hand down between them, palming at the man’s bulge while he glances up at him with heated cheeks and eyes no longer showing any form of timidity.
“Giorno, and I’m sure you won’t forget it.”
Those words alone seem to rile Guido up, for the next moment, Giorno hears the tearing of fabric, his bare chest and arms revealed in their dim surroundings. Giorno doesn’t prevent his pants from going next either and instead, drags down Guido’s jeans the best he could.
His cock bounces free, throbbing, pre-cum dripping from the tip despite Giorno hardly touching him at all.
Giorno can only stare, beginning to descend onto his knees, but a stiff hand at his shoulder prevents him from doing so.
“I just need to cum.” Guido pleads breathlessly, beginning to stroke himself with hardly a shame in the world. His body is taut, dried blood mixing with the glistening sweat on his brow and cheek. He eyes Giorno like a predator, warning him that from this point on he can’t turn back; he can’t escape.
Giorno is paralyzed under his gaze, subjected to the complete mercy of his beautifully corrupt project. The fact that he, a pristine and powerful witch, is being rendered into a mere object to be used and fucked by this stranger makes him ache pathetically.
Guido lifts up one of Giorno’s slender legs, and Giorno eagerly curves it over his shoulder, pulling him closer, closing the gap between them.
“I don’t—” Giorno’s whispered words falter as Guido slips into his warmth with a snap of his hips, any further words replaced by a sharp yelp.
Guido moves relentlessly, grabbing Giorno’s thigh as leverage while he thrusts into him as if trying to chase a high, pressing Giorno further into the bark of the tree. His moans form a sweet melody in perfect rhythm with every one of Guido’s frantic pumps, the pleasure enough for him to ignore the bark scratching his back.
Giorno doesn’t realize how starved he’d been for affection until now, how easily his body molds to Guido and his touch. They meet in an open-mouth kiss, Giorno lashing his tongue eagerly against Guido’s mouth as he whines, trying to keep his stability by grasping a handful of Guido’s ass, his skin burning hot.
Guido’s so eager and fast, Giorno absolutely mesmerized by the muscles rippling underneath his torso with each hard thrust of his hips. He wonders if this magic had turned him into something inhuman.
“Fuck, you’re so tight.” Guido pants, a deep moan exploding from his lips seconds later. Giorno feels heat spread within him, feels the stutter of Guido’s body against his while he rides out his orgasm. His first one.
Giorno slumps against his chest, leg twitching and breath heavy, assuming they’re finished despite the absence of his own orgasm. But he’s proven wrong instantly.
In a flash, Guido flips him around so that Giorno’s practically kissing the tree. He teases his dripping entrance with his shaft, still hard as though he hadn’t cum at all.
“You’ve already said your than— aah!” Giorno whines, teary-eyed as he’s ravaged once more, cum sticking between the two of them as Guido’s skin slaps against his. Guido burrows his face in Giorno’s arching back and flicks his tongue hungrily along the scratches the tree had inflicted.
Giorno eventually cums, his seed running down his leg while Guido continues, clutching his hips so tight that Giorno starts to bruise. He hiccups and shudders in overstimulation, pleading for Guido to stop, but the hunter doesn’t listen.
Guido’s body shines with sweat as he hisses profanities to himself, biting his lip until it bleeds, his shirt hanging off of him in tatters. He cums again, with enough force that Giorno grows dizzy and full of Guido’s heat.
Pleasure morphs into a nightmare, and Giorno is suddenly facedown in the dirt, his ass slammed into while Guido continues his onslaught like a madman. The feeling of hot satiation overcrowds any form of pleasure as Giorno’s belly begins to noticeably hang and ache.
When the hunter has received his fill, Giorno is left quivering with lidded eyes, cum oozing from his abused entrance, cheeks slick with tears.
Death brought life, but with a heavy price.