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Branches and crumpled up autumn leaves were crushed under Vittorino’s heel as he ran, his pace that of a frightened deer on the run for its life. Not daring to look back at the man chasing him, he bunched up his robes to escape faster, nearly tripping over a bundle of thick roots in the process.
Even if he looked back now, he would likely not see the Basilica grounds anymore. He was fully surrounded by tall trees, stranded in a sea of moss, scattered leaves and tiny bugs. Feelings of disgust and adrenaline pumped through him as he ran, every rustle of the forest floor alerting him, making him feel like a little rabbit escaping from the maw of a predator. At this point his robes were largely covered in dirt, even more torn and messed up than they usually were. Gripped tightly between his gloved hands, he could still feel the moisture seeping through them from where he had stepped into a small puddle of water earlier. Yet he had no choice but to keep going, keep gritting his teeth and spot out any ways in which he could shake his pursuer off his trail.
With every step, the woods around him grew thicker and more tightly interwoven, with large tangled bushes and rotten branches covering his line of sight. Not only was it harder to run now, but he saw this as an opportunity to finally lose Dante for good. The man was a good tracker, yes, but even the most skilled of hunters would be at a loss trying to find a frightened rabbit in this deep mess of a forest. At the very least, it would buy him some time and strength to go on.
Surrounded by shrubbery, old branches and wood that had fallen, stood a tree: A large, likely centuries old oak with an opening in its roots. It would be the perfect hiding spot, Vittorino hoped.
The priest climbed over a few of the giant roots that spread above and below the ground, praying to a God who wasn’t listening that the hunter wouldn’t be able to spot him moving through the thicket.
It smelled strongly of moss and decayed wood, which led him to believe that the poor oak was likely rotting from the inside. The hiding spot was small and barely even passed as an opening. It was more of a large wound in the tree’s bark, cut deeply enough to squeeze into the dying, brittle trunk.
Hiding out behind the tree, he listened for even the smallest of sounds around him, the forest now eerily still. Heart pounding like fists against his chest and lungs screaming with the icy forest air, Vittorino attempted to calm his breathing the best he could. It felt like struggling to suppress a writhing rabid dog, and every breath that was too loud would be signing his death warrant.
Eventually though, the familiar stillness of the woodlands returned. Now the silence was nearly deafening, broken only by a steady pounding sensation as Vittorino’s blood rushed through his ears. With a quiet sigh of relief he sank down against the large tree, thinking he had surely lost Dante for now. The ringing in his ears drowned out most sounds around him, to where only the gentle rustle of leaves remained.
Vittorino closed his eyes for just a short moment, rubbing his face with his hands and breathing into them. The forest floor was cold against his sweating skin but at this point he hardly cared. He felt as if his body was burning up from the inside, a sore pain slowly spreading throughout his flesh. Leg muscles were strained from running for so long, heart still beating panicked and lungs wailing at him through the cold air.
Closing his eyes however turned out to be a big mistake. As Vittorino felt the muzzle of a rifle pressed hard against his temple, a pang of fear and chill spread through his spine like a crack forming along a thin layer of ice, barely holding on above a frozen lake.
He dared to open his eyes to see Dante stood above him, seemingly unaffected by how much he had chased him. Despite the mask it wasn’t hard to make out the expression on the man’s face, sickened with a near animalistic rage and hunger.
The priest attempted to speak, but all his strained throat croaked out was a measly, “Stop. Stop, please”. He would’ve opted for the good old classic “What the fuck is wrong with you?” but doing so with a gun pressed against his head seemed like a bit of a bad idea. Only dead men tell the tales of how well that went for them.
The priest's pleas were met not with pity but a hard, stern “Get up”. Dante's eyes were trained on his every movement, and for a moment he swore he never saw them blink.
Of course Vittorino had no choice but to obey him, he had a rifle held to his head for God's sake. So he sluggishly dragged his tired body up, pressed hard against the old wood of the tree behind him.
No more running.
Seeing how he seemed to have the other man under his control now, finally, the hunter retracted his rifle. A large sigh of relief fell from Vittorino's lips and he dared to steal a look at Dante. He was now getting awfully close, amber piercing eyes staring him down.
When Vittorino tried to speak again, the only answer he was met with was being pushed hard against the tree, with such a force it even shook off a few leaves.
"I've heard enough out of you", Dante spat, his voice close to the growl of an enraged animal. "Have you never learnt to shut that pretty little mouth of yours? In all those years, the church never taught you to show even an ounce of restraint?"
To truly get his point across, Dante then reached into a pocket of his coat to produce his hunting knife, sharpened blade catching the dim light falling through the treetops.
This wasn’t the first time the priest had been threatened with said blade, but certainly the first that he felt he was actually close to getting skinned alive this time.
Any encounter with this dagger was no less strange than the previous one though, seeing how the intricate metal never seemed to lose any of its sharpness, or how its grip always looked devoid of any use whatsoever. He had never noticed Dante use a whetstone, or really any tool for that matter, in order to keep his hunting knife so pristine.
Whenever Vittorino thought about this for too long, his head would spin and he would simply give up on his derailing train of thought.
One of Vittorino's arms was then grabbed, clasped above his head. He swore under his breath – had he done that any harder he might've dislocated the shoulder. The sting still present throughout his muscles from running now added to the pain, and he whined as the blade pressed against his skin. Not deep enough to leave any cuts – yet.
At this point Vittorino had given up on running, given up on negotiating or trying to reason. This was now a fight for survival, saving his own skin before it'd be stripped from him by that cursed knife.
Despite it still being pressed tight to the skin of his throat, Vittorino dared to speak up. He'd be lying to himself if he pretended there was no fear in his voice, but he was used to lying.
"You know I didn't mean this. I didn't mean what I said, so don't pretend like you think I did. And again, it's just a rumour I heard, so you should really–"
"Do not tell me what to believe, priest", the hunter interrupted him. Every single word spilling from Dante's mouth felt corrupt and dirty, drenched in blood and pain. It sounded as if he was speaking through gritted teeth, but this was hard to tell through the mask.
"I know exactly what I've seen and heard. You for one are welcome to keep pretending the voices you hear at night are entirely your own, but I know the truth."
He continued, twisted words oozing out his mouth like black tar to burn away at Vittorino's skin and ears. He was now inching ever closer to the man trapped beneath his blade, taking in how he flinched at every movement.
"I know you doubt your beliefs. You lie awake at night pondering over why God has left you, what you've done wrong to deserve all of this, don't you? You want to claw your way out but you remain stuck at the bottom of the rabbit hole, helpless and abandoned by your Lord."
Despite only being able to see half of the man's face due to the facemask, Vittorino would bet his remaining kidney that he wore the most shit eating, disgusting grin underneath it. He wanted to punch his lights out, but in the back of his mind knew he would be the one to end up on the ground instead, mouth full of dirt.
"Heh, it would almost make me laugh if it wasn't so miserable."
"Christ, fuck off, why are you telling me all of this? I don't need my wounds reopened, Dante. Especially not by the likes of you…"
Dante scoffed at the meaningless insult, almost finding it cute if it wasn't for that feeling immediately getting washed away by deeply rooted resentment.
"See, I cannot make myself care about you doubting God. I only say this to tease you, because I know it stings like little sprinkles of salt in a wound."
Slightly lowering his tone, he added, "You know I have a taste for seeing you in pain, Father."
Upon saying these words, Dante twisted the knife in his hands. It wasn't touching Vittorino's skin anymore now, instead trailing slightly above with the tip of it hovering so, so close. The sight was riveting in the worst possible way.
"Yeah, hah, God, I never would've guessed! Now, if you said that without a knife literally a hair's breadth from my throat, I might not have been so convinced! Haha!"
If Vittorino tried any more to move back up against the tree behind him, he might as well have fused with the flesh of its trunk. The only sensation he felt against his shoulders and back were the occasional smaller pieces of brittle wood that poked against him through the fabric, threatening to drive splinters into his skin.
"And besides, what does any of this concern you, huh? You're the false believer here."
"Mmh, no, truly I do not care about you doubting your beliefs in the Lord. You two can work out your differences once you get to the pearly gates. No, I care about you doubting him."
Vittorino had to stop himself from rolling his eyes, seeing as that action would've likely made Dante ram the dagger straight through his throat, then cut up his body into little intricate pieces and rearrange the meat to form the shape of a giant bloody middle finger. At least that was the mental image Vittorino's mind was painting for him, and just for this moment he wished he wasn't plagued with such a vivid imagination.
"Do you hear what you're saying? You place him above God?! That is just pure blasphemy at this point, and no doubt about it!"
"This is not about that, Vitto. You insult him, you insult me. Simple as that. You've crossed a line you shouldn't have even gotten to in the first place. It is only adequate for me to punish you for your impudence."
"Christ, Dante, if you'd just bother to ask anyone at the Basilica they will tell you the same thing. The voices are whispering and they are not just mine. Trust me for once in your life."
Dante only gave a noise akin to a frustrated growl in response, his eyebrows furrowing on his pale face. He listened intently, but it was clear he did not like a single word that fell on his ears.
“You’ve seen the inside of me, you’ve seen me as a whole. You know me. So then why is it so hard for you to treat me as an equal?"
“Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t giving the exact same treatment to me. We both know–”
“Yes, but at least I’m fucking right! Because you’re just a godless extension of him, you– you’re just a puppet–!”
All of Vittorino’s words were clearly bashing against this brick wall of a man, frustration welling up inside him the more he tried to shake him. He wouldn’t listen. The priest began to plead, "Just… why in the name of all that is holy do you have to take this out on me? Are you out of your– fuck, stop, stop, please–"
Ah, there it was again, that delicious desperation, the fear for his life. Dante liked him better like this.
He noticed the priest's breathing picking up pace whenever he pressed the blade harder against him, and he was enjoying the sight in front of him so, so much. God, the way that sweat was trailing down Vittorino's skin, his face painted with such a beautiful mixture of frustration and fear. Cheeks flushed and tired eyes begging to be let go. But he would not be so merciful, the rabbit could beg all he wants, with or without his useless words.
Vittorino's arm was still held above his head, and as the hunter moved in closer to his frightened prey he trailed his hand lower, to hold onto the bare skin of his wrists instead. Cold gloves met the warm skin beneath and Vittorino nearly squealed, with a tone of voice so vulnerable Dante's never heard from the man before. Dante would tell him to shut up, tell him if he hears any little rebuttal coming from his mouth he'd drive this dagger into his fucking throat and cut out his vocal cords. He had heard enough from him and – but he wouldn't admit to this just yet, of course – the only sound he wanted to hear from the priest anymore would be his pathetic moans, begging for mercy.
Vittorino swallowed down the fear in his throat, feeling the metal against his skin inch closer as he did so. He got the message, but really what was he supposed to do when Dante worked him up like this? Was this supposed to be a fight, or some twisted hunt? He knows Dante liked the chase, liked his prey running from him more than the actual joy of killing. He enjoyed that look in their eyes, be it an animal or human, the last breath of pity before he pulled the trigger.
But of course this never was about truly killing Vittorino, ending his life was the least of his priorities. No, this was about establishing power, putting the man in his place.
Vittorino did as he was told, keeping his noises to a minimum even as he felt a leg push up between his own. Still pressed flush against the tree, he now barely had any room to move, a helpless victim to the friction now working away at him.
And if he tried to move his head even a little bit, or attempted to release his arm from Dante's grip, both the dagger held to his throat and the leg would press harder against him, giving him no way out.
Dante didn’t hesitate to mock him, show him how pathetic he truly was. If this was already working him up, he didn’t even want to imagine how Vittorino would look once he was done with him. He wanted the man squirming beneath him, knowing he's got him caged with no way to run. His little rabbit.
“You’re mine”, Dante's gravelly voice carried itself through his facemask, low and almost desperate. His words were wolves clawing at the cages of their enclosure, each one breaking free with hungry claws and gnashing fangs.
“I would hunt you down to the ends of the fucking earth. Can’t you see that running is no option? That I’ll always be one step ahead?”
What little breath made it through Dante's mask as he spoke was touching Vittorino's skin, so close to him it was slowly unravelling what little remained of his broken mind. Knowing Vittorino would not run, Dante then removed the hand that was pinning his wrist against the wood. But this was not an act of mercy, as he went on to use said hand to tear at Vittorino's scarf and priest uniform, which earned a few disgruntled noises from him.
The chilling forest air touched Vittorino's skin but it wouldn't linger for long, as soon Dante had pulled down his mask and his teeth were on him like hungry fangs.
It was getting increasingly hard to remain quiet and follow those instructions given to him with the blade against his neck, but Vittorino tried to oblige the best he could. With both his hands now free he used one to grab onto Dante's, pulling the dagger away from him, afraid it might actually end up cutting into his skin. Surprisingly, he did manage to move it a little distance, but still not out of possibly-getting-stabbed-range.
And God, Vittorino tried so, so hard. He was being such a good quiet prey, wriggling less than any rabbit ever would in their last dying moments. As Dante marked his skin, he muffled any moans that dared to escape from his throat with a single free hand over his mouth.
He'd be a fool to think that even an inch of his exposed neck would be spared. Dante was gradually turning his delicate skin into a minefield of bitemarks and blood, a lasting signature on his body. Anytime his teeth – which were just a tinge too sharp to be fully human – tore into his skin, he made sure to clean up the resulting bruise and blood with his tongue. Hot flares of sharp sensations spread throughout Vittorino's body with every bite, only to trickle down in the form of a poisonous cocktail of pain and pleasure tingling at his every nerve ending.
"And what do you even know, hm? You always act so high and mighty, ever since you’ve left the rest of the rabbits behind and clawed your way out on their bodies. You act as if you've got the living world all figured out. As if you have me figured out", Dante spoke, pausing briefly to give another particularly hard bite which made the man beneath him cry out.
"You'd never even be able to survive without the safety of the Basilica. I mean, a fucking tree trunk for shelter, really? And just look at this damn thing, hell–", he stabbed the hunting knife into the soft bark next to Vittorino's head, much too close for comfort. Not like any part of this was comforting in the slightest to begin with.
A glimpse of his own reflection caught Vittorino's eyes upon the blade, but he glanced away again just as quickly.
Dante continued, keeping the sharp knife stuck inside the tree's dead skin. "If i actually decided to fuck you against this, it'd probably break down over our heads and crush us both."
Jesus, how was he always this blunt? A small groan managed to break free from Vittorino's throat at the thought of being taken against the tree, Dante just having his way with him. Getting pushed up against the cold rotten wood underneath him, to be used like some dirty animal, God–
"But you don't deserve that, now, do you? No, you deserve to be touched like a whore, because in the end that's all you are."
Dante's words snapped him back, as did his body. The leg was still pressed tight against Vittorino, but now his hands followed suit. Trailing agonizingly slow over the priest's clothed torso, down to his waist and abdomen. Vittorino hated how such simple touches could make the hairs on his arms and neck stand up, to make him forget the biting cold that had sunk into his bones earlier. That same sensation had long since been replaced by an insatiable flame, and everytime Dante's hands so much as ghosted over where Vittorino wanted him most, it flared back up into a wild forest fire.
"In the end", Dante repeated himself, hands ever trailing lower down the other man's body,
"You are nothing but a weak rabbit. But unlike a rabbit, you can't even run."
Wishing he didn't feel the need to lean into the touch, Vittorino grunted. He tried his damn hardest to ignore the feeling and push it down into the well where all his other rejected feelings rested, spitting a "Fuck you" at the other man as he did.
Clearly not impressed, the hunter's hands kept mapping their prey.
"Just a lowly, docile,"
He trailed his hand lower, his palm now directly above Vittorino.
"Hypocritical, sacrilegious, ungodly– fuck,"
He stopped for a moment, realizing just how hard the priest already was from just this. He hadn't even touched him.
More out of instinct and desperation rather than any actual conscious decision, Vittorino thrust up into Dante's palm, promptly earning a rumble of crazed laughter from the man above him. Unfortunately this also meant he retreated his hand for a moment, and Vittorino couldn't help the whine escaping him from the sudden absence.
"Fuck, just look at you. And you call yourself a man of God, to my face?"
"This is your fucking fault and you know it, cretino."
"Hmm? What was that?" Dante's voice sounded almost like a sing-song. It carried a pride in it that made Vittorino want to throw up right then and there on the forest floor.
"You're a fucking bastard, you know that?"
"I do. But unlike you, I am not ashamed of it."
Moving closer again, Dante's hands were once more back to tracing the shapes of the priest. He desperately and pathetically leaned into the touch, unable to stop how his worn out body was reacting at this point. He wished he felt that shame Dante mentioned, but it appeared he was beyond salvation underneath the other man's hands.
When Dante spoke again his tone of voice had slightly changed, still low but now carrying with it a tinge of somberness.
"You can learn from me but you refuse to do so. You're ignorant, only believing what you yourself can know and prove. Do you see these fucking eyes? Don't you think I am capable of seeing beyond what you or anyone can perceive?"
He did not hold back, neither with his words nor in the way he was continuing to toy with Vittorino's weakened body. One gloved palm was now fully pressed against the priest, feeling up and down in smoothening strokes across the fabric.
He leaned in closer once more, so that he could lower his voice to just slightly above a whisper. "And yet you're too busy pretending to worship a God that has abandoned you long ago, believing in nothing but thin air."
Each of his words came down on the priest like a swarm of hornets stinging into his chest, slowly morphing into nothing but a singular buzz of painful sound.
"You are no better than the deer I skinned and hung up on a wall last week. You disgust me in the best way."
"Please, God, just–"
"Please what, huh? Vittorino? Are you going to beg for me after all this? What kind of rabbit looks the wolf in the eye and goes 'ooh, please don't eat me, I beg of you'?"
"No, please. Please Shut the hell up."
And at that, for once in his life, Dante seemed to listen to what anyone but He told him to do. Still, he made sure to look as displeased with it as humanly possible; furrowed brows, annoyed grunting and everything. What little feeling of relief flooded Vittorino’s body upon hearing such blissful silence was however quickly washed away, as the hunter continued to demand control over him. The man was so close, God, he swore he could smell the remnants of his last catch still resting upon his gloves and parka.
Vittorino’s breath struggled to find a way out of his throat when those gloved hands continued to pick up the pace, palming him fiercely through his layers of clothing.
These moments with Dante were the nearest he could get in his life to feeling the touch of an angel – so then why was it closer to a curse rather than a blessing?
“Fuck…”, he breathed, the word spilling out of his mouth like it had been resting on his tongue for centuries, rotten and withered. At this point Vittorino had no choice but to oblige and follow where his body led him, where Dante led him, thrusting up into his palm like a desperate animal in heat. This feeling of disgust which had welled up inside him before had long vanished, now replaced by an insatiable hunger for more. More of this, more of him; this cursed angel cast upon the muddy earth of these holy grounds.
He wanted to kiss him, more than anything, perhaps even more than he wanted to die. Yet Vittorino feared that if his lips touched him, if he felt his true embrace, he would not be able to tear himself away from the pyre, fusing their skin and becoming one to burn together in the hellfire. It was a fate that would finally still this hunger clawing at both of them. It was a fate he would gladly accept.
Dante’s words carried him back to reality again, to once again see forest instead of endless fire. He hadn’t even noticed he had closed his eyes, and they now remained half-lidded and jaded as he let the other’s monologue fall onto his ears.
"Look at you, being so good for me”, he spoke, empty praise catching itself in Vittorino’s ears like rat poison. “Getting unravelled like a ball of cheap yarn just by my touch alone. You're not even trying to run or fight anymore, such a good prey you have become."
He leaned in closer, his breath dancing on Vittorino’s cold skin. It did not warm him even a little bit, for what could warm a man anymore when he was already caught in the midst of a forest fire like this? He was burning up, and yet pulling Dante ever closer to him. He wanted his bones to turn to ash.
“And really what good is running, hm? Next time, should I break your little rabbit legs? That'll spoil the chase though, and that's where all the fun is."
The angel’s hand did not falter, and never did it stop. He seemed to be taking his sweet time, and revelling in every smallest sound he could drag out from Vittorino’s lips.
A gasp left the priest’s throat, drenched in both revulsion and a yearning that would normally make his skin crawl at any other day. He hated Dante for planting this feeling in him like a devil’s seed, and yet he was just as much at fault for continuing to water it and bathe it in the sunlight. They did this often, confusing the burning of their hatred with the sensation of desire. Perhaps they had forgotten what each of the individual feelings had felt like, and instead were now both satisfying their hunger in whichever way they saw fit.
"And what if I told you I let you run?” Dante went on, a low rumble in his voice that he made no effort to hide, “I let you get away on purpose, back at the Basilica gardens. I watched you run, watched how your pretty holy uniform got soaked and splattered with mud… I let you get away. That glint of false hope makes prey all the more delicious to chase down."
“God, you’re sick”, Vittorino spat, but his tongue felt leaden and heavy with lies. They were both sick, truly and utterly lost, and yet somehow the man holding him down still appeared to be less broken than he was.
The knife once more came into play, and any naive hope vanished that Dante had forgotten about its existence somehow. The hunter grasped it using his one hand that wasn’t preoccupied with making Vittorino lose his mind. Gloved fingers wrapped firmly around the handle, pulling it out of the brittle bark much in the same way one would unsheathe a sword for an oncoming opponent. Only his ‘opponent’ was drenched in sweat, mouth hanging open and his name dangling from his lips. This was no battle, no – this was Dante’s greatest trophy, and he would carve his name into the bones.
"What are y–oh– ohh Jesus fucking Christ,” Vittorino suppressed any urge he had to flinch, to make any move, as the sharpened blade made its way down his lean body. He watched as the knife was dragged downwards, his chest rising and falling so quickly it reminded of a panicked rabbit in the clutches of a beast.
The intricate but old fabric of his priest uniform stood no chance, ripping like a parting of the sea to make way for waves of blood anytime Dante pressed too deeply into him.
"What the fu–, Fuck, ah, is wrong with you––”, Vittorino’s eyes searched for an answer, anything, on the other man’s face, this puzzling creation brought by God– why was he meant to suffer so, at the hands of an angel no less? Was this blasphemy, to curse Him for bringing this fate, for not stopping it? Or was it truly the priest himself who had gone down this route, had descended and strayed from the path He had foreseen for him, and instead went on to become corrupted at the touch of his lover? Dante’s eyes did not hold the answers for any of the thoughts racing through him. Instead, his eyes were trained on where the hunting knife parted the strained fabric, stopping just inches short of where his hand still rested on Vittorino. Hotness and pulse rang out and burnt beneath the broken angel’s fingertips.
"You know the answer to that better than anyone else, priest", he spat the title as if it burnt his tongue, holy water dripping down a possessed man’s skin.
Vittorino did not know the answer. He did not know anything, but the touch of sharp metal against fabric and skin.
Dante twisted the hunting knife, which he was by now treating as more of an extension of his hand, so that the edge of it was now turned upwards and away from the priest’s trembling body. He ran the dull side of the blade along the thin fabric of Vittorino’s undergarments, the only cheap safety he still had left. The contact made Vittorino cry out, whether with aversion or gratefulness he didn’t know at this point. His heart was racing within the rabbit’s fragile chest, pounding as if it would burst out any second.
"Just admit it. You like this",
Bit by bit he then retraced the path the knife had taken down Vittorino’s body, up, up the skinned animal, until once more reaching his throat and face. Dante’s hand had replaced where the metal had been on him and he lifted the blade to the other’s lips, slowly, his touch never stopping and the hammering inside the prey’s chest never falling silent.
He did not speak, and for just a moment, neither of them did. Vittorino dared to breathe in. It was like the blade on his lips was saying, call out my name either in pain or in pleasure – your choice.
"Dante—"
“You wanted me when I was alive, a mere man like you and all the other rabbits. And now look at you. You are just aching for me”, the angel spoke, each word truer than the next. His voice almost felt muffled as it fell on Vittorino’s ears, the pleasure welling up within him was starting to drown out all sound.
“I’d tear out your guts and make you scream my name, and yet you would still return for me. You need me like you need your own flesh to wrap around your bones; you can’t live without me, even after death.”
He did need him. They needed each other, and desired each other in much the same way as maggots needed soil to crawl into, as the termites in this tree fed on it until only a hollow shell remained. He couldn’t breathe with Dante’s fist around him in every single way, around his soul, twisting and tugging at his fibres from so deep within even he couldn’t reach. He was choking him out, pulling him under and drowning his lost self. But perhaps he never wanted to see the surface.
Every single touch by the corrupted angel pulled him down further, dragged him down into the deep until he had fully lost himself in those waves of pleasure. Bits of his fragmented soul washed ashore, while he remained submerged in the darkness.
Anytime Dante picked up the pace, it felt akin to this poisoned sea crashing against rock, salty and harsh and so, so vicious. “Oh, and you like this, don't you?”, he heard Dante’s voice carry itself through the cold air, though it was hard to focus on anything he said. “You enjoy being worn down and used like a dirty little animal, so helpless and pathetic, mmh— my prey, my trophy, mine”
Mine, mine, mine, the sounds rang out, broken, possessive and so, so hungry.
It only made the waves slash higher, every scorching sensation running through Vittorino’s body building further and further. Writhing and pushing up into the other man’s touch, he was truly helpless to stop himself from relishing in the intoxication of it all, until it spilled over much like the broken words falling from his throat. He did not even recognize them anymore, or recognize his own voice – it had been tainted, a twisted amalgamation of rabbits’ cries. Those pleas, like prayer, for the angel to give him release cannot be his own. They felt disconnected from his body, vocal cords moving on their own underneath a puppeteer’s hands. He barely picked up what his mouth would pour out – begs for more, God, Dante please, please—
At long last, Vittorino cried out his name in sweet, sweet agony, birds in the trees fluttering away when God’s eyes were turned.
After the waves of pleasure ceased, he felt Dante’s eyes on him, burning into him as the priest’s shame lined the inside of his undergarments like a final mockery. It made the cold forest air even more unbearable, and the fact that his misery and humiliation seemed to be a feast for the angel’s eyes only made it more unbearable.
"This is such a sight! Your God should see you now, ha!", Dante's crazed laughter echoed hauntingly through the woods, harshly breaking the silence of the trees.
The priest let his head fall against the hard bark of the tree, breathing still hard and fast. “You’re right on one thing, I suppose”, he spoke up, and hated just how broken his voice sounded. Remnants of Dante’s name still coated his lips, made him sound weak and pitiful. He tried his best to ignore it.
Awaiting what he had to say, Dante tilted his head, reminding of a curious owl.
“My God truly has abandoned me, it seems. I would not keep this up if I had His guidance.”
He took a last glance at the blade still in the hunter’s steady, strong hands, bits of fabric and blood lining the edge and catching the light through the autumn leaves.
“No God would want to bear witness to what we do.”