poisonf0rest

[poisonf0rest]

an old blurb from back when I was writing The Raven:

Knights of Favonious, just a group of boys all too eager to be men, and men who once wished to be heroes. A band of misfits bound for misfortune, heading straight to their own graves without even knowing. 

They are not heroes. They are human.

And their names were never meant to be remembered. 

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #writing

[poisonf0rest]

Kiss Shot

love and deepspace: zayne x fem!reader

tags: smut, light bondage, teasing, semi-public sex, praise kink, pwp, dom!zayne, sir kink, pool & billiards, oh he has pretty hands, exclusive tutorial card

word count: 8.2K

synopsis: Zayne has curated a perfectly polished reputation. He’s a renowned surgeon, the youngest of his graduating class, has a plethora of research papers in his name, and is well-liked and respected amongst his peers. And he would throw it all away to have you like this again, whining and desperate as he fucks you over a billiard table. It’s not fair, really, how easily you manage to get Zayne riled up. Especially when you call him sir.

original ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55931518

Your negroni is fifty percent water by now.

The flock of past classmates, professors, and adorning fans has been relentless, swarming the bar where you and Zayne currently sit— or perhaps more accurately, swarming where the distinguished Dr. Zayne sits. 

You sigh under your breath, fussing with the cocktail dress slit against your thigh before taking another sip of your drink, the melted ice dulling the burn of the gin. It has only been an hour since you arrived, and yet you can already feel your social battery reach its limits, tired of going through the same motions for every other person who bothers to acknowledge your presence: a smile, what’s your name, are you a surgeon as well, what’s your connection to Zayne, no we’re not together.

It’s not that you haven’t met fascinating individuals— your first round of drinks was shared with two sisters, old classmates of Zayne’s who were now Linkon’s top OB/GYN doctors and genuinely the sweetest women you’ve talked to today. 

But everyone has limits. And with the relentless swarm sucking up to Zayne, it hardly gives you a moment of peace, let alone an opportunity to talk with your date for the evening.

Thinking about the stipulations of your relationship and what this night even means for the two of you sends your mind reeling further, and you finish the rest of your negroni in a shot, wincing. 

As if sensing your frustration, the doctor in question looks up from his conversation with a classmate. Zayne gives a knowing, apologetic smile before returning to his conversation, the gesture leaving you with a fluttering in your chest.

Calling the bartender over, you place another drink on the tab before tuning in to the conversation next to you as you hear the echo of laughter. 

“No, no, I’ve been lucky enough to have seen it myself!” An older man laughs again, his drink nearly sloshing over the rim as he smacks Zayne’s shoulder. You snort at the way he stiffens. “Our Dr. Zayne isn’t just a professional at work, you should see him play billiards. Let me tell you, he’s amazing at both the operating table and the pool table”

A deep sigh. “You drank too much…” 

“Nonsense!” The man pats Zayne again before recounting a story from their residency days to the crowd of onlookers.

You yourself are rather engrossed too, more than happy to learn more about your elusive doctor, especially these hidden talents he seems set on keeping from you. Zayne, on the other hand, is far from impressed. Brows furrowed, he turns from where he sits against the bar counter to scan your face. 

Leaning in closer, you inhale sharply at the feel of his cool breath against your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” 

His thoughtfulness would be sweet if it weren’t for the way Zayne had whispered it, lips brushing against your sensitive skin as you shudder at the slow, deep cadence of his voice. 

Noticing your hesitation, Zayne’s hand comes up to rest on your knee, thumb slipping under your dress’ slit. He cocks his head, waiting for your response, drawing soothing circles against your bare skin, which is having quite the opposite effect. 

Panicking, you shake your head. “I’m alright. Plus, I’d feel bad stealing you away from all your adoring fans so soon, Dr. Zayne.”

He scoffs under his breath, but you see the slight curl in the corner of his lips. Still, he has yet to let go of your thigh, and you decide to shift closer, turning in your seat so your knees brush against Zayne’s, his hand involuntarily sliding higher. 

His fingers are calloused and worn, a testament to his many years spent in the medical field, and his grip is firm against your thigh. It feels familiar, and the memories of his hands on you in many different places sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

The thought doesn't seem to have left his mind either, judging by the way his eyes dart down to your parted lips.

Clearing his throat, Zayne looks away. He is about to say something when you decide to interrupt instead.

“Besides,” you hum, taking a sip of wine. “If the rumors are to be believed, then I’m missing quite a show. Is our Dr. Zayne really that skilled at pool?”

“Ah.” Zayne retracts his hand, clearing his throat as he straightens up in his seat. ”You’re trying to gang up on me.”

You know him well enough to recognize the hint of embarrassment in the way he avoids your gaze. But before you can tease him further, another cheery voice interrupts.

“We meet again, sir!” A young man practically bounces over to the bar, caught between a bow and a handshake as he stumbles into both, flashing a gummy smile at Zayne. 

You raise a brow at his overwhelming enthusiasm, glancing at Zayne as you watch recognition flash across his face.

“Good evening. It’s Steven, yes? You don’t need to address me as “sir”.” Zayne nearly grimaces as he says the word, and you take a sip from your drink to hide your growing smile. 

“Yes! I’m honored you remembered.” Steven nods vigorously. “But anything less would be inappropriate. After all, you taught me so much with your hands-on instruction, I owe my knowledge and successful residency so far to you, sir.”

Still, Zayne shuts him down. “I was only doing what I should have done. Any credit beyond that is your own.” 

It’s almost like he’s allergic to praise. 

“Humble and smart,” Steven laughs, winking all-too-obviously at you. “Regardless, I just wanted to thank you for everything formally, sir. You two have a wonderful rest of your night!”

“Yes.” Zayne frowns, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. ”To you as well.”

Quickly feigning ignorance, you pretend to be absorbed in the powerpoint some professor is giving on the opposite side of the venue, immediately lost in a diagram of a heart valve. You’re about to take another sip of your drink when something pinches your ear. Yelping at the sting, you jump in your seat, whirling around to face the culprit.

Zayne scoffs. “I could see you eavesdropping a mile away. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Oh, aside from learning that you are extremely humble, smart, handsome, and rather adept at hands-on instruction, nothing much,” you lean against the counter, blinking up at Zayne through your lashes as you sing the last word, “Sir.”

You watch his jaw clench, a rigid movement that makes your heart skip. Zayne laughs, a harsh, sharp sound. He shakes his head before his hand grips your jaw, tugging you gently but firmly towards him. His eyes narrow, and your heart stutters.

“Clever girl. What is it you want this time?”

This time. As if Zayne could refuse you anything, as if the mere sight of you isn't enough to make him go mad.

But you're not the only one who knows how to play. And he rather likes watching just how far you’ll go.

Smiling innocently, you rest a hand on Zayne’s shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeps through the silky material of his suit. You can't help but slide your hand further up, tracing the curve of his neck with your thumb. “Well…” You lick your lips, tasting the waxy remnants of your lipstick as you fight to keep your voice even under Zayne’s piercing gaze. ”You never did any hands-on training with me, and everyone says what an honor it’s been to be taught by you, sir. I wonder what I’ll have to do to experience it finally.”

Zayne sighs, and for a moment, he appears disappointed.

“It seems like you truly want to learn about surgeries.” A scoff, and Zayne’s face seems to fall back to its stoic facade. But he pulls you closer, tilting your head so his lips graze your earlobe once more. “Who knew my little hunter was so skilled at acting?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest in faux surprise. “What accusations, doctor. Besides, I was thinking about something with a… less steep learning curve.”

Zayne hums thoughtfully, thumb venturing from your jaw as it brushes across your lips. Once. Twice. Three times before he stands up, hand finally dropping from your face as he grabs your wrist instead. 

“Then allow me to take our first lesson elsewhere.”

You don’t offer any sort of resistance as Zayne leads you through the crowd, opting to let go of your wrist and guide you away from prying eyes, hand instead lingering against the small of your back as he walks beside you. He opens the door for you, directing the two of you down one of the main venue halls, echoes of conversation muffled by the soft ding of an elevator. Zayne flashes his medical ID before clicking the top floor, the sensor buzzing green as it carries you up with the smooth flow of elevator jazz. 

Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your waist. His thumb goes back to tracing soft circles against the divots in your back as though from habit, nearly touching bare skin due to the sweeping backless design of your dress. You fight the urge to lean further into him, already fidgeting in your heels at the thought of his touch, slow and careful and calculated, elsewhere.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator. 

Oh, god, snap out of it. You rush out of the elevator, hoping Zayne didn’t notice the furious heat you can feel rising from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

Smoothing some loose hair back behind your ear, you close your eyes and focus on taking deep breaths, as if it’ll push all these obscene scenarios of Zayne’s large, perfect hands doing unspeakable things out of your mind. 

It works for a moment, expelling all these potential scenarios and instead reminding you of every time Zayne has taken action. Memories of him after hours at the clinic, during movie nights when neither of you paid attention to the TV, and even the drive here where he decided to—

“Does the sight of a billiard table scare you that much?”

The heat from earlier is back in full force. Your eyes snap open, and you are greeted with Zayne’s signature eyebrow raise, feigning concern despite his amused smile that only grows more prominent when he notices the flush creeping across your skin.

“Hardly.” You force a smile, turning your head as you refuse to let him gloat. “I’m just so ecstatic that I’ll finally receive hands-on training from the Dr. Zayne.”

A low hum, “Yes, at least until you feel well enough to go back and socialize.” 

He says this, yet you know Zayne is just as happy as you are to finally escape from the crowds below.

“Well,” you purr, “take care of me until then, sir.”

You giggle as he frowns at the title, waltzing past him to a corner pool table in the billiard hall. The floor is dedicated to different tabletop games, all lined up against numerous floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with a gorgeous view of Linkon City. The city lights bleed in since the entire room was rather dim, no doubt an artistic choice, adorned sensually with faux candlelight chandeliers and the low timber of jazz.

“Have you played before?”

“Once or twice– some call me a natural genius.” You brush imaginary hair from your shoulders as Zayne scoffs before handing you a cue stick. Lacing his hand into your own, you pull the stick and thus him closer. “Why? Are you going to be strict with me, sir?”

Seeing through your jab, Zayne responds without hesitation. “Strict teachers make outstanding students. Let’s start.”

You pout, about to walk to the other side of the pool table to observe his shot, when Zayne’s arm laces around your waist, holding you against him for a second longer. 

“And no more distractions.”

Not trusting your voice, you nod, watching as he bends to aim the cue, muscles beneath his sleeves flexing with each calculated movement. You hear the sound of a cue stick colliding with its target, but your attention is too focused on his fingers to process any of the actual movements.

Another sharp click breaks the silence. You watch as the cue ball collides with a red striped one, sending the former skittering off the sides while the other sinks into the pocket with a dull thud.

“You’re unfairly good at this.”

Zayne raises a brow, “Maybe it’s because a surgeon requires steady hands.” 

And the moment you glance down, any chance of salvation is lost.

You’re not a fool. You’ve noticed Zayne’s hands before, on more occasions than you’d care to admit. But it’s as he says and more. 

Lining up for another shot, you watch him stretch forward, forearms exposed from his deliciously rolled-up sleeves and discarded blazer, your eyes tracing every prominent vein down to his hands, spread wide against the table, tense as the stick rests against his pointer finger and thumb. Even in the dim lighting you can see pale silver scars littering his forearms, and you swear you’ve never seen something so beautiful, like traces of frost against marble. 

Again, it shouldn’t be a surprise that a surgeon must take good care of their hands, but it’s nearly unfair how gorgeous Zayne’s are. Not only that, but you remember how comforting his hands feel against your own, how they caressed your thigh earlier tonight, and just how attentive and precise they can be. 

“You’re not focusing on my lesson.”

Shit.

With a single strike, Zayne tries to sink another ball, but the angle is just off, and the striped ball hits the corner of the pocket, ricocheting against the wood with a dull thud. 

Zayne leans against the pool table, cue stick resting against his shoulder.

"Your turn."

Copying Zayne’s movements as best you can, you clumsily position your cue stick between your knuckles, aiming for what seemed to be a fairly easy shot. Only for the ball to ricochet far left as the white ball knocks into it. Even your cue stick wobbles after, as if shaking in laughter at your poor shot. 

Frowning, you look up to see Zayne’s disapproving gaze locked onto the pool table. 

“Is there not an easier way to do this? One more suitable for beginners?”

“There is.” Zayne leans in, his expression betraying nothing. “First, try adjusting your posture. You’ll see better results.”

Another sigh, and you halfheartedly drape yourself over the table again. “Like this? I’m not sure I fully understand, I think I need your help identifying my weak spots via more hands-on learning, sir.”

“Allow me to guide you, then.”

For a moment you think you’ll have to bait Zayne more, yet before you can figure out how to push the stubborn doctor any further, you feel the weight of his hands, heavy against your shoulder and hip. 

Zayne shifts forward, and you can feel the fabric of his suit vest graze the bare skin of your back, his hands unnaturally cool against the dips in your waist as he nudges your back into an arch. You comply, Zayne’s body nearly folding atop yours as his chest brushes your back. 

He takes the cue stick from your hand.

“You’re too tense,” Zayne pats your back two times. Your waist immediately bends, and you hear him laugh under his breath. “And now you’re too relaxed.”

With his hands still pressed against your waist, Zayne repositions himself and thus you as well, and you can feel the chill of each exhale against the crook of your neck.

He guides your aim, lining it up to the cue ball. The tip brushes ever so gently against the felt surface as it pushes, slowly and deliberately, practicing the gentle back-and-forth motion as you struggle to keep pace. 

“Drop your left arm. Allow it to bend naturally.” He taps your elbow and waist. “Your head, dominant arm, and the cue stick should all form a straight line.”

You begin to shuffle according to Zayne’s instructions, hinging your hips backward before you realize what a wonderfully compromising position he’s placed you in. As discreetly as possible, you allow your right leg to step backward, movement forcing you further against Zayne as you press the curve of your ass into his hips. Immediately, you’re rewarded with a sharp inhale next to your ear. 

But instead of pulling away or reprimanding you Zayne merely continues with the lesson, almost frustratingly unaffected if it wasn’t for the fact that you could feel his reaction grow between your thighs. 

Still, he is nothing if not a professional as he whispers against your jaw, "Behave.”

"I am," you reply, and one of Zayne’s hands comes up to guide your cue stick. “...It just hurts a little.”

You don’t have to see his face to know that Zayne is giving you a smug smile. 

“That means it’s correct.”

You take a deep breath. You practice the same back-and-forth motions, thrusting the stick forward on the third, watching as your cue stick strikes the white ball, sending a solid orange one rolling.

Another click and a thud, and you successfully land a pocket.

Just when you feel like you’re finally getting the hang of it, you make the fatal mistake of looking down to where Zayne's fingers guide yours against the cue stick, and your brain turns to scramble once more. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, fleeting sensation.

And you miss.

Zayne is quiet for a long moment, tilting his head, letting the warmth of his cheek press against your neck. “Snap out of it. Are you even paying attention?”

Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Of course,” you retort, skin feeling uncomfortably hot even when Zayne finally steps back from you, your body searing the memory of his touch into every nerve. “I’ll score the next one myself.”

He hums and cocks an eyebrow as if telling you to go on, prove him wrong. 

“Remember, move the cue stick to gauge the shot two or three times, then stop at the position closest to the ball.”

You do, gauging the weight of the cue stick, bending down over the table so your chest nearly brushes with the felt, narrowing in on the solid green ball. 

“Stop and pull back the cue stick in three, two, one.” 

On Zayne’s command, you strike, a satisfying click followed by the thump of the ball falling into the corner pocket. You scored. All on your own.

“It went in!” You jolt up, spinning as you laugh. 

“So it did. Seems like your pool skills are less about precision and more… passion.” Zayne’s lips twitch into a smile, and you’re not foolish enough to ignore his double meaning. “Granted, you might need a little more than passion to come back and win this round.”

You scoff, attempting to change the subject without drawing attention to how red your face has gotten. “Well then, perhaps if you’re not too committed to this doctor thing there’s still a chance for you in the professional billiard space.”

“No, thank you. Now, think you can make another shot by yourself?”

“Wait a moment. When a student does well, shouldn’t they get a reward?”

“Very well,” Zayne relents, tone even despite the searing gaze he practically strips down your body. “What do you want?”

“There are a few balls blocking my next shot. Help me?”

A beat, and he blinks at you incredulously. “That is all?”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Zayne? Scared that if you give me too much help, I’ll steal this victory from you?”

“Provocation doesn’t work on me.”

“Then come here.”

God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how pliant he is for you, obeying your command without so much as a moment of hesitation. His larger frame now towers above you, close enough that you have to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. And you can’t help but tease him a bit more. It’s not your fault his obedience gives you a rush.

“Closer,” you whisper, teasing your fingers against his vest buttons. “Or else I can’t reach it.” 

Still, Zayne complies. Although this time his brows furrow, shuffling closer so his knee slips between yours and your chest presses against his. “What exactly are you…”

You yank his tie, pushing him down atop the felt tabletop before he can finish his sentence. 

There’s a dull thud, Zayne’s vest ruffled as you pin him to the table. He still looks frustratingly composed, not a hair out of place, but you feel his chest rise and fall uncharacteristically fast under your palm.

Smiling in victory, your other hand brings up your cue stick, making a show of tapping it on his broad shoulders. “Ah, look, the ball is so far away. I think I’ll need a cue rest.”

“Using cue rests would be overkill,” Zayne retorts, propping himself onto his elbows as you pout. You’ve been teasing him all night; surely just one more push, and he’ll finally give in? 

Before he can escape from your hold, you lift the cue stick off his shoulder, letting the tip slip under his tie. Zayne watches with a tight frown as you tug his tie loose. “And this is inappropriate.”

“But are you not enjoying it too?” Your leg slides out from the slit in your dress, allowing you to straddle Zayne’s thigh as your arms cage him further against the pool table. “Sir?”

His brows furrow, almost surprised at your brazenness before he looks down with a huff, and you see the smirk he’s fighting to keep at bay. “I shouldn’t have taught you so much.”

Getting revenge for before, it’s your turn to grip his jaw, brushing kisses against his beautifully hooked nose and down his jaw, leaving smears of cherry red in your wake as you purposefully neglect his waiting lips. “What can I say? I have a very attentive teacher.” 

Zayne is about to say something sarcastic back, no doubt, so you roll your hips forward, cutting off his words as you’re rewarded with a groan instead. The angle allows you to grind atop the rough seams in his trousers, nearly catching against his zipper and the heavy bulge you can already feel straining underneath. 

His hand shoots out, gripping your thigh as you gasp. There’s a warning look in his eyes, but he makes no move to stop you.

Encouraged, you repeat the motion, rocking forward against him as you give an exaggerated moan. Zayne quickly cuts it off with his other hand, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as he muffles your noises. You open your lips further, allowing the digit to slide against your lipstick and push against your tongue. 

Zayne tsks, shaking his head.

You gently nip at his finger before beginning to suck the offending digit, flicking your tongue against the rough pad of his thumb. You watch his eyes narrow, the grip on your waist tightening. Zayne is holding himself back. Again. 

You release his thumb with a pop. "Don't worry, sir, no one will hear." As if to prove your point, you stop grinding, instead bringing your hand up to cup at the bulge straining against his pants. “Besides, you’re too pretty like this. I'm the only one who gets to hear all the sounds you make.”

You smile so sweetly despite the way you torture him with every rough drag of your palm against his clothed cock. But it’s only when your smile breaks into something more genuine that Zayne feels himself flush, gazing up at you adoringly before he tries to play it off with a chuckle and a pinch at your hips.

"The things you say..." His expression changes to something unreadable, stone-cold and conflicted. The chances of losing you again are greater than he once thought. He doesn't deserve this, and he doesn't deserve you. Zayne is reminded of that every time he dares get too close.

But he can't help it. He’d eternally become a fool, a martyr, just for you.

Zayne’s jaw clenches, and a stuttered moan slips through his teeth as your hand squeezes his clothed cock. "Do you think I'm that weak to flattery?"

"No. I just think you deserve it sometimes." You smirk. "Plus, I'm not flattering you, I'm complimenting."

"And what's the difference?"

"The intent," you whisper, grinding your hips forward again.

This time, you catch him by surprise, and Zayne moans, the sound low and rough and so fucking addicting. Zayne grunts, head tilting back as he shuts his eyes, lips parting ever so slightly as more soft sighs and moans slip out, spurring you on.

You lean in, breath warm against his ear as you whisper, "What's wrong, sir? I thought you had a lesson to teach me."

Zayne’s grip tightens, and he yanks you down so your palms skid across the smooth felt of the pool table you’ve pinned him against, pulling your hips flush against his as his palm cups your ass.

“If you actually want to learn, there's another way I can teach you…” Zayne leans up on his forearms until his lips brush with yours, and right as his eyes begin to flutter closed, you shove him backward. Denying his kiss. Again.

“Sir, this seems to be highly unprofessional.”

And Zayne finally snaps. 

“First you use your teacher as a cue rest, then you try to talk about professionalism?” He lets out a curt laugh, and you can practically feel his patience wearing thin. It’s terrifying, and your stomach flutters in anticipation.

“ Unprofessional ,” he spits, and your thighs clench at the growl undercutting his words. “Unprofessional, like that time you were screaming my name in the back of my car while we were still at the hospital parking lot? Or unprofessional, like that time you interrupted me during work hours, begging me to eat your cunt out in my office? Or perhaps it’s like when you decided to turn this lesson into an opportunity to tease me since you’re clearly so desperate?”

You can practically feel yourself drip at Zayne’s blunt words, each one harsh and true— your relationship with him had passed morally ethical the moment you pulled him in to kiss you instead of pushing him away months ago.

Using this moment of weakness, Zayne lifts you up, flipping the two of you around so you’re the one pinned against the pool table as he reaches for his abandoned cue stick. And he finally- finally - claims your lips with his. 

Zayne always kisses like he operates, slow and methodical, as if he could spend hours learning every inch of your body, and it never fails to leave you breathless. But today, the urgency in the way he licks into your mouth is palpable, and it has you whining and clutching his suit, legs wrapping around his waist as you try to bring him closer, the oak rim of the table forcing your back into a deeper arch as you whine. 

A firm hand against your hip stops your movement, pinning you down. You feel so small, caged in between his much longer legs, his superior height much too obvious. The difference in size is almost laughable as he bends down to lick deeper into your mouth. You gasp against Zayne’s lips as his other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles against the column of your throat and your fluttering heartbeat underneath.

You whimper into his mouth, futilely attempting to push him away even though your hips grind insistently against his thigh. “Zayne,” his name tapers off into a moan as he kisses you again, addicted. “We can’t–” another kiss. “Anyone could walk in.” Another.

When he does give you space to breathe, a thin string of saliva connects his bottom lip to yours. He pants heavily, lips shaded a hue of cherry red from your lipstick and teeth as the corner of his mouth tugs into a frown. “Hm, I suppose that’s true. But that didn’t stop you before, did it? So I see no reason why it should stop me now.”

And you realize your fate has long since been sealed.  

Zayne returns to peppering your neck with kisses, teeth nipping the soft skin at your collarbone, and you yelp as he leaves a particularly harsh bite. Your hands come up to fist into his hair, and Zayne groans against your chest.

"Do not think I have forgotten our lesson," He whispers.

"Who, me?" You bat your eyelashes. "I would never. Sir."

His gaze darkens. "Then watch closely, I’m only doing this once.” 

Leaning over you, Zayne positions the cue stick against your shoulder, not unlike you did to him before. But unlike you, he forces your hips up against his thigh, watching your eyes roll back from the delicious friction of his expensive trousers. “There are two striped balls left. As punishment for your attitude during my lesson, I want you to come on my thigh before I pocket both of them.”

Dumbstruck, you can only stare up at him, stammering at his demand as you feel your pussy flutter. “I- I don’t think…”

Zayne scoffs, silencing you by roughly thumbing at your lips again. “Don’t act so shocked. You’ve been humping me like a desperate brat all evening, so go on and come like one. Come for me.”

His words are demeaning, each one cold and seemingly emotionless as he stares down at you. But you can see the truth in his eyes as he watches your every reaction, their gentle green filled with an adoration so tender it terrifies you. You feel the truth in his touch, only moving with your consent, already having memorized your body to learn the way you tick and acting upon your every whim, only pushing you just as far as you wish to be. 

Zayne has never told you he loves you, but he has shown you that he does in a thousand countless ways. 

And he’ll prove it to you in a thousand more. 

”Unless, you want more punishment?” Zayne twists his head towards you with his next statement, and he feels the way it makes you flinch— it makes him throb at the same time. You shake your head. 

You can barely form sentences when he’s deliberately tensing the muscles in his thigh, each movement in time with every needy twitch of your hips like it’s a means to emphasize his point. 

“Use. Your. Words.”

“No.”

His grip tightens, fingers tensing against your neck, and you stammer back out the correction. “No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart flutters at the praise, a quiet whimper escaping you as you buck against him. Your lips are pouty from being bitten between your teeth, and you still hear muffled sobs and moans slip past your lips as you begin chasing the friction against his thigh, the upward angle punishing your clit. 

Despite how much Zayne likes to front that he’s in complete control, something tells you he’s having a harder time holding back than he’ll ever admit. You think maybe the bulge in his slacks and his low moans against your ear is proof enough of that.

Zayne’s not sure which is more distracting, the sight of your pretty pussy grinding against him, only just covered by the thin silk of your dress, or the sounds falling from your mouth. The room is filled with the wet sounds of your cunt, your whimpers, and Zayne's own groans.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Zayne leans in for another kiss, the tips of your noses barely touching. But the proximity makes you slow, and he clicks his tongue, reaching above you to line up his cue stick for the next shot. But he pauses, instead fully tugging off the tie you had loosed.

"Since you were so insistent on taking my tie off earlier, here. Keep it for me." Zayne grabs both your wrists with one hand, looping his tie tightly against your skin, skillfully making a knot without ever releasing your wrists. 

“Maybe this will help you behave properly,” Zayne whispers, voice low as he mouths your pulse point, a fresh surge of arousal rushing to your core as you feel his length pressing further into you. 

With a broken whimper, you hook an ankle around Zayne’s back as you begin to grind harder against his thigh, moaning at the new angle. It hardly compared to the feeling of his fingers or cock fucking into you, but you barely cared, arousal and lust spurred on by Zayne’s voice. 

You soon fall into a rhythm, painfully slow, the mere friction sending jolts of heat through you until you’re certain Zayne’s trousers must be stained. You nearly beg for something to hold onto, hands writhing helplessly against his tie as your sobs are muffled into your red-bitten lips.

But just as soon as the pleasure builds, you feel it plateau, hips beginning to stutter as the dull friction becomes too little, the coiling heat inside you desperate to be properly filled up by something, anything. 

Zayne, on the other hand, is faring no better. 

He’s thoroughly distracted with the pretty little thing desperately fucking herself against his thigh, caging you down to the table as his hands clench against the cue stick, nearly enough to make it snap. 

You continue to push yourself in desperation to fulfill Zayne’s order for you to come, his continuous praises mingling with the lewd squelch of your cunt, and your eyes roll back with a cry. Zayne’s voice is intoxicating, his steady tone rough with lust sending tremors down your spine, infecting you like an aphrodisiac. You were building further and further, mounting pressure in your core dizzying, desperation for release seeping through you, mind lust-drunk as you willed yourself to fall off the peak.

But the familiar sound of the billiard balls clicks somewhere above you, followed by two distinct thuds. 

A hum, and Zayne pries himself away as you whine at the loss, cold air rushing in. 

You failed. 

“How disappointing.” Zayne scolds as if he wasn’t the one who nearly came from your grinding instead. ”But you know what happens to students who fail to follow clear instructions, don’t you?”

Standing back, Zayne discards the cue stick entirely as one hand readjusts his trousers, and you whimper at the sight of him cupping his bulge, stroking and coaxing it against his thigh just so he can stand straight. 

“Turn around and lift your dress.”

You obey, propping yourself up on shaking arms before you flip around so the rough edge of the billiard table now presses against your stomach, the felt hot beneath your bound wrists. 

Zayne hums in approval, almost apathetically observing the way you squirm before he nods at you to continue. Lowering your eyes from his, you allow your leg to slip out from the slit in your dress, spreading your legs back and to the side as the silk falls off the curve of your ass, Zayne’s piercing gaze following every movement. 

“Didn’t think a game of pool would turn you on this much,” he muses, leaning against the rim of the table as he crosses his arms.

Unable to meet his stare any longer, your head falls between your still tied-up hands, every inch of your body burning in shame and lust as Zayne continues to wordlessly observe you. You swear you’ll burn up with the way he fucks you with his eyes.

 Still, Zayne doesn’t move. 

You nearly scream against the table, eyes scrunched as you snap. “Fuck! Zayne, I swear to god, if you don’t finally fuck me I’ll do it myself or find someone else who will.”

The words barely leave your mouth when a hand fists into your hair, pulling you backward until you arch back, and you gasp, mouth falling open at the sensation. Zayne's breath is cold against the shell of your ear, the growl undercutting his words sending tremors down your spine.

"Needy little brat," his fingers curl into your hair, pulling until your jaw goes slack. Zayne's other hand finds its way back to your underwear, the material so damp that it almost feels sticky beneath his touch, and you moan at the sensation, unable to formulate a retort as your eyes flutter closed. “I think you’re forgetting this is meant to be your punishment.”

He snaps the band of your panties, and you choke, knees wobbling.

"Remember to count, or we start over.”

Placing the flat of his palm in the space between your shoulder blades, Zayne pushes you down against the billiard table, the side of your face pressed against the felt.

You hear the sharp crack of his hand meeting your ass before you feel it, the burn returning with a vengeance as you scream into the table. The sting of his palm leaves a searing heat across the curve of your ass, and you bite down on the tie binding your hands to muffle the cries that escape you.

Then you remember his order, lips quivering as you say, "One."

Another smack. This time harder. The strike is so precise it nearly sends you toppling over, the sting and ache following pushing you further against the wood. You let out a sob, eyes beginning to water as you clench around nothing, the throbbing of your cunt only worsened by Zayne's firm grip on the base of your neck.

"Two."

The third strike comes down even harder than the last, the resounding echo of his slap followed by a strangled scream from you, the heat and pain making your knees give out, forcing you to rest fully atop the pool table. “Three.”

You feel tears running down your face, undoubtedly ruining your makeup. But before you can process the fourth smack, you feel the familiar sting against your ass and the paradoxically gentle rub of Zayne's hand against the aching spot, soothing the pain as you count.

 "F-Four." You shutter as you feel sheer cold bloom against your skin, his Evol numbing your ass as you whimper from the pleasure-pain.

Zayne’s thumb dips past the seam of your panties, gathering the slick that has been dripping out of you for the entire night. You feel the heat of his stare on you and the weight of his hand heavy on the small of your back, his other hand still gripping your neck with his thumb tracing soft circles against your pulse.

"So wet. Is this what you were hoping for, hm? Testing me until I finally snapped and ruined you?”

You don't dare look him in the eye. "Please, sir. I can't—"

"Can't what? Take anymore? Can't take any more punishment like the disobedient brat you are?" Zayne's voice is low, and you shiver at his words, unable to respond as the tears continue to flow, the mixture of pain and arousal leaving your vision blurred and cloudy. He spanks you again, this time hard enough to leave a mark, and you keen, legs spreading even wider in desperation.

"I can't— ah shit — please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir, please, just fuck me already.” you plead, voice trembling as you beg, desperate to be filled by anything other than the emptiness. 

“Language.” Zayne reprimands, and the sting of his strike follows shortly after. “And you forgot to count.”

“Five! It’s f-five.” Your knees buckle with a sob, and Zayne has to hold your waist so you don't slide onto the floor, his touch paradoxically gentle compared to everything else he’s done.

“Shh, you’re far too noisy. It’s almost as though you want someone walking in to find us like this.”

Your dress is only noticeably bunched up from the back and Zayne is still fully clothed. Anyone walking by the billiard hall would just see a couple talking by the tables, but if they were to enter the room it would hardly take a brain surgeon to figure out what was happening. The realization has your walls clench around nothing.

Zayne hoists your wrists up, forcing you into a deeper arch before untying your restraints. You then watch him fist the purple silk into a ball before pushing it into your mouth, gagging you with it. “Don’t worry, this will help.”

It doesn't.

You moan against his tie, saliva pooling against the silky fabric as Zayne pushes the soaked garment deeper into your throat, his chest pressed against your bare back. You look up at him through watery eyes, sniffling, the tingling sensation of being punished in such a way overwhelming you completely. Zayne uses this opportunity to soothe you like he always does— never failing to find the perfect balance between rough and gentle.

"It's alright, I know, my little darling can’t make up her mind. I’ll help you, I’ll show you what you want." Zayne soothes, stroking your cheek with his thumb, his gaze gentle despite his steady and strict voice. Then, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “If anything hurts or becomes too much, tap the table twice." 

You wouldn’t dare, not after finally getting what you wanted.

Zayne slips his hands under the backs of your thighs, easily lifting your weight against his chest as you whimper, the toes of your heels just barely grazing the tiled floor. The position is beyond embarrassing, ass up, face down, completely exposed and at his mercy.

He withdraws one hand, and you cry out, a garbled mess of pleas. The absence of his touch is torturous, the throbbing of your pussy and the soreness of your ass a painful reminder of the punishment you received.

The tent in his pants was tantalizingly obvious, even more pronounced once he pushed his pants down, taking out his length. He spits on his fingers, the slick sounds of him stroking himself making you whine in anticipation. It was oozing with precum, head red and flushed as he jerks himself off with sharp movements between your thighs. You grind your hips back, trying to tempt him, but all Zayne does is coo at your pitiful attempts.

"Look at you, so desperate. All that childish stubbornness just because you want my cock." He lines himself up, the head of his cock catching against your entrance as you shiver. The stretch burns, and you groan, eyes screwing shut at the feeling. "My beautiful, filthy girl."

Zayne whispers, curling an arm between your sweat-slickened bodies. You think he means to finally alleviate the needy throbbing against your clit, but instead his hand presses firmly against your lower stomach as he continues to fuck into you, torturously slow, allowing the blunt head of his cock to bully its way deeper and deeper still. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch of Zayne's cock combined with the sting of his earlier punishment leaves you a mess, fluttering around him as he finally bottoms out.

He lets out a long moan, a low rumble that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You're so full, the head of his cock pressing insistently against the bundle of nerves inside you.

Some distant part of you is mortified of every lewd squelch and moan that echos over the jazz in the public hall, but feeling Zayne gently cup your ass while the other brutally pins you down, hearing him come apart against the back of your neck, knowing that your stoic lover was pushed to such extremes has you keening.

You want to feel every inch of him, so you clench down, and Zayne bites the back of your neck in retaliation, his hips stuttering.

"You’re perfect." Zayne praises, and his breathless voice sends shivers down your spine. "So good for me, taking me so well."

Zayne finally starts moving, letting the tip of his cock pull back until the head catches on the rim of your cunt, trying desperately to keep him inside, until he thrusts back into you in a single harsh motion, watching you fall apart just as he knew you would. 

Your scream muffles into the gag, and Zayne reaches down to push the tie deeper into your mouth, the knot catching on the back of your tongue as he sets a steady pace. 

The hand against your lower stomach shifts, still pressing hard enough so Zayne can feel his cock throb through you, and yet now positioned perfectly to thumb against your clit too. He needs to make you come, to feel it around him. 

Zayne knows your body better than his own, knows exactly what angle he needs to hit, knows exactly where to touch to send your hips jerking back, and knows exactly where to tease to have you clenching down and sobbing into his tie.

It doesn't take long until you're coming, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves until you're screaming, thighs shaking, and he has to hold them open as you fall apart around him, cunt gushing as you squirt over his suit and trousers.

Your orgasm has your walls fluttering, clenching around his cock as it nearly begs for him to be buried deeper inside, and Zayne grunts, a broken moan ripped from his throat as his grip on your thigh tightens.

The pace of his thrusts grows sloppier, and you can tell he's close, the wet squelch of his cock inside your cunt driving you mad as his rhythm becomes inconsistent. You can feel his breath fan against your neck, labored and shaky, with the way he chases his high.

Your cunt aches with how full you feel, overstimulated and sensitive, but you push your hips back anyway, meeting Zayne halfway as you both chase the release that's been building up all night.

With one final thrust, Zayne finally comes inside you, a choked gasp followed by a low moan as his hips stutter, almost fucking his cum back into you as a sloppy mixture of your release drip down his cock and your thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your second orgasm takes you by surprise, your body convulsing at the overstimulation and the warm soothing sensation of being filled to the brim. 

"Fuck." Zayne whispers, his hands holding your hips as his thumbs trace circles against the dimples at the small of your back. The chill and comfort of his hands is almost enough to distract you from the ache, and you groan, legs finally giving out beneath you as you fall forward onto the pool table, the hard surface unforgiving as the wood rubs against your bruised knees.

Ever so gently, Zayne removes his tie from your mouth, turning you around so you’re pressed tight against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his rapid heartbeat and the way his hands tremble, and you smile, the familiar tenderness of his touch calming the both of you.

He slowly runs a hand down the curve of your back and you hum against the top of his head, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. “I think I love you, Zayne.”

He doesn’t say a word, instead, you feel his other arm wrap around your waist, tucking you further into his embrace.

The two of you remain like this, tangled in each other until your breathing finally evens out and the fever that inflected you begins to cool. When Zayne finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your skin, and you shiver at the mere brush of his lips. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Hmm, not any more than I’d want to be.” 

You mean it as a joke, but Zayne immediately stiffens in your hold, pulling back just enough to inspect your neck, then your wrists and hips as he kisses each bruise and remaining mark with hushed apologies. 

"Did you mean it?"

You look down at him, his brows furrowed as you thumb at the stubborn crease that appears between them. You’re not sure why, but something in the way he stares up at you, waiting, longing, makes tears prick in the back of your eyes. 

"Zayne," your voice is gentle, and you cup his cheek. "I do. I love you."

The tension in his jaw melts, his expression softening into something unnameable. His hand comes up to cup yours, scarred thumb tracing circles against your palm. " Say it again."

"I love you," you repeat, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. "I love you. I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Zayne–"

The last syllable of his name is cut off by his lips against yours, and you smile into the kiss, pulling him up until his forehead finally rests on your again. 

"As do I," Zayne whispers, voice thick, and the sincerity in his eyes threatens to make you cry. 

And you believe him.

#reblog

[poisonf0rest]

Love Me Through Every Lifetime

love and deepspace: rafayel x fem!reader

tags: smut, pwp, sub!raf but that quickly changes, monsterfucking to keep it simple

synopsis: For a Lemurian, there is no greater curse than love. And Rafayel is beginning to understand its dangers, especially when the full moon turns him half-delirious and desperate to claim you as his— in every way that matters.

word count: 6.9k

link to ao3

You think Rafayel might be dying. 

For two days, you have not heard a word from your overdemanding employer slash lover. Waking up around noon without a barrage of texts calling you a “lazy hibernating bear” or “neglectful partner” was unusual enough, but an irregularity you chalked up to Rafayel’s upcoming gallery exhibition. 

But by nightfall, you were confused, and by the next morning, cold dread had begun to creep in. He has still not sent a single text, not a call, nothing. Absolute silence. 

Despite agreeing to attend sparring practice tonight with Xavier, you rush out from HQ as soon as your squadron is dismissed from a mission briefing– you’ll make it up to him later. For now, you keep your Hunter’s suit equipped and reload both your pistols, tucking them into their holsters as you rev the engine of your motorcycle. 

Energy fluctuations always escalate before a full moon, and between the increase in Wanderers and the growing bounty on Rafayel's head, you feel your panic rise, the hollow ring of the moon looming overhead as you speed to Rafayel’s studio, praying that nothing has happened.

Rafayel is a mess.

It’s been centuries since he has last felt this insatiable heat, but to fall prey to his instincts was perhaps inevitable. After all, he’s finally found you again. 

Not only that, but he got too close once more, pulling you in from a stranger to an unwilling bodyguard to a friend and lover. Rafayel supposes he can only blame himself. His Lemurian biology has always keened in your presence, and he sealed his own fate when he finally coaxed you into bed with him. But he doesn't regret it— not for a moment.

However, it has been weeks since the first time the two of you had sex, and yet he still can do nothing but taste you against his tongue, nothing but imagine your face every time you unraveled against him, nothing but want you atop him, beneath him, beside him, so fucking bad he can’t think of anything else.

He had reunited with his mate. 

Of course his instincts now want to make you his, forever. 

Rafayel curses, his clothes chafing against his sensitive skin, making him burn under each suffocating layer before he hurriedly begins to rip and unbuckle each one. He wants you beside him, your touch on him. He wants so badly it burns.

With a groan, he collapses onto the coach, face buried in his hands as he genuinely worries he might die from the heat and desire pooling in his stomach and coiling through every nerve. Your name lights up on his phone, the light buzzing adding to the countless missed texts and calls on the screen. Rafayel spares a glance at his phone before chucking it across the studio. He swears he might come from the thought of you alone. 

On cue, the studio’s front door opens with a bang. 

Disregarding protocall entirely you charge in, swinging both your guns around as you shout. “Rafayel! Yell if you’re trapped or injured, or... or just say something!”

There’s a crash behind you, and you nearly shoot, lowering the pistol only when you see a seagull that must have snuck in, topple over another vase, and flee through the wide open windows. 

No Wanderers. Not yet.

The studio is in ruins. Its usual “organized disorganization” would be considered neat in comparison. It looks like a thief ransacked the place, and a hurricane followed suit. Scraps of clothing and swirls of paint splatter across the floor like blood at a crime scene. 

Alarm creeps further into your voice, and you call for him again. “Rafayel! Please say something, anything, just let me know you’re okay.” You creep along the edge of the wall, turning into the main room, expecting the worst: to see him bleeding out, or knocked unconscious, or–

Lying on the couch. 

He’s lying on the couch. 

Sprawled against the cushions, you’re nearly convinced Rafayel is sleeping until you notice the audible rasp in his breathing, skin flushed red in a picture of debauchery. You felt your breath hitch as you scanned him up and down to check for injuries, his billowing shirt splayed open with all the buttons ripped off, and trousers shunted down at the front, clinging to the jut of his hips, trail of dark purple hair pathing the way to his hand, which was clawing against his thigh. 

You force yourself to look away, a tremor in your voice. “Are you injured? Do you need a doctor?”

“Stop talking.” Rafayel groans in pain and you holster your firearms before rushing to his side, kneeling by the couch as he flinches away from your body, his hand pressed to the lower half of his face. Your knees brush something rough and you look down, realizing the floorboards have been burned. 

“Your Evol,” panic returns and you reach out to check Rafayel’s temperature. “It’s acting up. We need to get you to a doctor.” Your fingers hardly brush against his forehead before they’re yanked away. Rafayel springs up, clutching your wrist so tightly you flinch, putting as much distance between the two of you as he could without releasing his hold. 

“No.” His chest is heaving, and you hardly hear him over the hand he still has over his mouth, muffling his words. “You need to leave. Right now.” 

“You’re the one holding me.”

Bewildered, Rafayel looks at his arm as though unaware of his own moments. But he makes no move to unhand you.

Slowly, you lean closer, letting your free hand rest against Rafayel’s cheek, gasping at how hot he is to the touch. Fuck. Your hand is so deliciously cool against his skin that Rafayel can’t help but lean his entire weight against it, nudging his face into your palm as a strangled whine hisses through his teeth. A tug, and you gasp as you’re pulled down, tripping into Rafayel’s lap as his lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner wrists. 

The position is beyond compromising, especially considering Rafayel’s state of undress. Stumbling forward, your free hand pushes against his bare chest, and you try to free yourself, willing your eyes not to travel any lower to his unbuckled trousers. “Rafayel…”

“Don’t,” he curses into your palm, inhaling deeply before biting. He moans deep in his chest, licking up your fingers, sucking gently at each digit as you feel your body flush. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t move or breathe in my direction either.” 

He continues suckling against your fingers, and you would have snapped at his ridiculous demands if it wasn’t for the fact that you doubt you could form any words at all right now, dumbfounded as a dull heat throbs against your lower stomach. 

As if noticing, Rafayel’s mouth opens with a deep breath, cursing as he goes back to nipping and kissing your wrist. “Fuck,” he laughs, delirious, “I can smell how turned on you are. You– you’re temptation itself.”

Rafayel places another kiss to your palm before yanking your arm behind him, and you gasp when his head tilts, lips grazing the column of your throat, words slurred and raspy. His breath is scalding, every gentle brush of his lips against your skin sending your nerves on edge.

You feel dizzy. 

"Don't talk. Don't even move. Just stay- hah - stay with me."

His hands, both his free one and the one pinning your wrists, roam, caressing you as he presses wet kisses along your throat. It is all you can do to hold still, but when he sucks harshly against the pulse point at the base of your neck, a moan slips through your clenched teeth. You try to squirm out of his grip, but the action only grinds against Rafayel's crotch, and you tense up immediately at the very obvious bulge, hot, sticky fluid already soaking through his trousers. 

The artist nearly sobs at the mere friction, expression a mixture of pained and pleading as he begs up at you. "Stay. Please."

He doesn't mean just for the moment. He means always, for eternity, for every lifetime he’s cursed to live. He’s never letting you go again. 

And you can do nothing but nod. 

You want to help him, really, in every way, endlessly, but taking advantage of him while he’s so helpless and desperate feels wrong. Worry sets in, and you cup his jaw, Rafayel keening into your touch with a whine. “Does this have something to do with Lemuria?”

Rafayel swallows, his hands sliding to your waist and gripping tightly, as though he expects you to disappear at any moment. You can see the indecision on his face, the conflict as he fights the desire clouding his brain. He opens his mouth, and closes it again. He tries a second time and succeeds, the words sounding painful and forced even as your thumbs trace his face, caressing every edge and curve. 

"I never imagined this would happen. You’re not- I mean, it only ever happens to Lemurian mates.” He’s shaking beneath you, eyes going unfocused as your touch ventures lower, down his collarbones, squeezing at his chest, tracing his abs, and further still. “I knew you were special, my muse, but not special enough to drive me into heat.”

He’s joking, teasing you, but you can’t help the flush of arousal at that statement. Your brows furrow, the gears in your head turning. You try not to sound too excited, the thought of Rafayel in heat is enough to distract you from the urgency of the situation. Again, Rafayel notices, inhaling your scent as something trills deep within his chest. 

"If you need my help, then you have it. Any way you want.”

Your fingers slide against the hem of his trousers, and Rafayel's breath hitches. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips- you swear his nails are sharper than normal- and a sharp thrill shoots through you at the feeling. You can practically see his control slipping away, the last threads fraying, and he bites into your shoulder with a moan, fangs nipping through the fabric of your clothes.

Rafayel releases the bite and looks at you, expression wild. His pupils are dilated and his tongue licks the corner of his mouth, eyes darting back and forth between yours and the mark he's made.

"If you say things like that," he warns, the hand around your wrist tightening. You can't help the soft gasp that escapes, and Rafayel growls at the noise. He lurches forward and kisses you hard, all tongue and teeth. 

"I-I can't." Rafayel pants. The expression he wears is so unlike him that it's shocking, and you feel your core clench. He's completely unraveled, hair disheveled, clothes torn and askew. 

And, fuck, you swear some of his pheromones must have infected you too, because you can’t stop staring at him. He’s gorgeous- more than usual- a furious pink blush from the tips of his ears down to the mole on his chest you can’t stop kissing, the color a beautiful contrast to his dark locks, now wet with sweat and stuck to his forehead in thick curls. 

His eyes never leave yours, not even as they roll in pleasure, their sunset hues dimmed with an animalistic sort of hunger that makes you shiver with every forceful roll of his hips against yours. It’s punishing, brutal, and a violent contrast to the tears brimming in his eyes from the mere friction alone.

You want to ruin him. You plan on it.

"I won't be able to stop," Rafayel whines, and you can't stop your hips from rutting back against him, the sensation pulling a choked sob from his throat. You swallow the noise with a kiss, the motion so gentle compared to his desperate, frenzied fucking. It's all he can do not to break, his control already slipping through his fingers like sand. “I won’t want to, I’ll fuck you until you can think of nothing else, just me. Only me.”

The idea sends a sharp spike of heat through your core. His desperation and need for you is intoxicating, and you know his warning is sincere. He won’t let you go until you tell him to. You should be scared.

But all you can think of is his voice in your ear, begging and crying.

Your voice is hardly a whisper, "What do you need from me, Rafayel?"

"To breed you. To have my pretty human filled with my brood, to fuck you full."

You moan at the vulgarity of his words, and the sound goes straight to his cock. Rafayel groans as he fucks harder against your thigh, his own breath ragged as he tucks his forehead against your neck. 

But the mention of his brood has you nervous, and you gasp the question between moans at Rafayel’s insistent grinding. You don’t know much about Lermurian biology, but between the myths and Rafayel’s teasing, you have a vague idea that makes your head spin.

“How many, ah-” fucking hell, the word seems weird to think of, let alone say, “eggs do Lemurians usually have?”

Rafayel laughs at that, and you nearly sigh at the sound, the familiarity comforting. It isn't mocking, more surprised, and the sound is music to your ears, especially considering the delirious state he was in.

"Don't be silly, love," he teases, but his hips don't stop moving, undoubtedly soaking through his trousers and your pants. "We're not animals, we're civilized creatures."

His tone shifts, the light-hearted nature vanishing in an instant. The words are hissed against the shell of your ear, and a violent shiver runs through you. "I'll fill you to the brim, make sure you never forget who you belong to. Make sure every creature knows whose bitch you are. You're mine, and I'll mark you however I wish, however many times I must, until the message is clear."

A sharp pinch on the shell of your ear makes you gasp. He bit you. The pain is gone as fast as it came, replaced with a wet tongue and warm lips. A whimper slips out, and you feel his cock twitch at the sound.

"So, my lovely mate, since you’re so eager, how many eggs do you want?"

He’s mocking you. Brat. 

Blushing furiously, you shove him down, pushing yourself up to a kneeling position as Rafayel whines at the loss of contact, hips bucking into empty air. You can feel his cock throbbing against your leg, and his hand reaches out for you, fingers barely grazing your skin before you roughly push him back down.

You give him a firm look, and the sight of your stern gaze sends a fresh wave of arousal through his body, his cock jerking as Rafayel keens and throws his head back, unable to meet your eyes. He’s trembling, and the hand you pinned down flies to his face, covering his eyes as you scowl down at him.

“Alright, alright, ‘m sorry.” He laughs, trailing into a moan as you finally sit back against him. “It depends, our biology doesn’t favor us. We mate once, and despite going into these seasons our clutches only take once a decade or so. Per season is variable too, anywhere from five to a dozen.”

Up to a dozen. 

A dozen eggs.

In you.

Fuck.

You must have made a sound because Rafayel looks at you with a cheeky grin, and a mischievous glint in his eye. He can smell the want on you, the scent is driving him wild, and you know it. But the realization of your want sends another ripple of desire through him, and Rafayel grunts in pain, writing against the cushions. 

"Fuck, need you, need you so, so bad." He growls, grabbing your wrist and yanking you towards him. You lose balance, and your knees slide against the couch, falling over him with a gasp. "Need you. Need you now, please, need my mate, need you to be mine–"

Greedy. 

You scoff before his mouth is on yours again, licking up into you. He's insatiable, and as he presses closer you swear his teeth feel sharper, catching against your bottom lip.

“Poor baby,” you coo, palming Rafayel through his boxers as his eyes roll back at your touch. His mouth opens in a gasp, and you can see the hint of fangs, the razor edge of his canines. They glint in dusk’s low light, and you lean closer to get a better look. Rafayel can sense your interest, and his head lolls to the side, giving you a better view as he bares his throat, a dull blue shimmer now coating the sides, pulsing in time to his racing heart. 

It's a vulnerable position, one he would never allow anyone else to see him in. But you are not anyone, and he trusts you enough to offer himself up, trusts you to protect him as he succumbs to his desires, even if you’re the one that holds the knife. 

And you reward him for his loyalty. 

"Mmm, such a good boy, showing your mate what a pretty mess you are." Your voice is sweet and praising, and you feel Rafayel shudder violently, biting his lip deep enough to draw blood to stop the high-pitched moan that rips from his chest. Then he stills. “Did you just…” 

“Don’t tease,” he bucks into your palm, impossibly hard still in a way that is utterly nonhuman. “Just once more, make me come once more, and I’ll fuck you properly. Promise.”

You hardly need to be told twice. 

Slipping off the side of the couch, you coax Rafayel to turn with you, settling between his legs as you work at his belt. “Then let me taste you.”

His thigh jumps at that, and Rafayel throws his head back against the wall with a dull thud, his hand already lacing into your hair. 

For all that talk his cock was still surprisingly human-like. It doesn’t look too different from before, still annoyingly well-endowed and leaking violently against the angry purple-red tip. But this time there’s a faint pale blue discoloration around the base, with a shine you can’t tell is a result of his Lemurian lineage or due to the copious amounts of precum he’s dripping down to his thighs. 

Gods, he’s messy.

There’s nothing sweet in the way you fuck him within your mouth, tongue trailing a prominent vein against the underside of his dick until you reach the tip once again. Rafayel goads you forward by pushing and pulling your head with his hand and his almost obnoxiously loud moans and mumbles of praise.

Both of your hands join, one stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth and the other massaging against his balls, each one heavy and tense, waiting to spill into something other than your mouth. The slick slap of skin on skin spurs you on, and Rafayel’s hand rips through the fabric on the couch with sharp nails you now feel digging into the back of your neck. 

“I’m almost–” He warns, and you nearly choke in surprise at the feeling of something swell against the base of his cock, a firm, round intrusion that has Rafayel sobbing. Then, he comes, overflowing down your throat as you force yourself off, thick ropes of cum covering your face and shooting over his bare abdomen and chest, and then more. And more. 

All of that, and he’s still hard. 

Despite the strands of cum dripping between your hands, chin, and his cock, Rafayel still feels no relief. The bulge against the base of his cock inflates more, and he trills, a deep sound akin to whalesong deep in his chest. 

“It’s no use, I need…” A breathy moan, and Rafayel yanks you both to your feet. “Ocean. Now.”

His words devolve into incoherent rambling, and you nod, dragged alongside him as he clings to you like a child, his weight nearly toppling you both over as his knees buckle. You catch him, but his strength is inhuman, and even with the help of your Evol he could crush you.

You are his.

You will finally be his.

Rafayel’s grip around you tightens, and a possessive growl rumbles against his throat. He needs to feel you against him, inside him, his instincts screaming to mark you in every way conceivable. 

The studio's back doors lead directly to the beach, and the summer night breeze hits Rafayel with a delicious chill against his burning skin. The air tastes of salt and brine, the scent familiar and comforting— the smell of home.

The ocean is as gorgeous as it is terrifying in the midst of night. The roar of the waves and the silver reflection of the full moon are the only things illuminating the vast darkness before you. Yet Rafayel shows no such fear as he tugs you further along the beach, kissing and nipping and groping at you endlessly as he strips you of your clothes, his own following suit. 

"You'll regret leaving me after this," Rafayel whispers, pressing his lips to the pulse of your neck. 

"Silly fishie," you murmur, pulling him closer. “Why would I ever leave you?"

He sighs, leaning his forehead against yours. You figured he was simply being overdramatic yet again, but Rafayel refuses to meet your eyes, smiling in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty. “Of course, silly me. Why would anyone ever leave me?” He huffs, running a hand through his hair, preening. ”I’m perfect.”

You scoff, shoving him gently as you roll your eyes. Of course he would be cocky right before getting his brains fucked out.

"Well, you are quite pretty for a fish."

Rafayel laughs, deep and rumbling in his chest, a contagious sound that has you laughing too, until the cold spray of the ocean hits you with a light mist. The crest of another wave surges against you, curling around your ankles and knees as the tide ebbs and flows. Rafayel spares you one last teasing grin before running further into the ocean, disappearing beneath the waves without so much as a splash. 

You can’t help but feel nervous as you watch and listen for a break in the sea, knowing when your lover emerges, he will be a wholly different being than the one you’ve memorized every curve and edge of. 

But you want him to know you’ll accept him regardless. No matter how scaled or fish-like or ugly he may become. 

As if testing you, your mind conjures up a horrid fish-monster complete with swampy hair and a shark’s face before you chase the thought away, shaking your head violently. There’s no way a man as gorgeous as Rafayel could turn into a creature so hideous… Right?

Regardless, you’d help him. Regardless, you’d stay with him, love him. 

This you vowed.

And the ocean listens, seafoam curling around your ankles before it retreats, carrying with it your promise into its depths. Keeping it. 

A splash breaks the surface of the waves and you squint into the darkness. Sure enough, you see the outline of a man, cutting through the waves with a dull glow, as if parting the waters themselves. 

“Surely you don’t plan on making me wait any longer.” Rafayel complains, “Join me, my muse. My heart.” 

His voice coaxes you forward, and like a sailor drawn by a siren’s call, you walk further into the ocean. Each soft wave crashes higher against your legs until the salty spray hits the bare skin of your stomach, and you flinch from the chill against every sensitive part of your body. 

Finally, he’s close enough for you to see everything in the evening glow, and your breath leaves you entirely. 

He’s still your Rafayel, the mischievous glow against his duochromatic eyes reminds you of that much, but there’s a vibrant blue glow to them, a clearer blue than the ocean itself, one that freckles down his neck and body with bioluminescent markings. There’s also that familiar pointed smile he still wears, only, at the upper corner you catch the glint of fangs. Even longer than before. A splash, and your attention snaps behind him, where an enormous tail flicks impatiently out of the waves, a pale blue rippling into the color of the ocean’s depths, complete with purples and blues so dark it could be night itself. 

Dragging a hand across his cheek, you press your forehead against his own. “You’re gorgeous.” 

Rafayel’s ears heat up, and he can hardly stop himself from succumbing to his instinct begging him to take you, to lure you into the stormy depths and to fuck you until you lay writhing, full of his brood on the seafloor. 

Instead, he lets you explore him, his new body, and what remained of the man you knew. Drunk on his siren’s call, you are pulled closer to him, waves lapping at your chest now as you trace the swirls of purple, vermillion, and gold markings dancing down his chest, scales of the same hues following down until the warmth of Rafayel’s skin turns to the cold, smooth feel of scales and he gasps against your touch. 

One moment you’re standing against the waves and the next you’re dragged back to shore, pinned against the sand.

“I’m sorry, I promise you’ll have more time to ogle and worship my body another day.” You scoff, about to throw a snarky reply when Rafayel presses his tail between your legs, yards of it still tailing behind the two of you as you’re effectively pinned. “But right now, I need to breed my pretty little mate full.”

You whine, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leaning up to kiss him before he can babble any more nonsense. His lips taste like seafoam and smoke, and you gasp into his mouth as you feel his tail begin to roll into your hips, the motion smooth from the foreign texture of his scales and your own dripping slick. 

“Ah, you’re going to have to…” Almost embarrassed, Rafayel’s hand leaves yours, trailing down his own body as he prods against the underside of his tail. Curious, your fingers follow his own, finding a spot where the rough scales turn soft and smooth, a seam that feels like muscle, and within it, an equally wet slit. “There.”

You’re too desperate to even tease him, working your fingers in gentle circles until you ease one in, stroking the smooth velvet of his walls until both of your fingers can slip in. Then, something bumps against your fingers, prodding as you help coax it out. 

Rafayel groans, his enormous body convulsing as he presses against you. “Hurry up.” He grinds harder, nearly pulling you deeper into his slit. “Hurry up, hurry up, you’re taking too long.”

Rafayel has always been a demanding lover. But not like this. Not like he might actually die if he isn’t inside of you right at this very moment.

You huff, amused. Why not make him suffer just a little more? 

“What do we say when we want something, Rafayel?”

“Fuck. You are impossibly cruel, can’t you see I’m already suffering and yet still you make an effort to be so–” You curl your fingers up, knuckles roughly knocking against his still-sheathed cock. You very well almost come undone at the face he makes, twisted in pleasure as his eyes roll back, jaw slack with a high-pitched whine as he arches into your punishing touch. “Please! Please, ah, I’ll beg. I’ll beg, I’ll- fuck - I’ll fill you so well, I swear, just let me breed you.”

How could you say no to something so sweet?

Finally pulling his cock free, your breath catches at the sheer weight of it, heavy against your stomach and at least two inches longer and rough to the touch, ridges slick with how badly he’s leaking as you feel up and down his tapered length. But, unlike back at his studio, this liquid is clear and leaves pinpricks against your palm, almost going numb as he spills and drips onto your skin. 

Rafayel gasps, “Antispastic. It’s muscle relaxant to keep our mates comfortable and pliant for us.” 

Comfortable and pliant. You suddenly feel the very opposite, especially when you remember the end goal of this mating session. 

“Shh,” Rafayel coos against your ear as though hearing your fears, his fingers already working against your entrance as he whispers sweet nothings and praise into your ears. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t hurt any more than you want it to.”

And with that his fingers retreat, grinding his enormous form closer as you feel the nudge of his cock against your core, pushing in with the help of the gentle rocking from the waves, tapered tip making the stretch easier. 

You wince and Rafayel immediately kisses you, distracting you with his tongue before he hilts himself in one brutal movement, pinning you down as you thrash in protest. The pain only blinds you for a second, and then the relaxant does its work, filling you with a warm, tingling feeling that almost has you floating. You let out a garbled plea and Rafayel coos in response, lacing his fingers with yours. 

Despite already being fucked deep within you, Rafayel’s hips rut insistently against yours, pushing and pushing until you can feel the round bulge at the base of his cock grind against your clit, making you cry into his lips. 

Every ridge on the side of his cock catches deliciously against your walls, and you arch off the beach, your legs twitching against Rafayel’s tail until he lifts one up, nipping against your ankle and calf before hooking it over his shoulder, still suckling at the delicate skin around your inner thigh.

The intimacy of it all scares you. 

For the past month Rafayel has been insatiable, as if once he finally got you in his bed he never wanted you to leave again, always finding a way to lure you on top of him or trap you underneath, the perfect picture of lust. Regardless, it would always end with fast, frenzied fucking. But not like this. 

Not with him slowly rocking into you, pulling back until just his tip remained before grinding all the way in as he whispered songs in a language you could not understand. Not with him intertwining his fingers with yours and watching your every reaction with utmost receptiveness and adoration. Not with him kissing away your tears as you come undone. 

But for Rafayel, this was long overdue.

After all, he’s chased you throughout every lifetime, forsaking his people, giving up his heart, and vowing himself to you time and time again despite knowing how it ends— how it always will.

Your face goes slack at your sudden orgasm, but Rafayel helps you through it, one hand unlacing from yours as he thumbs your clit until your shudders subside. He whispers, not caring that you’re still too fucked-out to hear. “I’m not a patient man, you know. I’ve been waiting for centuries. And now you’re here, you’re here and you’re all mine.” Another kiss to your forehead before he feels that uncontrollable heat rise again, letting it take over. “I’m never letting you go again.”

When you come to the first thing you feel again is the rhythmic pounding against your sweet spot, and you writhe against the sand with a violent gasp. Desperate for some sort of relief, your hands push at Rafayel’s chest, futilely trying to force him back or at least get him to slow down until another particularly rough thrust has you sobbing, clawing at his arms and shoulders.

But Rafayel hardly seems to notice. He’s lost himself entirely, eyes glazed over as they fixate on where his cock bullies into you, muscles across his back and tail pushing him forward with a force that makes you scream. Fueled by your mindless whimpers, he forces his cock in deeper, chasing his release so he can finally, finally fuck you full. 

Rafayel also doesn’t last long, his third orgasm hitting him violently enough that he nearly collapses on top of you, purring against your throat with a trill that comes from deep within his chest. His fangs dig into the juncture between your shoulder and neck as he continues to come, rope after rope coating your cervix, filling you with a warmth alongside the muscle relaxant. You nearly come too, almost uncomfortably wet, slick enough that even the monstrous ridges alongside Rafayel’s cock slip deeper and deeper inside you with terrifying ease. 

Again, he moans something in another language, a series of clicks and purrs rumbling from his chest, eyes dark and unfocused as he forces you to look up at him. “You’ve been so, so good for me. Pretty little mate needs to be fucked full though, ya? Need to be filled with my brood?” You don’t even realize you’ve come at his words, something else squirming against your clit below his swollen base. Rafayel licks your tears away, tongue nonhuman as its length curls around your cheek, moaning at the taste of your sweat, arousal, and seasalt. “Shh, it’s okay, I’ll defy your silly human biology, make you a mommy.”

Fighting to prop yourself up against the sand, you reach down, hand trembling as it thumbs against Rafayel’s slit once more. But this time, something else has begun to emerge.

Rafayel sobs against your neck, keeping what you now realize is his first cock buried greedily inside you, unwilling to pull out by any more than an inch. Drunk off of him, you messily press two fingers into his slit, hiking your legs further up his shoulders to give you better access to where the two of you are joined against the splash of the waves. 

Dipping your fingers in, you inhale sharply at the squirm of something rough, thumbing the coil out as it writhes and curls into the warmth of your palm. his second cock is not, well, it’s a tentacle for lack of a closer human anatomical reference. All ridges and scales as you coax it to a similarly monstrous length as the first, but thicker, writhing as though possessing a mind of its own.

And right below it, you feel the obvious bulge against Rafayel’s tail where his eggs are. 

You’re suddenly very, very grateful for the Lemurians’ natural muscle relaxant. 

Despite the slick practically leaking from you, you still tense as the tip of the tentacle dick begins to flick and tease at your already full entrance, not giving you a moment to breathe before it begins pushing in alongside the first. It pokes and prods enough to have you whimpering before Rafayel holds your thighs still and thrusts, forcing both his cocks in to the hilt.

It feels impossible. It shouldn't be possible.

But the way he fits is perfect, a tight, burning stretch, the ridges along his first cock and the suctions on the second bruising you in ways that make you scream, vision going dark around the edges as Rafayel moans into your ears. Your cunt feels abused to the point of numbness, the pain dissolving as your mouth hangs open, jaw slack as nonsensical babbles and pleas fall from your lips. 

And, fuck, Rafayel doesn’t even bother waiting to let you regain your sanity before his two cocks start pistoning in and out of you, the bottom one curling and stroking against the first, effortlessly brutal along the slick walls of your cunt. His fangs ghost along the shell of your ear as he splays his huge, slightly webbed hand across your lower belly. 

"How deep am I?" He rolls his hips again, rougher. You cry as Rafayel’s weight forces you to tuck further under him, nearly folding you in half as your legs press against his tail. "Can I go deeper? Can I? Please, please, please—" 

You gasp, mewling and writhing as you feel the bottom cock begin to squirm again. Bullying its way into your cervix, it thrashes violently against that spongy spot inside you that has your vision spinning. Rafayel is fairing no better, losing the capacity for human speech altogether, moaning as his cock finally breaches the tight ring of muscle, fucking into your womb.

Even through the haze, legs numb and twitching, your body still convulses in protest as you feel the bulge pressing against your clit begin to move. Rafayel shudders right as it does, clawed hands digging into the back of your thighs as he forces you impossibly closer. The bottom cock twitches, coaxing your womb open, and you moan as you feel the bulge creep forward.

This should hurt, it should horrify you, and yet it only breaks you in ways that will ruin you for any future lovers. Not that you ever plan on leaving him. Not after this. 

Rafayel thrusts one last time, waves raging around you as he does so, and you nearly sob as you feel the bulge shift up his length, dragging slowly against your walls until it presses against your cervix. Even then you only cry in pleasure, nails digging bloody crescents into Rafayel’s shoulder as he does the same against your thighs, the antispastic doing its work in keeping you deliriously wet and pliant. You roll your hips desperately against your lover, and the sudden shift in position forces the first egg beyond the tight barrier, falling into your womb.

Gods. It feels heavy, it feels wrong, it feels so fucking good you come again with a silent scream.

Rafayel swallows every noise with a messy kiss, his serpentine tongue curling around your own and sucking, nearly fucking itself into your mouth as you get lightheaded from both the lack of air and the press of his second egg already at your entrance. You sob into Rafayel’s lips, greedily moving your hips against his own, forcing him in further before he obliges, shoving your thighs further apart until your knees touch the sand too. Then you feel the weight of the second egg bump against the first, overwhelmed as the next has already begun stretching you full again. 

The two of you are reduced to little more than animals, helpless fucking and licking and moaning against one another as the eggs come one after another, again and again and again until your womb feels bloated and abused, the feeling euphoric thanks to the copious amount of relaxant and cum already flooding you. Rafayel’s bottom cock convulses after depositing the seventh egg, its tip finally wriggling out from your cervix’s vise grip against it, sucking and soothing your abused walls as you come once again, sobbing and numb to the pleasure-pain.

“Perfect,” Rafayel coos against your lips, rutting insistently inside you as his fingers lace with yours, forcing you to feel the taunt skin over your womb, the bulge obvious and hyper-sensitive. “You did so well, my perfect little mate, you deserve a reward don’t you?” 

Unable to form words, you nod, your entire body trembling as Rafayel laughs, thrusting his hips again, each one sharp and punishing against your overly-sensitive cunt, pelvis smacking your clit as your vision spins. He trills, a shudder overtaking his enormous body as his scales glow, pale blues and deep purples flicking violently down his skin and tail as the waves crash around him, continuing until he comes inside of you. It’s endless, the warmth coating every aching surface of your cunt up until your poor stretched womb, hot and thick as you feel Rafayel futilely attempt to keep it all in you with his dicks and then fingers. 

What does end up squirting back down your thighs and onto his abdomen is lapped up by the ocean, and the waves offer a cool relief as Rafayel finally pulls out and collapses onto the sand beside you. You feel simultaneously horribly empty and heavy, something Rafayel takes note of as he pulls you against him, humming into your neck and wrapping his arms around yours, careful not to place any pressure against your sensitive middle. 

He groans against your ear, and you turn in panic, only to see him back to his human form, the only evidence left of his tail the deep valleys against the sand where it once rested. You immediately regret moving, however, as the weight against your womb lurches you off balance and you moan before stilling yourself on your side. Holy fuck, how long will this last? 

“R-” your voice is raspy and you wince, “Rafayel?” 

He hums in answer, already kneeling beside you before lifting you easily in his arms, carrying you bridal style as he litters butterfly kisses over your forehead and nose. “What you said about the, um, fertilizing thing. These won’t actually hatch, will they?”

Again, Rafayel laughs, pressing his nose against the top of your head as he inhales. Another giggle. “Maybe.” You hit him. Hard. “Ouch, meanie. No, even with all of that there’s hardly a chance Lemurian clutches take. Not to mention you’re a human, so therefore not our necessary host.” 

You choose to let his provocative word choice go over your head and sigh in relief. Thumbing gently against the bulge of your lower stomach, you lean further into Rafayel’s chest, nearly lulled to sleep by the sound of his heart thumping in time to the crash of the waves. 

“But,” Rafayel sings the word with a playful lit. “If any of them do happen to fertilize, we can just fish them out before they hatch.”

“We can what.”

Gods, what did you get yourself into?

#reblog

[poisonf0rest]

this!! this for TTVWMIB!!!

[poisonf0rest]

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫

You still remember the face of the first Hunter you saved. 

He was a young lad, no more than seven and ten years of age when he first helped you escape a blood-drunk mob on a night of a Hunt years ago. A sweet child, freckled, doe-eyed, and stuttering all the while as you thanked him, young body utterly drowned in that heavy black Hunter attire. And yet that hardly stopped him from doing his service to Yharnam, for each night he’d join the Hunt, and each morning he’d stumble into your clinic, clawed full with wounds and cheeks streaked with tears. 

You had not believed that Hunters could still feel pain before then. You had not believed that they could still feel fear. 

He cried himself to sleep in your arms that night. 

They say it all happened because a beast bit him, infecting the poor child with its toxic blood. But you remember better than that— the nightmares remind you. 

The boy Hunter’s change ran deeper than skin, deeper than flesh and blood.

A week before the incident you found him slumped against the clinic’s stairs, bleeding out as he babbled on and on in his semi-conscious state, eyes locked on the buildings before you yet his pupils clouded and unfocused. He spoke of things from another world, things he could see that no one else could. Things that clung to buildings like enormous parasites, things that possessed eyes that lined their brains, and things that were unspeakable in very definition. 

By the time you brought him inside, his flesh had begun to rot, as if his body was eating itself from the inside out. It was then he began screaming, saying over and over again how he could hear them now too, the echoing voices and their prayers. 

He swore he could hear the screams of a newborn child. 

You remember the sickly black hue of the blood pooling from his ears and eyes, and those same four words he whispered over and over and over again. For you hear them in your sleep nearly every night:

“Fear the Old Blood.”

You still remember the face of the first Hunter who died in your arms, screaming. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Gasping, you wake up as you do most nights: crying with a headache strong enough to split your skull. 

You’ve learned smoking dreamroot gets rid of the migraines quickly enough. It leaves the world fuzzy and warped, but at least it is silent. Besides, it’s not like you have much of your life left to lose anyway. You’d be one of the lucky ones if you even hit thirty. 

Yharnam is far from silent even in the dead of night, and when you open the clinic’s rusted balcony doors, they groan in tandem with the howling in the distance. You suppose it should bother you. It probably did, once upon a time. But the city has been dying for centuries now, and when the body is this rotten even the doctors stop trying. 

Another huff and the world goes sideways, only the moon remaining as it looms over the city, everything else spinning as it fades to and from your vision. You giggle. Stumbling forward, you catch yourself on the railing, tarnished metal crying from your weight, and you curse at it under your breath. 

“If you’re going to purposefully poison yourself, at least do it inside. Away from the ledge.”

You pout, flicking the end of the dreamroot as the embers dance into the dark. “Oui, but then the clinic will reek. And Saints know that certainly wouldn’t be considered above board.”

The Hunter only gives you a grunt, yet he doesn’t press any further. Rather, he jumps down from his spot on the roof, joining you on the balcony. The two of you are unavoidably pressed against each other in the limited, crumbling space, your thighs brushing against his as you lean closer, accidentally throwing yourself off balance as you tumble forward, your free hand gripping to his forearm to catch yourself. Diluc holds you, eyes never leaving your face as you struggle to make your tongue work again. His hands make their way to your waist. Only to steady you, he tells himself.

“You,” your brows furrow, “Were you here the whole time?” 

It would hardly be a surprise, with his Vampyr stealth and whatnot. You take another huff of the dreamroot, humming as the purple smoke bleeds from your lips, the poor Hunter scrunching his nose as it swirls around him, consequence of you still half-leaning half-standing against him. Another cluster of embers falls, and you watch as they flicker, something hollow and hungry clawing at your chest when their light finally disappears. 

You remember how Diluc smells like smoke. What does he burn for, you wonder? 

“I wasn’t watching you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” The Hunter’s voice draws you back, and you smile. “I was on the Hunt in Upper Cathedral Ward when I heard your heartbeat shift. I came in case there was trouble.”

“The Cathedral Ward.” That was at least an hour’s walk from the clinic. “You could still hear my heartbeat?”

“I…” He clears his throat, averting his gaze, but his grip tightens at your waist. “I always hear yours.”

Even above the cries of the beasts, even among the fifty-thousand-some inhabitants of Yharnam, he could still make out the slight shift in your heart. 

“Oh.”

You inspect the dreamroot, rolled blunt already half gone, and lift it to Diluc’s lips. “Want some?”

His nose wrinkles again, and you begin to hypothesize that all of the Vileblood’s senses are heightened, not just their strength and sight, when the fog of the root takes hold again. Before he can answer, the blunt slips between your fingers, tumbling to the ground as your hand lifts to his jaw, thumbing at his lips. Pressing your index finger against his top lip, you marvel at his fangs before dragging the plush of your finger down one, shivering at the edge you come so close to cutting yourself on. 

“I want you to bite me.”

Diluc makes a sort of strangled hiss at that, hands leaving your waist as they go to restrain your wandering fingers. “No. You do not.” 

You laugh, relenting as your wrists are pinned down to your shoulders by Diluc’s stronger grip. “If you refuse to bite me, would you prefer I bite you?” 

The Vampyr merely looks at you as though you’ve grown three heads, still very much contemplating how to salvage the conversation with some semi-appropriate answer when you stumble forward, rocking onto your toes as your lips brush against his ear. 

“Is this okay?”

You hear the shaky exhale he lets out against your cheek.

“Please.”

That’s all the confirmation you need. 

Falling completely against him, you give a chaste kiss right below his ear, allowing him to pull you closer as he slots his leg between yours to give you more support as you pin him against the balcony stone wall. You trail kisses along his jaw, tasting the sweet tremble of his skin as it mixes with the earthy musk of the dreamroot, utterly intoxicating as your head spins from it all. Fisting your hand into his wild hair, you tug, forcing his head back as you nip and pull against his neck, already addicted to the sweet sounds every harsh movement coaxed out from the man beneath you. 

Diluc swallows once again, and you can’t help but follow the bob of his throat. Setting your mouth over his pulse, you ghost your lips back down his throat until you brush on a spot that has him tensing between your thighs. 

And then, you bite. 

His moan breaks your trance, the guttural sound still reverberating in your chest as he jerks you away, his grip harsh against your hair. You whimper, both hands tugging at his wrist to try and free yourself, every tug of his fingers against your scalp sending flickers of shameful arousal down your spine. 

Saints, you didn’t know he’d react like that simply by being bitten. 

Then, just as quickly as he had grabbed you, Diluc released his hold. Instead, his hands plant themselves on your waist, pulling you down his thigh and firmly away from his neck. He meets your raised brow with a frown. 

“My, if I had known all I needed to do to was bite you to get that reaction then believe me, I would have done so far earlier.”

His voice almost sounds pained as he speaks. “You don’t know what you do to me.” 

But by the gods above and below did you want to. 

The faint glint of the candlelight coming from inside the clinic catches on Diluc’s fangs with every ragged breath, and you swear you’d trade the world, heaven and hell itself just to know every single thing about the man before you. Just the mere thought sends your pulse hammering, and Diluc’s supernatural hearing clearly catches the flutter of your pulse since he licks his lips, the slow movement sending a throb down your core in response. 

This game you two insisted on playing was driving both of you insane. The waiting. The wanting. The anticipation was beginning to twist into aching.

Yet neither of you could fully yield. 

And so, here you remain, torturing yourselves with the purgatory in between. 

Diluc is the first to talk, yet his voice doesn’t go above a whisper. “You know what my kind is. So why? Why risk this? Why tempt me so?”

“I wish I knew.” 

A laugh, and you sway closer once more. You can’t tell if it’s from the dreamroot or from your obvious infatuation, but you swear Diluc’s eyes burn, flickering between gold and blood red, like a phoenix rising from the ashes. 

Your gaze turns to his fangs once more. “Perhaps I am merely naturally curious. But perhaps I simply long to know what it feels like…” Your lips brush his with every word, and Diluc’s eyes tremble, pupils dilated so viciously his iris have been reduced to flaming rings, “To become yours. Your prey. To know the feeling of your fangs and the feeling of you sucking the lifeforce out from me. I want to know how you hurt.” 

Bitting down onto his lower lip, your words practically drip from your mouth into his. “I suppose I’m simply infatuated with you. You’ll help me, won’t you? You’ll sate my curiosity? My desires? You’ll bite me, won’t you?”

Finally moving to kiss him, you crane your neck up, and yet instead of the soft plush of his lips, you’re met with the rough flesh of his palm. Diluc gently pushes you back down, the rough pad of this thumb brushing past your lips as his own once did. 

“Forgive me.”

You blink, and you’re back inside the clinic once again. The balcony door is shut, and Diluc is gone, swallowed into the night like an ember that slipped from your grasp, only the burns on your fingers left to prove it was ever even there.  

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Every week, on the twenty-second hour of the seventh day, you and the Hunter would sneak into the Healing Church’s Grand Library, shuffling through centuries of lost knowledge, journals, and archives until the morning bells rang thrice. 

And every week you’d leave with more questions than answers. 

Piece by piece, you began to uncover more about Lawrence, the First Vicar, and his role as the Healing Church’s long-forgotten founder. No, not forgotten, that would imply this was something less than a meticulously organized scheme to keep the populace of Yharnam under control. Lawrence was erased. Erased like the truth of the Hunters, like the lineage of the Vilebloods, like the origin of the Beastly Scourge. 

You’re busy re-reading today’s findings as you scour the city for new samples, the perpetual full moon and flickering street lamps providing the bare minimum amount of light for you to make out the scrawled handwriting of priests from long ago. Normally you wouldn’t dare be this distracted in the midst of Yharnam’s beast-infested streets, but today is Sunday mass, which means all the Church Hunters have been busy clearing the roads to and from the Cathedral. Not to mention, your own Hunter is never far off either. 

As such, you are more than preoccupied with the decaying body of a recently killed Scourge Beast beside you, the skin surrounding its sternum pinned apart as you perform a paramedian cut down its furry side to get to its rotten lungs. One gloved hand extracts the delicate tissue as the other thumbs through another journal, your attention half-hazardously split between the two tasks. You like to think of yourself as somewhat of an expert multitasker. 

Unpacking yet another journal from your satchel, you flip through bookmarked dates until you reach an entry that has been scratching at your brain recently. The author of this particular journal was even more of a madman than the typical worshiper- a tough record to beat, to be sure- and yet in between his blatantly racist rantings against the Vilebloods and history lessons on the Executioners, you discovered some mentions of Laurence and the founding of the Healing Church. 

You read:

"But I have recently caught word that the holy medium of blood healing, brought to us by the esteemed First Vicar, is venerated in the main cathedral. And that councilors of the old church reside in the high stratum of the Cathedral Ward. They, and only they, may act as guardians to this Saint-given gift. I can only hope to one day rise to their ranks, and dedicate my life to preserving the Holy Medium as well.” 

This Holy Medium, whatever it was that First Vicar Laurence had found, must contain the answers you’ve been searching for. If you could find it, study it, understand it, then perhaps it will finally bring you closer to the truth behind the Beastly Scourge outbreak. 

Whatever Laurence’s intentions, it is clear that his ambition coupled with the power of this Holy Medium, allowed him to create the Healing Church. But why? For what purpose? 

Shoving the beast’s rotten lungs into a glass, you move to extract another pint of blood, tucking the vials and needle back into your satchel as you stand once more. You can’t help but feel as though you’re overlooking something, a piece obscured both by intention and ignorance, a fragment of truth hidden in plain sight.

“Fear the Old Blood.”

What did blood have to do with all this? 

After disposing of your gloves and wiping the gore from your hands the best you can, you finally make up your mind. You’ve been neglecting a crucial component, a perspective you’ve yet to fully exploit– you need to talk to someone from the Healing Church. Who better than the Vicar herself?

If what the journal says still holds true, then perhaps you could coax some information about the current whereabouts of this Holy Medium, or at least press her for some information between prayers during mass. Judging by the toll of the bell, there was at least an hour left of prayer. Besides, despite the Vicar's influence, she holds considerably more compassion than intellect in that skull of hers, predisposed to think the best and purest of everyone’s intentions. All the better for you, really.

“Hunter.”

Again, you feel him before you see him, that unnatural heat and the smell of ashes suffocating you like smoke. “Doctor.”

“We’re going on a little trip,” you turn, shooting him a grin as you spot him beneath a streetlamp. “To the main cathedral.”

Diluc’s brow furrows and you catch the harsh clench of his jaw as he emerges from the shadows, passing a sparing glance at the Beast's corpse behind you before meeting your gaze. “Forgive me if I’ve missed something, but I thought we were on the same page regarding those religious zealots.”

“Oui, but being a Doctor means I receive the great privilege of meeting a great variety of people in the city. Not to mention, meeting them under circumstances that more often than not place them in my debt.” You smirk, but the Hunter looks horridly unamused. 

“Didn't realize you were so friendly with the Church.”

Serious as ever. You sigh, slinging your satchel and rifle back over your shoulders. “I can make exceptions. After all, if I were one to judge based on titles and lineage alone, then I would have killed you long ago.”   An unamused huff. “If I recall correctly, you woke me with a rifle to the face.”

“And yet here you are, very much alive, mon petit monstre.”

Diluc is about to retort, but it dies off the instant you purr that pet name, his gaze dropping from yours as he hyper-fixates on the suddenly very interesting cobblestone below you. Stifling a laugh, you’re about to comment on his rather flustered nature today when the bells toll for prayer, each knell echoing through Yharnam’s streets. Diluc straightens immediately, clearing his throat. 

“So? Who is this trustworthy priest of yours?” Saints, even the very sentence made his stomach churn, each word like acid against his tongue. 

Mass was almost over, you’ll need to get moving soon. Beginning towards the Cathedral, you respond, “Vicar Amelia. Despite some inherent fanaticism, she’s a brilliant young lady. There are already pitifully too few brilliant young ladies, and so I took it upon myself to seek her out and see if she stood a chance against the zealous old men surrounding her.”

“And?”

“And I think she just might be one of the last chances Yharnam has left.”

Vicar Amelia is widely revered, after all, she’s just about your age and is already the highest-ranking member of the church, and a woman, at that. Yes, the Septons and the Maesters had their little fit, and yet with the entire populace of Yharnam in love with that angel of a woman, it was impossible to put her down. And for good reason too. From free clinics, soup kitchens, community mass, and a way with words that even managed to sway even you, she has earned her spot as the last flickering light left in Yharnam’s endless night, a beacon of hope for the townspeople.

And let's just say she owes you a favor. After all, she allows you to run your clinic even though you don't quite have all the necessary paperwork, licensing, and whatnot. Not that the Maesters knew. Courtesy of Vicar Amelia. 

“You trust her?” 

Diluc’s voice pulls you back to the present and you shoot him a crooked grin. 

“Now, now, surely you jest? I said I admired her dedication to the people, but that inherently makes her a fool too. The best people often are.” You pause, mulling over your words carefully. ”She’s a resource. But more than that, she’s one of the last damn people here actually trying to save others, so I help her when I can. Despite some more… fundamental differences.”

Another scoff, the Hunter crossing his arms as he walks. “So what does that make me to you?”

“Quite talkative today aren’t we?” Diluc refuses to dignify your probe with a response. “You, my dear Hunter, are also a resource. Oh, and a pretty face to look at.”

His pace doubles, effectively leaving you trailing behind him, but not before you catch a hint of blush against his ears, peeking out from beneath the Hunter’s hat. With a laugh, you run to catch up. 

Before long the looming shadow of the Grand Cathedral greets the two of you, beckoning you forward with the grand flight of stairs leading up to its iron maw. Like guardians, a line of the bowing statues kneels on either side of the railings, hunchbacked and clutching their faces (if you could even call that a face under those hoods, more a disfigured cluster of holes than anything) frozen either in prayer or pain.

The cathedral doors tower up against swooping marble arches, heavy metal cracked open as they sway with the wind. That’s odd. Typically the Healing Church posts a number of Hunters outside the cathedral to guard the town square until the mass is over. And yet the entire perimeter of the Grand Cathedral is void of people. 

You and the Hunter push the doors wider, stepping into the shadows of the main hall as your footsteps reverberate through the chamber. It should be packed full as always on Vicar Amelia’s Sunday mass, everyone from families to Hunters to the Choir seated upon the rows of rotten wooden pews lining the grand hall. 

And yet, all you’re greeted with is silence. 

Usual neat rows of prayer benches and prie-dieus are thrown in disarray, splinters of wood littering the marble floors as you stumble further into the Cathedral in stunned silence. Not a soul remained, and despite that, you swear the words of prayer echo down the arched ceilings, like the whisperings of an angel. Or ghost.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you continue further into the hall, eyes trailing past the destruction and shattered stained glass windows, back down to the main altar where— Diluc grabs your arm, yanking you back as he tugs you against him. 

“Not a sound.” 

There, kneeling before the altar, dwarfed by the centerpiece statue and cast alight by the hundreds of half-burned candles, is a woman.

Dawned in white and deathly still, you never even noticed she was there, subconsciously mistaking her for yet another statue forever stuck in worship for whatever lay upon the altar. 

Carefully, Diluc guides the two of you behind a pillar, hidden from both the woman and any guards or visitors who may still be caught beneath the rubble. Still entirely unaware of your presence, the woman doesn’t so much as move, and you’re near considering the possibility that she’s asleep or- Saints forbid- dead, until you catch the raspy murmur of prayers muffled into her clasped hands. Prayers that, you realize, have been echoing across the cathedral halls since you first stepped foot into the building. 

It’s only then you realize you recognize her. For no one else in Yharnam has that pale, ashen hair. 

“That’s her,” you fight against Diluc’s grip. “That’s Vicar Amelia. I don’t understand, why–”

A cough rattles Amelia’s body, and you realize those aren’t simply shadows casting her in a dark glow. She is covered in blood. 

The Hunter pulls you closer. “Something’s not right.”

“Well obviously,” you huff, gesturing to the rubble as best you can against Diluc’s unrelenting hold. “Let me go, she might be hurt.”

“You’re not listening.”

“You are not listening. Now unhand me before I bite you!”

Craning your neck down, you intend to make good on your threat until Diluc’s hand meets your face halfway, stifling your mouth entirely as he yanks you backward, hissing against your ear. 

“Listen.”

Again, you instinctually fight back, your duties as a doctor overriding any normal sense of fear or suspicion you should listen to, but Diluc’s Vileblood compulsion soothes your brain against your will, and you fall slack in his arms. Limp against his chest, your brows furrow as you finally begin to make out the words Vicar Amelia is muttering, over and over and over again as she rocks back and forth on her knees. 

"Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the old blood, but beware the frailty of men. Their wills weak, minds young.” 

Your mouth opens, tongue dry against your mouth. What, what is she saying? Seek the old blood? 

“The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills weak, minds young. Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.” Her voice cracks into a broken cough. And then she starts struggling for air, falling forward as her body trembles, hands still locked in prayer. ”Death would,” a strangled gasp, ”Death—”

She’s seizing. 

Dropping your weight into a lunge, you manage to wriggle free from Diluc’s hold, running out from behind the pillar, the Vicar’s jagged breathing echoing through the cathedral. “Amelia!” You need to turn her onto her side before she choked on her tongue, or worse.

And then, she screams. Neck snapping backward, the crack of bone and the gurgle of blood mix with her horrid screeches, body twitching and convulsing as every limb bent and snapped. Amelia’s spine snaps in half, screaming as she claws at her throat, tearing apart tendons and muscles with her bare fingernails as blood spews onto the statues before you, her ribs cracking open and piercing through flesh as her body tears itself apart. Crimson sprays like wings, red staining her white robes, tainting the altar and holy statues alike, covering you in blood as you stumble to the ground. 

Even without her throat, Amelia continues to wail, the hellish sound gurgling out directly from her chest as her bones continue to twist and pull and grow in sharp jerks, fur sprouting out from under once holy robes, thick tresses of white ripping through flesh. Her body is ripping itself apart. 

Then, every bone snaps back into place, but all wrong. Limbs reach for the ceiling and clawed paws dig into the marble as she mutates into a hellish beast taller than the grand altar itself. All at once woman and wolf and stag and monster, a creature defiling nature itself. She turns to snarl, flashing her disfigured rows of fangs in a mouth more muzzle than human, and you realize it would be futile to try and run. 

Even with the tattered remains of human skin and cloth blindfolding her eyes, she knows you are here. And you will not escape her. 

Still, Amelia clutches her paws to her heart, falling silent. She sniffs the air, once, twice. 

You feel the bile rise in your throat, covering your mouth with one hand as the other scrambles backward to try and place more distance between you and the beast you watched transform right before your eyes. Impossible. It was impossible. The Scourge takes days, if not weeks to spread, and yet the Vicar turned right before your eyes. 

Again, you throw your head to the side vomiting before someone grabs you, yanking you behind a pillar as you try and make out the words being muffled into your hair. Diluc’s grip tightens and he forces you to face him, crimson eyes grounding you as he whispers against your bloody temple. “As soon as I attack, run for the entrance. Run and do not look back.”

“Wait, please. You can’t kill her, she–” You’re shaking. Fuck. You’re shaking. “She’s the last hope this city has left.” The rest of your pleas die in your throat when another growl makes the very floor of the cathedral tremble. She heard you. “Please.”

The Hunter shoves three bottles into your grasp and forces your rifle into your hands. “You can’t save them all. You can’t save her.”

You’re out of time. 

The growls turn to shrieks, Amelia’s enormous body shuddering as she screams, lunging forward as she knocks down the pillar to your right. You fall to your knees at the impact, skull rattling as you feel the blood from your burst eardrums trickle down your neck and jaw. By the time you open your eyes, Diluc is gone, darting out from the hallway and emerging into the main cathedral hall as he fires a shot directly into the beast’s skull. 

“So this is how your gods repay you.” The Hunter unsheathes his claymore, swinging it to his side as he scoffs. “Pity.”

Amelia screams, slashing her outreached arm in time to Diluc’s lunge, only for his sword to meet her halfway, cutting right through her clawed palm. Flesh splays out as the sword drives up her enormous arm, tendons flailing uselessly next to the severed bone. Diluc is blinded with the spray of red, trying to wrench his claymore out from her flesh when Amelia flings him off, force sending him flying into a pillar with a bloody gasp. 

Diluc falls, splattering the marble red as he hears the back of his skull crack- a sickening crunch that pulses behind his eyes and throat, vision spinning in time to his slowing heart as he watches the beast writhe in agony over its severed arm. 

You hardly stifle a scream, about to run to him when one of the bottles tumbles from your arms, nearly shattering against the floor before you catch it. They reek of oil. 

Oil. Fire. It’s a Molotov Cocktail. 

Amelia has nearly finished stitching together her arm, beastly flesh snapping and knitting back together as she turns towards the nearly unconscious Hunter, claws outstretched. 

Blood, he needs your blood. 

With trembling hands, you unsheathe a dagger from your belt, slashing your forearm before launching the Molotov Cocktail at Amelia as hard as you can, the bottle shattering and setting the flank of the beast on fire as the cathedral is filled with the smell of burning flesh and blood. Your bones rattle with her screams. 

Already lightheaded, you stumble through the rubble before falling at Diluc’s side. Pulling his face into your lap, you shove the open gash against his lips, feeling him stir beneath you as he gulps down your blood in greedy swallows. Crimson eyes snap open, and he takes one more mouthful before shoving you behind him, staggering to his feet as he lifts himself with the claymore.

Amelia rears up onto her hind legs with another shriek before thrusting her paws, still clasped in prayer, down on top of the Hunter. You’re thrown across the aisle with the force of the blow, choking on a gurgle of Diluc’s name. 

But he is nowhere to be found. 

Instead, the Hunter had already ducked underneath the enormous beast, claymore slashing into her Achilles heel, bringing the beast to her knees with another unending scream. About to cut the other heel, Diluc raises his claymore over his head, swinging down only to get struck in the chest with a desperate hind kick from the beast. 

Rolling against the marble and debris, Diluc feels the pop of his lungs, hears it against his skull and coughs out a mass of blood. At least three ribs cracked, and he has to jam his sword into the ground to break the momentum. But Amelia is already upon him. She slashes twice, and Diluc hardly rolls out of the way in time, her claws nearly twice as large as his claymore as they dig straight through the marble. 

Finally able to control your breathing, you roll onto your knees, propping your rifle against your shoulder as you desperately aim for the flailing head of the beast. She throws herself forward with yet another clumsy slash of her claws, and you pull the trigger, recoil kicking you backward as Amelia’s screams echo through the cathedral. 

She claws at her neck, the gaping hole of torn flesh no doubt due to your bullet, giving Diluc enough time to thrust his claymore through Amelia’s lower jaw, slicing downwards as her throat tears in two. It’s all you can do to tune out the pained shrieks, high-pitched and distorted with the gurgle of blood. 

Marble cracks and pillars tremble as the panicked beast rams into them, the entire cathedral trembling as she throws herself to the ground. But with that she’s pinned Diluc under her massive body, crushing the Hunter as his ribs snap from the weight. You scramble for another bottle, vision already flickering to black from the blood loss via your still-bleeding arm.  

Chucking another Molotov Cocktail at Amelia, the glass shatters, oil and flames catching on her fur and burning through flesh and bone. The beast rolls side to side, screaming as she tries to put out the flames in animalistic desperation, giving Diluc enough time to crawl out from underneath her and stab his sword into her flaming side again and again and again, fresh blood fueling the fire. 

But the fire was searing into Diluc’s skin too, and he only managed one more slash before he had to crawl backward, lest he wanted to burn alive too. 

Amelia’s cries are mixed with the roar of the flames as she stands, flaying her arms widely, and with one final ram, one of the massive Church pillars plunges to the ground, right atop the crawling Hunter. With his injuries, Diluc only just manages to escape, several tons of marble slamming into the floor and on top of his leg. His screams are drowned by the howling of the beast. 

Looming over the trapped Hunter, Amelia’s flaming maw opens wide, snapping closed against his entire torso when three more shots ring out, blasting through her skull and ripping her lower jaw straight off. 

Snarling, she turns to face you. You have her full attention now. 

Her tongue hangs loosely by snapped tendons and shattered bone, and yet her screams still echo against your ears. You stumble backward. 

There’s nowhere to run.

You can’t fight her. 

Somewhere in the distance, you think you hear Diluc yelling. But Saints, the drumming of your heart is too loud to focus on anything else. 

You have no Molotov Cocktails left, and you can’t stop trembling long enough to even raise your arm, let alone aim your rifle. Amelia’s fiery shadow looms over you, and you collapse onto your knees. Ironic, isn’t it? Does this count as prayer?

Diluc watches as the beast stalks closer and closer to you, and yet you can’t seem to hear a word he says, screaming at you to run. Writhing, he curls upward, pushing and kicking with pure rage, but the pillar doesn’t so much as budge. He can’t feel his left leg anymore. Amelia’s jaw is nearly healed, and you still won’t fucking move. He curses, bracing both hands against the marble as he inhales. 

Exhales. And he rips himself free. 

Blood spurts from his leg, loose tendons, muscle, and skin ripping as he tugs apart the uneven gash in his left thigh, the entirety of his knee and below gone, still pinned and bleeding beneath the pillar. He doesn’t wait for the pain to catch up.

By now, you have accepted your fate. Amelia draws one of her massive paws back, and with her next swing, you close your eyes, welcoming your escape from this nightmare at long last. 

But the blow never hits. 

Instead, you’re greeted with the warm spray of blood down your face, and your eyes flutter open. 

Diluc stands before you, one arm outreached as he stumbles forward, two of Amelia’s claws ripping from his shoulder to his sternum as blood pours from his body onto your own. You hardly open your arms in time to catch him as his limp body slides off the claws, falling into your embrace as you sob. 

Only now can you see beyond his shoulder, at the skull of Vicar Amelia lies, split in two, with Diluc’s claymore wedged between the burning halves. 

He saved you, and now he’s dying. Your Hunter is dying. 

Scrambling, you take off your coat and rip at your shirt to stop the bleeding, but there’s just so much of it that your hands and forearms are stained red, the floor too, there’s just so much and Saints you don’t know what else to do. You try to force him to drink more blood from your arm, but he nudges it back down, trailing your palm with his fingers. 

“Stop.” Diluc’s voice comes out in gasps, and he takes your hand into his own. Even now, he’s impossibly gentle and it makes you want to cry. “I’ll come back. Can’t—” he coughs up more blood, and you wipe it away, leaving a darker trail of red. “Can’t die, remember?”

“I do.” Your voice cracks, but you smile. He should remember you smiling. Diluc’s hand comes up, trembling as it brushes tears off your cheeks. “I do. I remember.”

The Hunter offers you one last smile, nodding as his arm falls into the pool of blood surrounding the two of you, words hardly more than a dying whisper as you fall over him. “I’ll find you once again.”

You press yourself against him, nodding as you kiss his forehead. “Promise?”

“I vow it.”

And your Hunter disintegrates into ash. 

A heartbeat, and all you’re left with is an empty puddle of gore, blood, and a corpse of yet another beast at your feet. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve witnessed a hunter enter the dream, and yet it feels no less scary. No less permanent. A sort of death where the gods were cruel enough to even take the body away, taunting you as though he had never existed in the first place. 

Would it take hours for him to come back? Weeks? Years?

You don’t know. 

All this carnage and for what? The meaningless death-door prayers of a Vicar whose mind was already poisoned by the plague and fanaticism alike. A Vicar who is now dead too. 

You roar, smashing your fists against the pool of blood that you still kneeled in, splashing yourself with even more of the stuff, sticky and hot against your face as it drips back down to the floor. Another scoff. “All this talk of blood.”

This blood seemed to be as much of an obsession to the Healing Church now as it was during Laurence’s time; both those journals and Vicar Amelia praised it as though worthy of veneration. Old Blood, perhaps that was the Holy Medium? But blood from who, from what?

All this blood hardly seems holy. It's just red. 

“Damn it all.”

Dragged down by the heaviness of your blood-soaked clothes, you force yourself to your feet with a wince, limping towards Amelia’s massive corpse when something flickers at the base of the altar. Turning, you lead with your rifle, and yet there is nothing left in the hall. The altar is untouched, bathed in red, and yet down at the base of it, amongst the hundreds of flickering candles lies a skull wreathed in cloth and offerings. You lower the gun. 

The skull was hardly anything special. The face cracked with a massive gash cut down its right eye, and its jaw was hideously transformed, as if something had burst the bone from within. Rows of fangs protruded in awkward angles all along the half-human half-lupine jaw, and you can’t help but look back at Amelia, the similarities too striking to ignore. 

Perhaps this was what the Old Blood did.

Yet the longer you observe the skull, the longer you grow certain something about it really is flickering. Not quite emitting light, visually there is nothing unnatural, and yet it beckons you forward all the same, drawing you closer as you reach out your arm. 

And with a slow lean, your palm brushes jagged bone. 

You’re falling. Jerked backward, the cathedral fades to black around you, vision tunneling as panic seizes your entire being yet again, darkness consuming you whole as you fall until the world goes silent. 

Then, you hear a voice.

It’s a man’s voice, distant, warped, and yet you could taste the words as though it had been your own tongue that spoke them, calm and assured of yourself. You lick your lips- in nervousness?- and feel the scratch of something beneath your nose that you realize must be a beard. It’s only then you realize you must be seeing this through the man whose skull you just touched. 

"Master Willem, I've come to bid you farewell."

Master Willem. You recognize that name.

Through the fog of the memory you see the golden glint of a septon, tapping rhythmically against the lap of a man seated in a grand rocking chair, his face blurry and obscured. Your head is throbbing. 

“Oh, I know, I know. You think now to betray me."

The older man’s voice croaks with unamused scorn, a laugh broken with old age and weariness. You feel something in your chest wince, and yet you press on. 

"No, but you will never listen." You sigh, but it does not shake you. Your mind was made up long ago. "I promise you, I will not forget our adage."

A toothless smile spreads across your mentor’s wrinkling face, and he begins, "We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood." He takes comfort in this. A devotion, a salvation to be shared with the world. "Our eyes are yet to open."

"Fear the old blood," the two finish in unison, voices mingling in a distant harmony.

Your shoulders straighten, resolve all the more solidified as you look down onto your master with a sense of longing despite knowing there was no other way. “I must take my leave now." You feel the body walk away, footsteps echoing as they creak against wood flooring, indicating that they must be in a house or building of some sort. A door hinge creaks, and slams shut. And yet your consciousness remains in the room. 

Suddenly you are suspended in an aerial view, the man rocking in his wheelchair far below you as you take in the papers and candles strewn half hazardous around him. It’s only then the name clicks against your memory with cold realization. 

This must be Byrgernwerth.

But before you can attempt to piece it all together, the world collapses in on itself once again, Master Willem’s voice ringing through your ears. 

"By the gods, fear it, Laurence. Fear it."

Stumbling backward, you are suddenly thrust back into your own body, struggling to control your limbs once again, vision flickering back in place against the flickering torchlight of the Grand Cathedral.

“How–” your voice is raspy, tongue heavier than lead as it rolls against your teeth. “What was that?”

Laurence. You were inside the memory of Laurence, The First Vicar. You got inside a memory of a person centuries dead by touching his skull. Tripping over yourself, you fall onto your tailbone with a hiss, and yet even the pain is forgotten as you stare up at the skull still perched, unchanging, upon the altar. 

Was that the moment Laurence decided to begin the Healing Church? He left his old master Willem and Byrgenwerth to… what? You remember his feeling of pride, the resolution for the path before you. 

Laurence wished to share the Old Blood with others, the once noble pursuit likely taking him to Yharnam, leading him to found the Healing Church. And yet in doing so, he disobeyed the adage he swore he’d follow: instead of fearing the Old Blood, he turned it into an icon of worship. Turned it into a twisted devotion. 

Look where it got us now.

Of course it took something holy to create this kind of a hell. 

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin imagines #bloodborne #vampire #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc smut

[poisonf0rest]

𝐖𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭

In an attempt to uncover the truth, I must posit the questions of which are in dire need of answering to even begin to understand what exactly has befallen Yharnam:

What is the source of the Ashen Blood? What is the source of the Beastly Scourge? How, if, are these two illnesses of the body and mind related? Why, if blood ministration is the cure, has the Healing Church not acted sooner and treated all the Yharnamites?

Unless, they do not have a cure. 

Unless, they are the origin of the curse. 

Unless, this was simply the inevitable progression of mankind, and we were always doomed to revert back to the beasts we once thought ourselves so far above. An arrogance paralleled only to that of the Gods. 

And look where it got them… 

A week had passed until you finally summoned the Hunter, having exhausted all your other options. Any meager samples of beast blood or swatches of flesh you managed to forage from rotting carcasses on Yharnam’s deserted streets have long since been used up, and between inconclusive findings and a sheer lack of understanding of what was truly happening to these transforming humans, you’ve found yourself at yet another a dead end. 

You needed to begin from scratch, and that meant you needed knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, preferably.  

Tucking your satchel under your coat, you snuck out when the bell tower rang ten and two, slipping past the sentinels of the Church as you darted up the streets of Yharnam, waiting behind the gates of the Cathedral. The Church had only recently imposed a curfew for all citizens outside of Hunters, and yet the empty streets and distant howls of beasts reminded you of the nightmare your city is descending into. Now look at what you’ve been reduced to, sneaking around your own home. It’s pathetic. Infuriating. 

Crouched behind a ruined pillar, you eye the deserted plaza before you, following the cobblestone path leading up to the Healing Church’s grand gated entrance. Up, up, up as they ascend stairs until they breach those twin iron doors that loom over the city with their carvings of fallen angels and old gods. Little more than five years ago and you never would have never believed you’d one day voluntarily walk through those doors again. And yet here you are. 

Perhaps once you’d have begged God to forgive you for the trespass you’re about to commit, but it seems you and the rest of the Yharnam fell from Her grace long ago. 

“Glad to see my parting words of ‘stay away from the Church’ were dutifully followed.”

A yelp of surprise escapes you as you whirl around, falling gracelessly onto your ass as you curse, rubbing your injured tailbone. The Hunter crosses his arms, towering above you, only those suffocating red eyes visible from behind his black mask and hat. It makes your skin burn. 

“A simple, how are you, I’ve been well thank you, would have sufficed.” You grumble, standing whilst brushing mud and bramble from your clothes. “But I suppose you Hunters are never one for subtly, are you?”

“I am subtle.”

“You are dense, my dear Hunter. There is a difference.”

You can almost make out a frown from behind that mask of his. Regardless, you carry on. “The night grows no younger. I hope you came prepared, for your very first task is getting us inside the Cathedral without being spotted.” 

“And I’m to assume this is something you couldn’t accomplish by simply walking in and asking?”

“Not unless you want them to burn me for witchcraft. Imagine the look on the Vicar and the priests' faces if a woman- Saints fucking forbid- were to barge in and ask to read ancient books of medicine and history.” A scoff.  ”The fact I’m literate at all would probably cause a nun to faint.”

Diluc hums in vague amusement. “If not that then your foul tongue ought to do the trick.”

“Bastard.”

“Doctor.”

Not to mention, if anyone managed to recognize you, you’d be burnt at the stake. 

You shake away the thought, pushing past the Hunter as you point to the top of the cathedral, up at the marble spires and bell tower that disappear into the fog. Even the darkness fails to hide the imposing shadow it casts over the city.  “Up Hunter, take me up there.” 

You hardly finish your demand before Diluc grabs you, hoisting your body across his shoulder as though you were little more than a sack of wheat, scaling the iron gates and hauling the two of you up the side of the cathedral with one arm. 

It all happens so fast that you can only cling to him for dear life, screwing your eyes shut as your jaw hangs open in a silent scream. Gods, you were practically flying.  “You imbécile! Tête de nœud!” Ten thousand more curses race out from you, and yet they are lost to the howl of the wind. 

The higher the two of you climb, the louder the wails, drowning out the all-too-frequent heaves and strained grunts coming from the Hunter beneath you. Your hands clench harder into his coat as you desperately try to clear your mind. Happy thoughts. Damn it all, happy thoughts. 

“You may retract your talons from my back now.” 

Forcing an eye open, you find that the two of you made it to the top of the cathedral, standing upon a platform amid a triad of spires. 

You choke out a laugh, “Ah, many thanks, dear Hunter.” Patting his bicep, he lets you down hesitantly. Refusing to acknowledge just how far from the ground you are, you force your gaze upwards and cling to the stones framing one of the many glass windows at your back. Saints, did the clouds look closer or are you going insane? 

Clearing your throat, you force yourself to look around for some sort of ladder or balcony.  “Now, if I mapped it out correctly, there should be a set of entrances scattered around the main belfry…” 

As though on cue, the bells begin to toll, a hollow, haunted sound that reverberates in your skulls as you both turn to see the main tower with the trio of bells. Their slow song continues, tolling nine times, a number once thought to ward off evil and to call for listeners to pray for the departing souls. 

But for whom the bell tolls, you never knew. Maybe it was for the city itself. 

“There,” you point. True to your word, nestled on the West wall of the belfry was a door, a ladder leading up to it on the cluster of spires right next to the one the two of you were currently perched on. 

The only remaining problem was the narrow rooftop connecting your tower to the main bell tower. And the several hundred feet between you and the ground should you choose to slip. 

The Hunter’s footsteps are silent as always, but you feel his warmth before you see him, radiating against your back as his hand grabs yours. A horrible moment for introspection, you know, but you can’t help but gawk at how far he towers over you, figure nearly blocking out the light of the moon with those arms the size of your head. A man bred and raised on destruction. 

“Are you paying attention?”

You jolt up, nodding. Diluc scoffs, grip tightening around your wrist as he drags the two of you toward the roof’s edge. “Then follow my lead, and do try not to fall. You’re not quite as light as you look.” 

There’s no time for a snarky comeback, as the Hunter drops down onto the roof scaffolding, tugging you along with him. The wind beats at your side as you place one trembling foot in front of another, desperately trying to match his pace without being blown right off the ledge. Left. Right. Left. Right.

Step by step, the two of you inch closer and closer to the main belfry, and once the ladder is within grasp, Diluc’s hand moves to grip your waist, hauling you towards him and perching you atop the ladder’s bottom rung. Climbing up, you heave as you pull yourself onto the tower platform, greeted with the sight of the oak door. Your way in. 

Rattling the doorknob, you push and pull against it, but the hinge doesn’t so much as budge. “Locked.” 

From the looks of it, surely the wood was rotten and soft, nothing a good kick couldn’t get through. You step back. Inhaling sharply, you thrust your boot into the door, only for your leg to recoil with a pained hiss, the wood letting out a low groan as though laughing at the attempt.  

Watching you curse out the poor door, Diluc smiles in faint amusement before nudging you aside. Then, he repeats the action, this time causing it to splinter on impact, his leg flying through the door frame as you flinch to avoid the fragments.

“After you, Doctor.”

Brute.

Reaching over, you lean into the yawning crevice, finding the hollow space to be something of an attic, littered with broken fragments of statues long forgotten and paintings woven in cobwebs. Oh, and at least two dozen crucifixes strewed about the room.

Further in, you cross a pile of folded black and white robes, that accursed Cosmic Eye Watcher Badge sitting on top, staring right back at you. A shiver seizes you by the ribs and you wrench your gaze away. 

Ducking beneath spiderwebs, you finally catch the iron gleam of what seems to be a trapdoor tucked away in the far corner. A looming shadow over you is the only indicator that the Hunter has followed, his footsteps near silent as he leans over you, pulling on the latch as the trapdoor heaves open, exposing the darkness below. 

Diluc goes first, lowering himself down before dropping into the gaping abyss. A second passes, then another, and only then do you finally hear the thud of his landing. Saints, the fall must be more than a dozen meters. 

Your heart lurches in your throat, and you’re in the midst of calculating your chances of making it out with both your kneecaps still intact when the Hunter’s voice calls up to you from the darkness. 

“Jump, I’ll be sure to catch you.” 

A curt laugh. “I’m hardly doubting your prowess, Hunter, but I’d imagine it would be quite difficult to catch something you can’t see.”

“Vileblood, remember. I see you perfectly.” You swallow. “Jump.”

Despite every morsel of rationale left in your body, you listen. Who knows, perhaps if you doubted him again he’d simply scale the wall and drag you down with him this time. Maybe the Vilebloods could fly? Turn into a bat? Note to test that theory later. 

Regardless, you brace yourself, dangling your legs through the trapdoor and forcing out another exhale. Your hands are shaking. 

Jump. 

Pushing off the floor, a cold gust of air beats against your limbs as you flail against nothing. Moments of horrid silence rush past you, jaw clamped shut as the abyss swallows you with each impossible second you fall further and further and further still. 

You swear a hellish eternity passes before you’re swiped from midair, crashing against something before a set of arms wrap around your torso, pulling you tight as you both land on solid ground. The force of the landing ricochets through your skull, and your head snaps back, teeth catching your unsuspecting tongue between them. A yelp, one hand un-fisting from the Hunter’s coat to cover your mouth. 

“Well done, I half expected you to come down cursing.”

A glare is all you settle for since your tongue is still throbbing. 

With a swat at his shoulder, Diluc promptly sets you down. He’s uncharacteristically gentle with it, first lowering your legs and bracing you against his chest as you recall how to properly use your joints, waiting for you to regain some semblance of balance before releasing you completely.

With your wits recollected and eyesight adjusted to the darkness, you take in the balcony layout, spotting the faint glow of melting candles and chandeliers on floors beneath you. Stone railings, rows and rows of stained glass windows, and a spiral set of stairs. 

You glance at the Hunter, but he seems to already have gotten the message, nodding as he takes the lead, beginning your descent into the Healing Church, and soon the catacombs below. 

Even whispering here would be foolish, for the arched stone ceilings of the cathedral carry every bit of sound up as though it were prayer, echoing as it goes. If only you could walk as quietly as the Hunter, his stealth allowing him to venture yards in front of you as he scours every corner and hallway the two of you creep through. The church was eerily empty, only the distant hymn of the choir and the screaming of beasts in the village reverberating through every hall as though in song. 

You know what the Hunters are. People from far and wide come to Yharnam for the miracle blood ministration, the promise of being cured of any ailment enough to persuade them into signing their very right to death away– cursed for eternity to Hunt. To die again and again until they turned into the very beasts they hunted. 

Your Vileblood Hunter, you wonder how long he’s been cursed to this undying death? 

Perhaps it’s your innate curiosity, perhaps it's your innate fear. Either way, something beyond your comprehension keeps luring you back to him, and perhaps that in and of itself should have been the first warning sign.

But you were blind to it, and only in the end would your true eyes open. 

By then, only ashes will remain.

The two of you descend five floors- if you’ve been keeping count correctly- turning into yet another hallway when the heavy thud of armored footsteps begin approaching. The shadow of a knight emerges just beyond the next corner. You freeze.

Frantic, you scan the desolate church halls, catching the Hunter’s wrist before shoving the two of you into a crevice behind a sculpture of a Saint. The stubborn fool resists for a moment, but you hiss some curses under your breath, shoving his all-too-large figure behind the statue as you crawl between the marble and his body, panting from effort and sheer terror. 

You’ve seen what the Church does to the sinners— they rot, nailed to crosses for days. You can’t imagine what they’d do to a traitor. 

You slap a hand over your mouth, bracing against Diluc’s taller form before covering his mouth as well, watching as the glow from the lantern gets brighter. Your heart screams against your ears as you watch the guard walk right past. 

Gods old and new be blessed, he fails to notice the two of you pressed against the marble and continues down the hall. 

But, you must admit, getting out would prove much harder than getting in, as you’ve thoroughly lodged yourselves between the wall and the numerous corners of the statue, nearly immobile as you relinquish your grip over Diluc’s mouth, still entirely pressed up against him. 

Every breath seizing your chest forces the two of you closer, an undistinguishable tangle of limbs blocking you as you try and escape, only to stumble over the Hunter’s boot, flailing as you lurch forward. This time it’s Diluc’s hand that grabs your face, stopping you mere inches from bashing into the side of the statue, a sound that would have undoubtedly been enough to alert the guard. And give you a concussion. 

Pulling you back against his chest, the Hunter’s breath fans your neck for a heartbeat, only for him to promptly lift you onto the arm of the sculpture, allowing you to climb over the marble and down the other side.

He’s warm. So unnaturally warm you still feel his breath against your skin, you still feel his touch through the rough leather of his gloves, lingering even though he has already begun walking down the next flight of stairs. You shiver.

“I didn’t plan on being so far in your debt, Hunter.”

The man doesn’t respond, silent as he descends. Then a pause. “There is no debt between us, Doctor. We made a vow.”

“Vow?” 

Running to catch up, you hum in consideration, remembering your first fateful encounter at the clinic. “Then I suppose you’d want more of my blood after this?” He flinches, and you scoff. “Oh please, I have plenty to go around. If that is all it takes for me to keep such a valuable assistant to myself then I’d say I’m getting the good end of the deal.” 

The Hunter refuses to acknowledge your quip with a response and continues down the stairs. You follow with a huff.

Ultimately, the library was easy to find, for a grand set of stairs lined with half-melted candles and the statues of the Saints led the two of you up to a set of heavy copper doors, each carved with the original scribe and inventor of language herself, Saint Enoch. 

Placing your hands upon the doors, you lean in, nearly kissing the copper with your lips as you whisper a hymn, ancient latin coaxing the lock open as it clicks and turns with your voice. If the Hunter hears you, he says nothing. 

With the last verse the doors unlock, and you push into the Healing Church’s Grand Library.

The room was a spiraling chamber, rising for what appeared to be an eternity as shelves of books ascended every wall of the spire. Silver fixtures glow in the candlelight, illuminating the murals that adorn every pillar scattered across the library, strewn about like a stone forest. 

Walking deeper, you pass under staircases and ladders both, eyes trailing across the marbled floor, stone cracked with gold and silver as it too gleams in the low light. Etched in the cracks spanned the map of the entire kingdom, from Yharnam, to Paris, to Liyue and beyond. What a powerful feeling, to have the city’s knowledge at your fingertips and the world itself beneath your feet. 

The further you venture, the stranger the contents of the library get: shelves turning from stacks of books to exhibits, lined with jarred specimens of every beast and bone, tarnished armor of knights long-forgotten, and even collections of skulls from things both of this world and not. 

Skimming your hand along a shelf, you thumb at the endless row of books, pulling one out before tucking it under your arm, adding to your already growing stack. 

Without looking back, you call out to the Hunter, “If you notice books on medicine, blood, or the Beastly Scourge do bring them to me. I’ll begin on the left and you can take the right, that way we can cover more ground. Although, truthfully we’ll likely need several nights to look through it all.” 

You pull out another book, and another, equally impressed and disgusted at the sheer amount of literature and knowledge preserved in these halls, just rotting away.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Silence. 

Snapping the book in your hands shut, you crane your neck backward. “Do you hear me, Hunter?” 

More silence. 

Stepping out of your current row, you easily spot the flame-colored hue of his hair in the far corner of the library, standing before an enormous glass case. A display, filled with the skulls of Vilebloods.

“Yes, rather charming to know the Healing Church’s infatuation with my kind goes back for so many generations.” He scoffs, shrugging his claymore higher onto his shoulders before lumbering off. 

And yet your gaze lingers, taking in the carnage so proudly set on display before you. Saints, some of those skulls looked like they couldn’t have been more than four years of age when they died. 

Killed— you remind yourself— the Cainhurst Vileblood lineage was executed at the command of the Church a little over a century ago.

It was taught to be a righteous campaign, a tale of valor and victory told every Sunday morning before lessons on the sword and the alphabet. The Crusade was a holy cleansing to rid the world of the blasphemy that was the creation of the Vileblood— daemon, devil, Vampyr. Born from a sinner’s betrayal and the revered Old Blood, it was an accepted truth that the Vilebloods threatened the purity of the Healing Church and their mission to cleanse Yharnam. 

You still remember the vows word for word, each letter tasting of copper and fire against your tongue: “Those who kill in the name of god shall have their sins absolved and thus immune to the scourge of beasts. Seek the Old Blood.”

And yet, that’s the funny thing about truth, it depends entirely on the power of the man who wields it. And fear is always at its most powerful when disguised as devotion.

Time seemed to slip by as you drowned yourself in readings, undisturbed until the bell tower rang for zero and three. Dawn was approaching, and the church would awaken soon. 

Stretching, you stand from the oak chair with a low groan. The Hunter sat on the far end of the long table, nearly hidden from view behind your ever-accumulating stack of books. 

Waltzing closer, you peer over his shoulder. "Find anything?"

"Quite a bit of nonsense," Diluc drones, closing the book he'd been skimming. You noticed how fast he flipped through it, processing the information as the pages fluttered by at an inhumane pace. "You say this library holds the knowledge you need for your experiments, and yet all I’ve read so far are fairytales about glorified martyrs and gods."

Unfortunately, you're inclined to agree. 

Originally you hypothesized that perhaps the personal journals of past Maesters and Vicars would guide you towards uncovering some of the knowledge the Healing Church has been hiding, but instead all you got were fanatic moondrunk rantings and all-too-personal facts about old men. 

You sigh. “Perhaps the true reason this collection is forbidden in the first place is out of the profound embarrassment that someone was stupid enough to collect it in the first place.”

Diluc offers something of a laugh then, the sound low and rough.  "Lovely reading, I’m sure."

"Oui, well, lovely as it might be, it’s useless." Another sigh and you thumb through the finished stack of books.  "The only piece that might lead us somewhere is the mention of someone named Laurence. This particular journal goes on and on about the Archbishop, but it does mention a sort of deviation that this Laurence initiated, causing a sort of split long before the formation of the Healing Church itself.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrow, and he walks towards you, glancing at the page. “Laurence. The First Vicar.”

“You knew him?”

Diluc stiffens. “I knew of him. Anyone whose history wasn’t falsified by the Healing Church knows of the Hellfire Beast. But if it’s the knowledge of the First Vicar you’re searching for then chances are you need to locate Byrgenwerth College. All of what you call sacred in Yharnam traces back to those dregs of society.” 

“Byrgenwerth has been sealed off for a century.”

If the Hunter notices how quickly you cut him off, he doesn’t comment on it. “Forgive me, I didn’t particularly take you as one to follow the Church’s boundaries. After all, you are the one who dragged us here.” 

“Yes, well…” 

You don’t have an argument. You just know you’d rather claw your own eyes out than step one foot back into those accused halls. 

Plucking the journal from the Hunter’s grasp, you stuff it into your satchel alongside two other books that mention Lawrence The First Vicar and the Beastly Scourge. The two of you work in silence to place the books back onto the shelves, and when you’re certain the Vampyr isn’t looking, you manage to pack a few books on the Cainhurst Vilebloods into your bag too. 

The Hunter is very much still an enigma to you, and if you’re to work with him and find the cure to Yharnam’s plague, then you’d want to make sure you knew everything you could about his kind. Especially if anything were to go wrong. 

You’re still in the midst of re-stacking some books in ancient Greek in the left wing of the library when the Hunter’s voice interrupts your subconscious murmuring. 

“I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet.”

You jump, spewing curses as he— yet again— makes it a habit to appear behind you out of thin air. 

“I hadn't realized you needed it,” you say, lifting onto your toes as you struggle to reach a high shelf. The Hunter takes the book from your gasp and slots it back into place, figure now looming over your own as hands grip the wooden shelf above your head. Intimidation, you realize. And it’s working. 

“It’s only polite to address a lady by their namesake.” You scoff, but he continues. ”So then you have no intention of learning my name either?”

“I’ve grown to rather like calling you my dear Hunter. Unless you’d prefer a new nickname? Something more extravagant? Mon petit monstre? Mon chéri?”

His grip tightens, and you hear the wood splinter. “I never quite understood how a Doctor such as yourself came to know French, either.”

“Oh, all the better to sing hymns with, I assure you. The Church enforces French, Latin, and even Greek if you’re unlucky enough.” 

This finally stops him entirely. You can feel the heat of his blood-red gaze bearing into you before he speaks. “You were raised by the Church?”

You’re quiet, unnaturally still under his stare. Flipping through a book, you wave a hand, eyes glued to the pages as you respond half-heartedly. “Partially. My guardians were, ah, somewhat of a devout group.” 

This would never work— a partnership truly doomed from the start. Like a sick sort of epilogue only found at the beginning of a Greek or Shakespeare tragedy to herald in an inevitable demise. And yet, you were quickly growing addicted to this waltz composed of lies and half-truths, stuck dancing to a tune that could only be sung for self-indulgence and sin. 

“Diluc.” 

You look up, voice escaping you. “What?”

“Diluc Ragnvindr, of the Noble Cainhurst.”

The two of you simply stare for a heartbeat, then a heartbeat more. Finally, you say your name, each syllable heavy and rotted like a corpse unearthed. Hesitantly, you add, “of the Choir.” 

And for the first time, you see the Hunter smile. Your name suits you. 

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Within the next week, you finally show Diluc to your lab, mainly because you required his supernatural strength and coordination to carry in your new stack of stolen books from the Healing Church’s library. 

As he finishes organizing the journals as you instructed, you place a pot over a small fire to begin brewing some tea, allowing Diluc to wander around the lab as he takes in the bustling room. 

It smelled of dried herbs, sulfur, and something stronger, something bolder that smelled of yearning, every inhale like stepping into the sunlight when the day is still on the cusp of winter and spring, a promise of new beginnings while remembering the pain of the winter. It races down Diluc’s spine and makes his gums prick with every inhale— it’s the same scent that clings to you. 

“What is all of this?” Diluc asks, not daring to touch any of the bubbling concoctions or the variety of steaming tubes or vials. He even holds his breath, careful not to inhale too deeply. 

It looked more like a little forest than anything else, an ecosystem of chemicals and blood and life and death itself encased in glass and steel and fire and mystery. Science.

Innovation, you called it. 

“It’s the best this rotting city has to offer,” you say, sweeping aside a pile of books to make space among the clutter for yet another journal. Flipping through pages, you read off sections in Greek, Latin, French, and English, flickering past diagrams of limbs, hearts, and humans. “The greatest minds in Europe think the answers to our universe lie in dead gods or dying gods, helpless in the face of disease or disaster. But long ago mankind could understand the root of infections like the Scourge, execute surgeries to restore eyesight, and perform miracles that now could only be described as alchemy or witchcraft. All of these inventions lost to time and ignorance.” 

“Will it bring you the answers?”

You freeze, looking at your life’s work.

 “I don’t know.” 

The kettle hisses, breaking the silence with its scream. 

Diluc moves first, lifting the pot off the fire and pouring it over two cups, one a dainty teacup, plastered with chipped paint and the other a misshapen mug with a crack down its side, watching the water swirl and brown with the tea leaves. 

Holding out both cups, he gives a curt nod. “Very well. If you believe the answer to the scourge lies in my blood, take what you desire.”

He looks so serious, standing there, that you can't help the wry smile cracking across your lips. “You ought to be more wary of your words,” you purr, “my dear Hunter.”

Taking the mug from his grip, you let your hands lace around his, tugging him towards you as he turns as stiff as the claymore still strapped to his back. “What I need and what I desire may well be two very different things.” 

Despite your best attempts, your eyes fall to his lips. 

They often do. Much too often recently. 

You never really noticed before, mainly because his Hunter attire covers the majority of his face, but the man before you is so unfairly pretty. His untamed mane curls around all the hard angles of his face, like flames licking at a marble statue, the same blood-red hue of his hair burning in his eyes. As he leans in closer, you catch flickers of gold in them as well. Even with the Vampyr healing abilities, Diluc's skin is littered with scars your eyes could send an eternity tracing, one cutting across his permanently creased brows, another at his lips, and a crook in his nose where you're certain he's broken it more than a dozen times. It never occurred to you how badly you wished to touch him.

Vampyr beauty is different from mortal beauty. It is arresting, frightening. A visage that demands a sort of painful devotion, the perfect face to lure mortals willingly into their embrace and weep for more. Diluc is no exception. 

Even with the mars across his skin, he looks like a being worthy of praying to. 

A shaky inhale and you jolt up, only to find Diluc in a similar paradox. Transfixed, it is almost as if he doesn’t realize the intensity he’s lost himself in, the furrow between his brows and the slight frown of his pursed lips almost cute if it wasn’t for the burning sensation it seized you with. 

He leans forward, hesitating. Slowly, as though any movement would startle him, you take the cups from his grasp, placing them down without ever letting his fingers unlace from yours. He might slip from your grasp if you do. But he doesn’t, not this time. 

It shouldn’t mean much, really, the brush of rough knuckles and the slow slide of your fingers as they find their home between his, and yet you swear there is something cathartic in the way they fit together; a touch that served no purpose but to connect in a world so hellbent on destruction. 

One hand leaves his, lifting to cup his face as you thumb along his cheekbone, your fingertips burning as they catch on every ridge and scar. Diluc leans into your touch, body pressing into yours as the two of you stumble backward. The back of your knees buckle against a table just as he seizes you by the small of your back, pulling you against him before you can completely topple over. Diluc’s other hand rests against the table, caging you against him as your fingers remain intertwined. 

You’re burning. His flame-kissed gaze refuses to leave yours, and you’re burning at the edges with every second you lie under it. 

“Diluc,” you say. You don’t know why. He shudders. 

“Diluc,” you shift, leaning closer as your neck cranes up, lips brushing the bottom of his chin, the faint stubble there rough and tasting like smoke. He cranes his neck in response, granting you further access as your lips eagerly follow the pale expanse of skin. Entranced, you press harder, and with the gentle scrape of your teeth, he makes a low noise deep in his throat, like an animal in pain. You dare say his name again. 

“Diluc—”

The door to the lab swings open. 

The laughter of the two twins tumbles into the room as they burst through the doorway, only to be cut short when they notice the two of you stunned in the far corner of the room. 

“Timmy! Eileen! What have I told you both about running around the clinic?” 

Diluc practically launches himself away from you, vanishing as he reappears on the opposite side of the room, but not before Alison charges in after the children, eyes wide as she already connected the dots the younger two were still processing.  “Saints, I am so—” In a blink she slaps her hands over the eyes of the twins, dragging them out of the lab while stuttering over a thousand apologies, shutting the door behind her with a slam. 

You love your children, you really do. But Saints, did you want to strangle them right now. 

Looking around the lab, your fears are proven correct as you fail to find Diluc, the Hunter has already vanished into the night as he so often does. A sigh and you stand, a noticeable chill now infecting the lab as it bubbles on in silence. 

You should chide him for always running away. You would, if only it wouldn’t make you an even bigger hypocrite. 

And so you accept the cold, lingering in the silence.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Neither of you really notices when Diluc begins visiting regularly, making a habit of swinging in through the clinic’s window, covered in Beast blood. It has become something of a routine: you snapping at him for tracking in filth, him completely disregarding your words, a moment of bickering mostly on your end before he drops a sample of his recent hunt on your table as a peace offering. 

Recently, however, the Hunter has been bringing an assortment of other items as well. From an entire deer or a bundle of rabbits, to newly forged bullets for your rifle, to toys for some of the younger children. 

Speaking of which, it’s unfair how quickly the children warmed up to Diluc. They practically worship the Hunter. 

Like tonight, you’re busy preparing supper with Edwin and half-hearted help from Alison when you hear the tell-tale knock reverberate from the attic above the clinic. 

Setting down the kitchen knife, you wipe the chicken guts coating your hands on your apron, about to open the door accessing the stairs when a mini mob beats you to it. Overlapping shrieks and calls from the four youngest children echo down the hall as they jump to greet the Hunter currently ducking through the doorframe, then promptly tackled by the swarm. 

“How many did you kill tonight?”

“Take me on a Hunt! I’ll be the best Hunter you’ve ever seen, I’ve been working on my swing, look!” The red-head boy lunges with a stick, about to smack his brother on the head when he dodges. Another swing quickly leads to a fight, the two tussling before Diluc until the Hunter pries them apart by the collars, procuring two wooden figures from his coat. 

Lucian, the redhead, gasps, “You remembered!”

“Of course I did. How could I forget the request of my favorite warriors?” The boys smile up at Diluc, half-toothed and ecstatic, before they run off to play with the wooden soldiers.

The Hunter lets out a low sigh of exhaustion at the mere show of their energy, but he should have known better than to let his guard down so soon. He had only just begun to rise when the twins made their attack, tugging against his coat lapels and at his elbow, laughing all the while. 

“Let us see your claymore again, please, please, pretty please!”

A smile cracks your lips as you watch the scene unfold. “The almighty Hunter, felled by a swarm of children. What ever would the Church think?”

“I think,” Diluc grunts, falling to one knee as the twins leap onto his back, cheering. “They ought to enlist these ones as Hunters. Far more terrifying than I am.” 

A hum, “I’m inclined to agree.”

Yes, he’s becoming a regular part of all of your lives, and the thought of that scares you more than you’d like to admit. 

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin imagines #bloodborne #vampire #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc smut #eldrich horror

[poisonf0rest]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

The sun has not risen for twenty-six years.

Daysdeath, ragnarök, the eternal eclipse, the final punishment of the Saints, the will of The Great Ones— it matters not what you choose to call it. Its name will not change its nature. Its name will not spare us from the reality that is the world plunged into a never ending night, a never ending Hunt where the only mercy is death.

And even death does not come easy now.

The blood of beast and man run the streets of Yharnam red, and with every passing hour, each one as unchanging as the last, the remnants of humanity dwindle. Perhaps it was the bloodlust that The Hunt inspired that further awakened that beast within man, or perhaps in a final act of desperation man has cast away his own humanity, hoping that would be enough to allow him to survive.

Fools. As if that did not doom them further.

But there are still those that dare fight. These Hunters who call themselves human even as they slay beasts who were once our neighbors and family and lovers. These Hunters hunt humans to save humanity.

Tonight seems to be especially brutal, the ceaseless wails and screams echoing throughout the never-ending darkness. And yet this Hunter does not heed them, his claymore merciless as it severs through flesh and bone, not the cracking of skulls nor the sickening gurgle of blood enough to deter him from his hunt.

Beautiful, horrible, the blood of his prey falling around him as it glows the same unearthly red as his hair.

He does not rest. Wrenching his sword from the ribs of a mutant, the Hunter staggers backward, slipping on the mess of gore and entrails tangled upon the cobblestones, already spotting a pack of Scourge Beasts feasting on what must have been the remains of someone foolish enough to be caught outside tonight.

The Hunter rolls back his shoulders, dragging his claymore to the side as he charges, an arc of blood spraying from the blade as it lodges itself into the thick, furry neck of one of the Scourge Beasts. It screams. The howl shakes the Hunter to the bone, his arms trembling as he fights to free his blade now tangled in the flesh and fur.

The Beast staggers to its hind legs, forcing the Hunter to release the sword's hilt as it thrashes wildly with its enormous paws. Another two are running up behind him. But the Hunter noticed too late. The monster's claws slash into his side, and the force rams him into a nearby wall, smashing through layer after layer of crumbling brick.

The pack is already upon him. Rolling, the Hunter curses as one Scourge Beast snaps its jaws mere inches from his leg, a shot from his pistole blasting through the damned thing's jaw. He shoots twice, thrice, darting between the raging monsters to find his claymore still lodged in the flesh of the first beast, its head hanging off by ripped skin, swinging as it charges once more. The Hunter does the same.

Running straight for it, he fires once more, blasting its left paw to pieces as it skids across the bloodstained ground, the Hunter leaping above it as he lands on his sword, kicking it clean through the beast's spine.

Another annoyed curse leaves the Hunter's scowling lips as he counts the bullets he has left, turning to face the remaining Scourge Beasts.

Three bullets. Four beasts.

The first two charge, tongues drooling out from their rotten mouths as the Hunter darts beneath them, claymore singing as it scythes through the beasts, the pair collapsing upon each other as he finished them off with a single shot. Two bullets.

Turning, the Hunter narrowly dodges another swipe, its claws slicing through empty air as he pulls the trigger. The shot rings true, but not before another set of jaws crunch down onto his shoulder. A snap and blood sprays across his vision, throbbing pain blinding the Hunter as he rams his claymore behind him, throwing both the beast and himself to the ground from the momentum. And with the last burst of strength, he writhes free, shooting the monster through the skull as he kneels in a pool of blood.

"Fuck." The Hunter's left arm hangs, shredded and broken, rendered useless as he pushes himself to his feet using his sword as a brace.

Grimacing, he has no choice but to hobble into the nearest alleyway, clutching his arm as he sheathes his claymore onto his back. Staying out in the open any longer would mean certain death. He needs to find shelter, not to mention a doctor or at least some blood to help him recover. The Hunters were all products of blood transfusions, and yet this Hunter in particular must bear the sin of his lineage, the horrors behind that long-forgotten castle of ice and snow passed down to him. Without blood, his hunger worsens.

The itching at his gums and the prick of fangs against his lip remind him of that. His thirst grows stronger.

Limping further into the alley, a small courtyard emerges, a decaying tree in the center, what looks to be the remains of a forgotten well, and a ladder trailing up to the roof of the houses.

"Well," The Hunter grunts, hauling himself up the first wooden rung with his one functioning arm. "It can hardly be worse than lying out in the open."

Perhaps by luck or perhaps by yet another cruel temptation by the Saints, there waits a balcony door at the far end of the roof. Limping forward, the Hunter rams his foot against the handle, rotten wood splintering at the blow, announcing the Hunter's entrance with a groan. It was dim room, likely an attic or storeroom of the residence— if any humans still occupied it, that is.

Still scanning the area, the Hunter tucks himself into a far corner, leaning against what appeared to be crates of empty beakers and vials. At least, that's all he manages to make out as his sight blurs with each flash of heat and pain. No matter. He wouldn't stay long, only just enough to catch his breath.

Darkness dances across his vision, the left side of his body going completely numb as he only half-registers the trail of blood made from his raw wounds. A laugh, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Yes, just a quick breather, a nap, he thinks, losing the battle to consciousness. He shan't be here long.

And with that, his head rolls to the side, and he slips into the cold embrace of death.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

The Hunter awakens to two things: One, he is still frustratingly alive, his entire body burning like fucking hell.

Two, he is strapped down to a table with a rifle pointed at his face.

He doesn't get to so much as think of moving when the figure before him presses the muzzle of the gun closer. "I wouldn't recommend trying anything," the last word is little more than a growl as the figure leans in, your face illuminated by the overhead surgical light, highlighting your sneer of disgust. "Vileblood."

"I believe there has been some confusion. I was simply seeking refuge." Diluc doesn't bother struggling against his restraints, merely flexing his left hand as he realizes he can control his wounded arm again. He's healing. Slowly, but finally.

Seeing you have yet to relax your hold on the rifle, he clears his throat. "I am a Hunter. I understand you must be frightened, so if you would release me I'll leave your residence at once. I was only looking for an empty place to rest, but evidently, I chose wrong."

"A Vampyr who hunts monsters," You laugh. "Saints. What has the world come to?"

"Hell, by all manners of the word. Now if you'd release me I would leave your premise immediately and return—"

One more hysterical laugh forces its way from your lips, cutting the Hunter off as you shove the rifle forward, burying the barrel into his forehead. "Do you take me for a fool?"

His flesh burns. Diluc hisses through clenched teeth, the skin on his forehead bubbling and bleeding rapidly where it touches the rifle, the gruesome mixture dripping down his face. Silver. Just his damned luck.

Relenting, you prop the rifle up against the table he's chained to, pulling up your coat sleeve to reveal a clean row of puncture wounds along your forearm. The smell of blood and burnt flesh stains the air. "You were nearly sent back to the hell you crawled out of, blood-starved and bleeding out in my attic. I take it my blood saved you just in time."

"So why rescue me, Executioner?"

You grimace. "I am no Executioner, that whole damned Church and you Hunters can go up in flames for all I care. I am a doctor. My oath is to none but the sciences."

Diluc blinks, eyes darting from you, to the rifle, and back to you. "Of course," A scoff. "A doctor."

"Oui, believe it or no, it matters not to me. Truthfully, your appearance is something of a blessing, as I have need of something only you, dear mutant Vileblood, can give me."

Diluc is about to say something of particularly flavorful language when you begin shuffling items on an operating tray, pulling out a scalpel and syringe long enough to make the words dry in his throat. The restraints don't budge. Normally, breaking a set of chains- leather, metal, or otherwise- would hardly be considered a challenge, however Diluc is painfully aware that he hasn't fed in weeks prior to the fight, and the throbbing in his arm and across his body confirms that his body failed to heal itself completely.

Without blood, not only will his strength continue to wither, but so will his control. That means the once mighty Hunter really is entirely at the mercy of some psychopathic, self-proclaimed doctor currently unbuttoning his vest and spreading her hands across his chest, positioning the scalpel just above his heart.

You are just about to make the first incision through the Hunter's pale skin when the door creaks open, twin heads popping out. Two pairs of identical grey eyes stare into the clinic, mops of blonde hair bouncing as they peek out from the doorframe.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"I'm hungry and Eileen won't quit hitting me!"

"Liar! Liar! Timmy hits me first, it's true, I swear it."

"It's hit not hits, stupid!"

"Is not, Idiot!"

"Is too, dunce!"

"Lubberwort!"

"Smellfungus!"

"Gollumpus!"

A high-pitched scream. "Take that back! Take it back!"

Diluc watches, stunned, as the children bicker, the heavy atmosphere of the room all but dissipates as they continue to screech and squabble. Then, you stand, sucking in a deep breath— "Silence!"

The echo of the command befalls the room.

"Yes, Miss Doctor."

You pinch your brows, careful not to cut yourself with the scalpel, swearing this alone has eaten away at your already regrettably short lifespan. "Where is Alison? She was on cooking duty today. And do believe I already told the both of you not to interrupt while I am with patients." The twins flinch, looking between each other before their gaze falls on Diluc.

"Do you always tie them up before cutting them?"

"This one is dirty, scary looking. Like an ugly dog!"

Diluc feels a punch in the gut at that one. Children. Blunt as a hammer.

"Yes, he is indeed very ugly." Bitch. "But he is my patient and we are in the middle of a very, very important step in making him feel better. So please, mes petits choux, go find Alison or Edwin at tell them to get started on the food, lest they become it."

"Okay!"

Rattling footsteps echo down the hall, and you finally exhale as the twins scamper off, turning to face a still-bewildered Hunter. You slam the door shut, locking the rusted hinge. "Out with it."

Diluc clears his throat. "Not yours, I presume?"

A snort. "Saints, no. I already told you, I run a clinic... alongside an orphanage, research center, and theater depending on if it's Friday or not."

He fights a smile, something tugging at a memory long forgotten. "Ah. I see."

But there is no longer any lingering hostility, Diluc's arms all but slack against the restraints as the realization dawns on him. "I've placed you all in danger just by being here. Untie me and I'll leave at once, I have already exposed you to my blood for far too long. I refuse to endanger you and the children any further."

And, damn it all, your conscience finally catches up with you.

Cursing under your breath, you slam the scalpel and syringe back down onto the tray, unshackling the Hunter. Diluc is still weary as he sits up, immediately redoing the buttons on his shirt to preserve some modesty, about to make a run for his weapons when he feels a light touch against his shoulder. Contrary to your every action thus far, there you are, hand on his arm, asking silently for him to wait.

You clear your throat. "I already told you, you bloody stupid Hunter, I am a doctor. That means by oath no patient of mine is allowed to leave unless they are fully healed, Vileblood or no. We can skip the... extra procedures for now."

You lift up a box, vials clicking as Diluc picks one up. Blood vials. "I wasn't quite sure how a mutant such as yourself would have preferred it administered— through an injection like the rest of you Hunters or as a drink."

"Either." Diluc feels a prickle against his top gums as he pops off the cork, but swallows the desire down. "Either is effective."

"Very well, then drink."

By the Saints, he doesn't need to be told twice. Mouthful after mouthful, he empties the glass before instinctually reaching for another, feeling the strength return to his limbs, skin and muscle stitching back together on their own, blood coagulating and scabbing over, subduing the beast that dwells inside him once again. He's already thrown aside half a dozen vials by the time he bothers to take a breath. Panting, he wipes his bloodied mouth with his equally bloody sleeve, and you frown at the less-than-sanitary repercussions.

But alas, you suppose when you're wearing the dried blood of beasts akin to a second coat, the cleanliness of it all fails to bother you.

You were so lost in thought you failed to realize the Hunter had disappeared from the operating table, now standing behind you, fully donned in his black coat and hat, already having retrieved his claymore and gun before you could even blink. His voice jostles you, and you unconsciously shift back, reminded once again this man is far from human. "You are far kinder than I deserve." A deep bow, "I am in your forever in your debt."

"That you are, my dear Hunter."

Diluc freezes halfway, snapping his head up as he rises to full height.

"Surely you didn't think I'd give up vials of my own blood for free?"

Your blood. Diluc grimaces, suddenly hyperaware of the taste as it coats his tongue and throat. Heavy. Rich. Fucking addictive. "You're a Hunter so you've got no coin on you, that I'm sure. However, you can help me gather materials. As I mentioned prior I am conducting research," You clear your throat. "On what I cannot allow myself to disclose, but I would appreciate specimens only a gifted killer such as yourself can obtain. And, of course, free-range to test the walking specimen that is yourself."

He pretends not to be bothered by the way you eye him up and down as you say that last part. "Research, huh..." An unamused grunt. "Word of advice, little healer. I wouldn't mess with the Church."

"Doctor."

"Makes little difference to me. The warning still stands."

You scoff. "I know full well that the Healing Church is a far cry from holy, Hunter. After all, they created you." And you don't know what compelled you, but you continued. "That besides, my work is not directly dealing with the Church. I wish to find the truth behind, well, all of this: Ashen Blood, the Beastly Scourge, Vilebloods, the truth of—"

"Quiet." Diluc slams his hand over your mouth, muffling your words as you gasp. Surprise turns to anger as you yell, attempting to claw him off, to no avail. "Do not speak of such blasphemy aloud."

Completely ignoring him, you keep fighting his grasp, almost considering biting his palm before you remember how much filth his gloves must be carrying on them. "Just listen to me for a moment, would you? Quiet." The last word is a hissed whisper, but the ferocity in his glare silence you.

Then, you hear it too.

A rhythmic tapping, a movement of someone or something hopping along the weathered shingles of the clinic's roof. Diluc merely puts a finger to his lips, motioning you to stay put as he unsheathes his claymore in a smooth arch. Silently, he makes his way to a window, leaping out as he disappears into the endless night.

And then he's standing before you. But this time, a dead crow is dangling in his grasp.

The startled shriek from you makes Diluc flinch, and he's about to apologize for the gore when you cut in. "Your ridiculous bird is dripping blood all over my clinic!"

Oh.

"Well my apologies, Doctor. I thought blood would be somewhat commonplace here."

A huff and you inch closer. "Well?" You bend, investigating the crow. Or at least, what you thought was a crow, only it was well-past half your height, monstrously contorted and reeking of decaying flesh. "Why did you feel the need to bring this to me?"

"Carrion Crows. Appear to be rotting, unintelligible creatures, but I've seen far too many come in and out of the Church to believe they are simply wasted pairs of eyes." He meets your gaze and flicks the silver band forged onto the creature's foot. "Your roof just happened to be littered with them."

"Saints."

Diluc grunts, throwing the crow out the window, shaking excess blood from his palms. "As a man of my word I intend to honor our deal, despite your less-than-honorable method of trapping me in it."

"Wait just a moment, I'm not the one who broke into someone else's house half-dead and bleeding while—"

"But call for me, and I will bring you the specimens you require." You scowl as he cuts you off- again- stepping back from pure instinct as he walks towards you. Lifting his hand, Diluc hesitates, arm falling back to his side. He steps away.

You're scared. The smell of fear radiates off you despite your determination to look him in the eye, likely denying that visceral reaction to yourself even now. He can't blame you: if it has fangs and claws and a lust for blood, then surely it must be a beast. He accepted that fact long ago.

"I'll say it once more, stay away from the Church. If not for your own sake, then for the children you care for."

The Hunter had already made his way back to the window, clearly not intending to use the door like a civilized person, when you speak up again, quieter this time.

"It is for them I must continue. There is no future, not for the children nor for Yharnam, unless I find the truth."

Diluc doesn't move. He simply stares at you, finding a conviction, a light in your eyes that he swears he hasn't seen in the decades since this world fell into eternal night. And it terrifies him.

Hope.

"Until then, Doctor."

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin imagines #bloodborne #vampire #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc smut #eldrich horror

[poisonf0rest]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

𝐓𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐖𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐕𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞!𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜  𝐱  𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

 ❝ The sun has not risen for twenty-six years.

Daysdeath, the eternal eclipse, the curse upon mankind, the final punishment of the Gods, the will of The Great Ones— it matters not what you choose to call it. Its name will not change its nature. Its name will not spare us from the reality that is the world plunged into a never-ending night, a never-ending Hunt where the only mercy is death.

And even death does not come easy now. ❞

chapters: 𝐈 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐕 𝐕 𝐕𝐈 𝐕𝐈𝐈 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐗 𝐗

tags: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Bloodborne, Blood Drinking, Angst, Mature, Character Death, Smut

original link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45844027/chapters/115376821

Diluc has been a Hunter since the days long before the sun's death, and yet in all his time he has never quite dealt with an enigma such as you. It is temptation, it is sin. And it is the only salvation he knows.

Bound by blood, tangled in fate, destined to damnation, you both must fight against hell itself to find the truth to the horrors plaguing Yharnam before the Palemoon descends, the Blood Moon rises, and your endings are sealed.

Fear the Old Blood. 

#genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin imagines #bloodborne #vampire #diluc ragnvindr #diluc x reader #diluc smut #eldrich horror #vampirism as a metaphor for love

[poisonf0rest]

Might post chapters from TTVWMIB Damnation here, not sure yet!

#genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #vampire #bloodborne

[poisonf0rest]

Some discarded snippets from the last TTVWMIB chapter: 

A thing of moons, mothers, and monsters. 

Sitting back on its twisted hind legs as it wails at the blood moon.

You will always be a bride of blood, and this will always be your fate.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #bloodborne

[poisonf0rest]

[poisonf0rest]

Concentration camp.

They built a concentration camp.

I don't think words can describe what this other than genocide.

[poisonf0rest]

loml

Jude ⚔️

[poisonf0rest]

I love Nesta. Support women's wrongs, especially if they are one of the only FMCs with a personality.

Can I ask WHY ACOSF had to be about making Cassian a courtier and Nesta a warrior when the storyline of brilliant, cunning, kill you with her political skills Nesta and strong, rutheless, kill you by just killing you Cassian is RIGHT THERE?

Like you wrote the line, Sarah - “he would be her sword.”

Imagine the dynamic that would create - I can practically HEAR Rhys smirking and plucking invisible lint as he goes over a political problem he’d rather not wage war over - “First, we send Nesta. Then, if she deems it necessary … her mate can join her.”

Nesta: laying out terms for a treaty, “this is our final offer and you would be wise to accept it before we are forced to take further action”

Courtier(snarling, probably): “Yeah, you and what army?”

Cassian (busting through the doors with like 6 weapons strapped to him): “THAT’D BE ME PRETTY BOY THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY???”

[poisonf0rest]

In order to do anything I can I'll be doing this too!!!

Please commission me to write anything and I'll so 1k words for every $5 donated! I know my platform is not big enough to generate much but I know very well the value of a dollar during genocide.

🍉 fics for gaza 🍉

i really want to try and help as much as i can to raise money and donations for gaza, and @ficsforgaza is running an amazing scheme where you can request a fic/ sponsor a wip through donations. my rate is $5 per 500 words to any of the verified fundraisers listed here !! if you can't request/donate anything, then that's totally okay, but please do share and reblog !!

donation link 1 :: link 2 :: link 3 :: link 4

just to reiterate, the money does NOT go to me. you donate directly one of the fundraisers linked above.

feel free to pop into my ask box or my dms to request a matchup/fic.

if i write more than the requested words, then that's totally on me, and ill cover the rest of the donations $1 per extra 100 words (with proof).

RULES for requesting ::

first and foremost, a screenshot of your donation (please do NOT forget to censor your personal details, and please don't use the same screenshot to request multiple fics), these will NOT be posted publicly.

please also include the link to the page you donated to.

description of what you'd like me to write (can be as detailed as you want)

e.g: headcanons, one-shot, drabble + fem/gn reader

the fandom / character(s) if you want multiple

whether you'd like sfw / suggestive / crack / angst (please note i don't write hard-core nsfw)

i am also accepting requests for matchups, and the max words for that will be 1000 words [500 words for drabble and 500 words for headcanons]. what you need to include for a matchup has been listed in the example below.

request example :: hi :) hope you're well. id like to request a sfw drabble of gojo meeting his newborn daughter with a female reader. i've included proof of my $5 donation to help Deyaa and his family escape Gaza. my personal details are all censored as well. thank you very much. [then include the screenshot in your ask/dm]

suggestive request example :: hi :) hope you're well. id like to request a suggestive drabble of choso making out with a female reader. i've included proof of my $5 donation to help Deyaa and his family escape Gaza. my personal details are all censored as well. thank you very much. [then include the screenshot in your ask/dm]

matchup example :: hi :) i hope you're well. i'd like to request a (romantic/platonic) matchup for (jjk/aot/bnha/haikyuu). i have included a screenshot of my $5 donation to help Deyaa and his family escape Gaza. my personal details have been censored. my pronouns are (insert pronouns), my gender preference is (male/female), and my personality type is (mbti personality type). my love language is (love language) my hobbies are (insert hobbies in as much detail as you want). my top 3 pet peeves/icks are (include pet peeves and icks). here are 3+ fun facts about me (include three or more fun facts in as much detail as you want). i am (include your appearance in as much detail as possible if you've donated $10 for a drabble e.g hair types, hijabi, skin colour etc). could you please avoid the following matchups (insert characters to avoid). [please also include any other details that you want and feel free to make it as long as you want !! and include the screenshot of your donation too]

GUIDLINES for requesting ::

i do NOT write nsfw works, but i am open to suggestive requests

the max words i'll write is 2000 words, but please feel free to donate as much as you can

i write gender-neutral and female reader so please include which one you'd like me to write.

i am open to writing specific readers (e.g. hijabi , tall , short , south asian , curvy)

i'll try my best to finish your requests as soon as possible but please bear with me (i'll probaby create a spreadsheet where you can track the progress of all my requests/wips)

if i write more than the requested words, then that's totally on me, and ill cover the rest of the donations $1 per extra 100 words (with proof)

i do NOT accept requests from blank blogs/blogs with no indication of age (must have age in bio or somewhere on your blog).

i will accept asks and dms but asks must NOT be anonymous !!

CONTENT/CHARACTER GUILDLINES for requesting ::

CHARACTERS:

jujutsu kaisen: sfw + suggestive : toji , choso , gojo , geto , nanami , higuruma , sukuna , mahito , shoko

jujutsu kaisen: sfw ONLY : nobara , maki , inumaki , yuuta , itadori , megumi

haikyuu: sfw + suggestive : daichi , hinata , kageyama , tsukishima , sugawara , oikawa , iwaizumi , ushijima , kuroo , kenma , bokuto , akaashi , osamu , atsumu , kita , suna , sakusa , aran

my hero academia: sfw + suggestive : most pro-heroes , class 1-A , dabi , shigaraki

misc: sfw + suggestive : eren , levi , zeke , jean , reiner , mikasa , armin , erwin , saitama (opm)

depending on the characters, i am open to writing for percy jackson/heroes of olympus

CONTENT:

sfw: domestic bliss, general fluff, sick fics, nonsexual intimacy (cuddling, kissing etc), random headcanons about characters, pregnancy/family fics, platonic situations, pretty much anything sfw i'm open to

suggestive: making out, light sexual intimacy (nothing hard-core)

angst: major character death, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort

crack: any silly little scenarios/ideas you might have.

HARD NO'S:

anything nsfw - oral / penetration / sexual nudity

male reader (i'm sorry but i dont think i'll be able to accurately portray a male reader)

anything military/war related

minor x adult

domestic/physical abuse against reader (by requested character)

alcohol / drug abuse

incest

yandere / noncon

any explicit kinks

© ffsg0jo 2024 — do not plagiarise, repost, modify, or translate any of my work, in any way shape or form; i will piss in your cereal if you do. all work belongs to me and me only.

#writeblr #writing #gaza #free gaza #all eyes on rafah #commission #fanfic #genshin impact #hsr #love and deepspace

[poisonf0rest]

Love Me Through Every Lifetime

love and deepspace: rafayel x fem!reader

tags: smut, pwp, sub!raf but that quickly changes, monsterfucking to keep it simple

synopsis: For a Lemurian, there is no greater curse than love. And Rafayel is beginning to understand its dangers, especially when the full moon turns him half-delirious and desperate to claim you as his— in every way that matters.

word count: 6.9k

link to ao3

You think Rafayel might be dying. 

For two days, you have not heard a word from your overdemanding employer slash lover. Waking up around noon without a barrage of texts calling you a “lazy hibernating bear” or “neglectful partner” was unusual enough, but an irregularity you chalked up to Rafayel’s upcoming gallery exhibition. 

But by nightfall, you were confused, and by the next morning, cold dread had begun to creep in. He has still not sent a single text, not a call, nothing. Absolute silence. 

Despite agreeing to attend sparring practice tonight with Xavier, you rush out from HQ as soon as your squadron is dismissed from a mission briefing– you’ll make it up to him later. For now, you keep your Hunter’s suit equipped and reload both your pistols, tucking them into their holsters as you rev the engine of your motorcycle. 

Energy fluctuations always escalate before a full moon, and between the increase in Wanderers and the growing bounty on Rafayel's head, you feel your panic rise, the hollow ring of the moon looming overhead as you speed to Rafayel’s studio, praying that nothing has happened.

Rafayel is a mess.

It’s been centuries since he has last felt this insatiable heat, but to fall prey to his instincts was perhaps inevitable. After all, he’s finally found you again. 

Not only that, but he got too close once more, pulling you in from a stranger to an unwilling bodyguard to a friend and lover. Rafayel supposes he can only blame himself. His Lemurian biology has always keened in your presence, and he sealed his own fate when he finally coaxed you into bed with him. But he doesn't regret it— not for a moment.

However, it has been weeks since the first time the two of you had sex, and yet he still can do nothing but taste you against his tongue, nothing but imagine your face every time you unraveled against him, nothing but want you atop him, beneath him, beside him, so fucking bad he can’t think of anything else.

He had reunited with his mate. 

Of course his instincts now want to make you his, forever. 

Rafayel curses, his clothes chafing against his sensitive skin, making him burn under each suffocating layer before he hurriedly begins to rip and unbuckle each one. He wants you beside him, your touch on him. He wants so badly it burns.

With a groan, he collapses onto the coach, face buried in his hands as he genuinely worries he might die from the heat and desire pooling in his stomach and coiling through every nerve. Your name lights up on his phone, the light buzzing adding to the countless missed texts and calls on the screen. Rafayel spares a glance at his phone before chucking it across the studio. He swears he might come from the thought of you alone. 

On cue, the studio’s front door opens with a bang. 

Disregarding protocall entirely you charge in, swinging both your guns around as you shout. “Rafayel! Yell if you’re trapped or injured, or... or just say something!”

There’s a crash behind you, and you nearly shoot, lowering the pistol only when you see a seagull that must have snuck in, topple over another vase, and flee through the wide open windows. 

No Wanderers. Not yet.

The studio is in ruins. Its usual “organized disorganization” would be considered neat in comparison. It looks like a thief ransacked the place, and a hurricane followed suit. Scraps of clothing and swirls of paint splatter across the floor like blood at a crime scene. 

Alarm creeps further into your voice, and you call for him again. “Rafayel! Please say something, anything, just let me know you’re okay.” You creep along the edge of the wall, turning into the main room, expecting the worst: to see him bleeding out, or knocked unconscious, or–

Lying on the couch. 

He’s lying on the couch. 

Sprawled against the cushions, you’re nearly convinced Rafayel is sleeping until you notice the audible rasp in his breathing, skin flushed red in a picture of debauchery. You felt your breath hitch as you scanned him up and down to check for injuries, his billowing shirt splayed open with all the buttons ripped off, and trousers shunted down at the front, clinging to the jut of his hips, trail of dark purple hair pathing the way to his hand, which was clawing against his thigh. 

You force yourself to look away, a tremor in your voice. “Are you injured? Do you need a doctor?”

“Stop talking.” Rafayel groans in pain and you holster your firearms before rushing to his side, kneeling by the couch as he flinches away from your body, his hand pressed to the lower half of his face. Your knees brush something rough and you look down, realizing the floorboards have been burned. 

“Your Evol,” panic returns and you reach out to check Rafayel’s temperature. “It’s acting up. We need to get you to a doctor.” Your fingers hardly brush against his forehead before they’re yanked away. Rafayel springs up, clutching your wrist so tightly you flinch, putting as much distance between the two of you as he could without releasing his hold. 

“No.” His chest is heaving, and you hardly hear him over the hand he still has over his mouth, muffling his words. “You need to leave. Right now.” 

“You’re the one holding me.”

Bewildered, Rafayel looks at his arm as though unaware of his own moments. But he makes no move to unhand you.

Slowly, you lean closer, letting your free hand rest against Rafayel’s cheek, gasping at how hot he is to the touch. Fuck. Your hand is so deliciously cool against his skin that Rafayel can’t help but lean his entire weight against it, nudging his face into your palm as a strangled whine hisses through his teeth. A tug, and you gasp as you’re pulled down, tripping into Rafayel’s lap as his lips graze the sensitive skin of your inner wrists. 

The position is beyond compromising, especially considering Rafayel’s state of undress. Stumbling forward, your free hand pushes against his bare chest, and you try to free yourself, willing your eyes not to travel any lower to his unbuckled trousers. “Rafayel…”

“Don’t,” he curses into your palm, inhaling deeply before biting. He moans deep in his chest, licking up your fingers, sucking gently at each digit as you feel your body flush. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t move or breathe in my direction either.” 

He continues suckling against your fingers, and you would have snapped at his ridiculous demands if it wasn’t for the fact that you doubt you could form any words at all right now, dumbfounded as a dull heat throbs against your lower stomach. 

As if noticing, Rafayel’s mouth opens with a deep breath, cursing as he goes back to nipping and kissing your wrist. “Fuck,” he laughs, delirious, “I can smell how turned on you are. You– you’re temptation itself.”

Rafayel places another kiss to your palm before yanking your arm behind him, and you gasp when his head tilts, lips grazing the column of your throat, words slurred and raspy. His breath is scalding, every gentle brush of his lips against your skin sending your nerves on edge.

You feel dizzy. 

"Don't talk. Don't even move. Just stay- hah - stay with me."

His hands, both his free one and the one pinning your wrists, roam, caressing you as he presses wet kisses along your throat. It is all you can do to hold still, but when he sucks harshly against the pulse point at the base of your neck, a moan slips through your clenched teeth. You try to squirm out of his grip, but the action only grinds against Rafayel's crotch, and you tense up immediately at the very obvious bulge, hot, sticky fluid already soaking through his trousers. 

The artist nearly sobs at the mere friction, expression a mixture of pained and pleading as he begs up at you. "Stay. Please."

He doesn't mean just for the moment. He means always, for eternity, for every lifetime he’s cursed to live. He’s never letting you go again. 

And you can do nothing but nod. 

You want to help him, really, in every way, endlessly, but taking advantage of him while he’s so helpless and desperate feels wrong. Worry sets in, and you cup his jaw, Rafayel keening into your touch with a whine. “Does this have something to do with Lemuria?”

Rafayel swallows, his hands sliding to your waist and gripping tightly, as though he expects you to disappear at any moment. You can see the indecision on his face, the conflict as he fights the desire clouding his brain. He opens his mouth, and closes it again. He tries a second time and succeeds, the words sounding painful and forced even as your thumbs trace his face, caressing every edge and curve. 

"I never imagined this would happen. You’re not- I mean, it only ever happens to Lemurian mates.” He’s shaking beneath you, eyes going unfocused as your touch ventures lower, down his collarbones, squeezing at his chest, tracing his abs, and further still. “I knew you were special, my muse, but not special enough to drive me into heat.”

He’s joking, teasing you, but you can’t help the flush of arousal at that statement. Your brows furrow, the gears in your head turning. You try not to sound too excited, the thought of Rafayel in heat is enough to distract you from the urgency of the situation. Again, Rafayel notices, inhaling your scent as something trills deep within his chest. 

"If you need my help, then you have it. Any way you want.”

Your fingers slide against the hem of his trousers, and Rafayel's breath hitches. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips- you swear his nails are sharper than normal- and a sharp thrill shoots through you at the feeling. You can practically see his control slipping away, the last threads fraying, and he bites into your shoulder with a moan, fangs nipping through the fabric of your clothes.

Rafayel releases the bite and looks at you, expression wild. His pupils are dilated and his tongue licks the corner of his mouth, eyes darting back and forth between yours and the mark he's made.

"If you say things like that," he warns, the hand around your wrist tightening. You can't help the soft gasp that escapes, and Rafayel growls at the noise. He lurches forward and kisses you hard, all tongue and teeth. 

"I-I can't." Rafayel pants. The expression he wears is so unlike him that it's shocking, and you feel your core clench. He's completely unraveled, hair disheveled, clothes torn and askew. 

And, fuck, you swear some of his pheromones must have infected you too, because you can’t stop staring at him. He’s gorgeous- more than usual- a furious pink blush from the tips of his ears down to the mole on his chest you can’t stop kissing, the color a beautiful contrast to his dark locks, now wet with sweat and stuck to his forehead in thick curls. 

His eyes never leave yours, not even as they roll in pleasure, their sunset hues dimmed with an animalistic sort of hunger that makes you shiver with every forceful roll of his hips against yours. It’s punishing, brutal, and a violent contrast to the tears brimming in his eyes from the mere friction alone.

You want to ruin him. You plan on it.

"I won't be able to stop," Rafayel whines, and you can't stop your hips from rutting back against him, the sensation pulling a choked sob from his throat. You swallow the noise with a kiss, the motion so gentle compared to his desperate, frenzied fucking. It's all he can do not to break, his control already slipping through his fingers like sand. “I won’t want to, I’ll fuck you until you can think of nothing else, just me. Only me.”

The idea sends a sharp spike of heat through your core. His desperation and need for you is intoxicating, and you know his warning is sincere. He won’t let you go until you tell him to. You should be scared.

But all you can think of is his voice in your ear, begging and crying.

Your voice is hardly a whisper, "What do you need from me, Rafayel?"

"To breed you. To have my pretty human filled with my brood, to fuck you full."

You moan at the vulgarity of his words, and the sound goes straight to his cock. Rafayel groans as he fucks harder against your thigh, his own breath ragged as he tucks his forehead against your neck. 

But the mention of his brood has you nervous, and you gasp the question between moans at Rafayel’s insistent grinding. You don’t know much about Lermurian biology, but between the myths and Rafayel’s teasing, you have a vague idea that makes your head spin.

“How many, ah-” fucking hell, the word seems weird to think of, let alone say, “eggs do Lemurians usually have?”

Rafayel laughs at that, and you nearly sigh at the sound, the familiarity comforting. It isn't mocking, more surprised, and the sound is music to your ears, especially considering the delirious state he was in.

"Don't be silly, love," he teases, but his hips don't stop moving, undoubtedly soaking through his trousers and your pants. "We're not animals, we're civilized creatures."

His tone shifts, the light-hearted nature vanishing in an instant. The words are hissed against the shell of your ear, and a violent shiver runs through you. "I'll fill you to the brim, make sure you never forget who you belong to. Make sure every creature knows whose bitch you are. You're mine, and I'll mark you however I wish, however many times I must, until the message is clear."

A sharp pinch on the shell of your ear makes you gasp. He bit you. The pain is gone as fast as it came, replaced with a wet tongue and warm lips. A whimper slips out, and you feel his cock twitch at the sound.

"So, my lovely mate, since you’re so eager, how many eggs do you want?"

He’s mocking you. Brat. 

Blushing furiously, you shove him down, pushing yourself up to a kneeling position as Rafayel whines at the loss of contact, hips bucking into empty air. You can feel his cock throbbing against your leg, and his hand reaches out for you, fingers barely grazing your skin before you roughly push him back down.

You give him a firm look, and the sight of your stern gaze sends a fresh wave of arousal through his body, his cock jerking as Rafayel keens and throws his head back, unable to meet your eyes. He’s trembling, and the hand you pinned down flies to his face, covering his eyes as you scowl down at him.

“Alright, alright, ‘m sorry.” He laughs, trailing into a moan as you finally sit back against him. “It depends, our biology doesn’t favor us. We mate once, and despite going into these seasons our clutches only take once a decade or so. Per season is variable too, anywhere from five to a dozen.”

Up to a dozen. 

A dozen eggs.

In you.

Fuck.

You must have made a sound because Rafayel looks at you with a cheeky grin, and a mischievous glint in his eye. He can smell the want on you, the scent is driving him wild, and you know it. But the realization of your want sends another ripple of desire through him, and Rafayel grunts in pain, writing against the cushions. 

"Fuck, need you, need you so, so bad." He growls, grabbing your wrist and yanking you towards him. You lose balance, and your knees slide against the couch, falling over him with a gasp. "Need you. Need you now, please, need my mate, need you to be mine–"

Greedy. 

You scoff before his mouth is on yours again, licking up into you. He's insatiable, and as he presses closer you swear his teeth feel sharper, catching against your bottom lip.

“Poor baby,” you coo, palming Rafayel through his boxers as his eyes roll back at your touch. His mouth opens in a gasp, and you can see the hint of fangs, the razor edge of his canines. They glint in dusk’s low light, and you lean closer to get a better look. Rafayel can sense your interest, and his head lolls to the side, giving you a better view as he bares his throat, a dull blue shimmer now coating the sides, pulsing in time to his racing heart. 

It's a vulnerable position, one he would never allow anyone else to see him in. But you are not anyone, and he trusts you enough to offer himself up, trusts you to protect him as he succumbs to his desires, even if you’re the one that holds the knife. 

And you reward him for his loyalty. 

"Mmm, such a good boy, showing your mate what a pretty mess you are." Your voice is sweet and praising, and you feel Rafayel shudder violently, biting his lip deep enough to draw blood to stop the high-pitched moan that rips from his chest. Then he stills. “Did you just…” 

“Don’t tease,” he bucks into your palm, impossibly hard still in a way that is utterly nonhuman. “Just once more, make me come once more, and I’ll fuck you properly. Promise.”

You hardly need to be told twice. 

Slipping off the side of the couch, you coax Rafayel to turn with you, settling between his legs as you work at his belt. “Then let me taste you.”

His thigh jumps at that, and Rafayel throws his head back against the wall with a dull thud, his hand already lacing into your hair. 

For all that talk his cock was still surprisingly human-like. It doesn’t look too different from before, still annoyingly well-endowed and leaking violently against the angry purple-red tip. But this time there’s a faint pale blue discoloration around the base, with a shine you can’t tell is a result of his Lemurian lineage or due to the copious amounts of precum he’s dripping down to his thighs. 

Gods, he’s messy.

There’s nothing sweet in the way you fuck him within your mouth, tongue trailing a prominent vein against the underside of his dick until you reach the tip once again. Rafayel goads you forward by pushing and pulling your head with his hand and his almost obnoxiously loud moans and mumbles of praise.

Both of your hands join, one stroking what you couldn’t fit in your mouth and the other massaging against his balls, each one heavy and tense, waiting to spill into something other than your mouth. The slick slap of skin on skin spurs you on, and Rafayel’s hand rips through the fabric on the couch with sharp nails you now feel digging into the back of your neck. 

“I’m almost–” He warns, and you nearly choke in surprise at the feeling of something swell against the base of his cock, a firm, round intrusion that has Rafayel sobbing. Then, he comes, overflowing down your throat as you force yourself off, thick ropes of cum covering your face and shooting over his bare abdomen and chest, and then more. And more. 

All of that, and he’s still hard. 

Despite the strands of cum dripping between your hands, chin, and his cock, Rafayel still feels no relief. The bulge against the base of his cock inflates more, and he trills, a deep sound akin to whalesong deep in his chest. 

“It’s no use, I need…” A breathy moan, and Rafayel yanks you both to your feet. “Ocean. Now.”

His words devolve into incoherent rambling, and you nod, dragged alongside him as he clings to you like a child, his weight nearly toppling you both over as his knees buckle. You catch him, but his strength is inhuman, and even with the help of your Evol he could crush you.

You are his.

You will finally be his.

Rafayel’s grip around you tightens, and a possessive growl rumbles against his throat. He needs to feel you against him, inside him, his instincts screaming to mark you in every way conceivable. 

The studio's back doors lead directly to the beach, and the summer night breeze hits Rafayel with a delicious chill against his burning skin. The air tastes of salt and brine, the scent familiar and comforting— the smell of home.

The ocean is as gorgeous as it is terrifying in the midst of night. The roar of the waves and the silver reflection of the full moon are the only things illuminating the vast darkness before you. Yet Rafayel shows no such fear as he tugs you further along the beach, kissing and nipping and groping at you endlessly as he strips you of your clothes, his own following suit. 

"You'll regret leaving me after this," Rafayel whispers, pressing his lips to the pulse of your neck. 

"Silly fishie," you murmur, pulling him closer. “Why would I ever leave you?"

He sighs, leaning his forehead against yours. You figured he was simply being overdramatic yet again, but Rafayel refuses to meet your eyes, smiling in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty. “Of course, silly me. Why would anyone ever leave me?” He huffs, running a hand through his hair, preening. ”I’m perfect.”

You scoff, shoving him gently as you roll your eyes. Of course he would be cocky right before getting his brains fucked out.

"Well, you are quite pretty for a fish."

Rafayel laughs, deep and rumbling in his chest, a contagious sound that has you laughing too, until the cold spray of the ocean hits you with a light mist. The crest of another wave surges against you, curling around your ankles and knees as the tide ebbs and flows. Rafayel spares you one last teasing grin before running further into the ocean, disappearing beneath the waves without so much as a splash. 

You can’t help but feel nervous as you watch and listen for a break in the sea, knowing when your lover emerges, he will be a wholly different being than the one you’ve memorized every curve and edge of. 

But you want him to know you’ll accept him regardless. No matter how scaled or fish-like or ugly he may become. 

As if testing you, your mind conjures up a horrid fish-monster complete with swampy hair and a shark’s face before you chase the thought away, shaking your head violently. There’s no way a man as gorgeous as Rafayel could turn into a creature so hideous… Right?

Regardless, you’d help him. Regardless, you’d stay with him, love him. 

This you vowed.

And the ocean listens, seafoam curling around your ankles before it retreats, carrying with it your promise into its depths. Keeping it. 

A splash breaks the surface of the waves and you squint into the darkness. Sure enough, you see the outline of a man, cutting through the waves with a dull glow, as if parting the waters themselves. 

“Surely you don’t plan on making me wait any longer.” Rafayel complains, “Join me, my muse. My heart.” 

His voice coaxes you forward, and like a sailor drawn by a siren’s call, you walk further into the ocean. Each soft wave crashes higher against your legs until the salty spray hits the bare skin of your stomach, and you flinch from the chill against every sensitive part of your body. 

Finally, he’s close enough for you to see everything in the evening glow, and your breath leaves you entirely. 

He’s still your Rafayel, the mischievous glow against his duochromatic eyes reminds you of that much, but there’s a vibrant blue glow to them, a clearer blue than the ocean itself, one that freckles down his neck and body with bioluminescent markings. There’s also that familiar pointed smile he still wears, only, at the upper corner you catch the glint of fangs. Even longer than before. A splash, and your attention snaps behind him, where an enormous tail flicks impatiently out of the waves, a pale blue rippling into the color of the ocean’s depths, complete with purples and blues so dark it could be night itself. 

Dragging a hand across his cheek, you press your forehead against his own. “You’re gorgeous.” 

Rafayel’s ears heat up, and he can hardly stop himself from succumbing to his instinct begging him to take you, to lure you into the stormy depths and to fuck you until you lay writhing, full of his brood on the seafloor. 

Instead, he lets you explore him, his new body, and what remained of the man you knew. Drunk on his siren’s call, you are pulled closer to him, waves lapping at your chest now as you trace the swirls of purple, vermillion, and gold markings dancing down his chest, scales of the same hues following down until the warmth of Rafayel’s skin turns to the cold, smooth feel of scales and he gasps against your touch. 

One moment you’re standing against the waves and the next you’re dragged back to shore, pinned against the sand.

“I’m sorry, I promise you’ll have more time to ogle and worship my body another day.” You scoff, about to throw a snarky reply when Rafayel presses his tail between your legs, yards of it still tailing behind the two of you as you’re effectively pinned. “But right now, I need to breed my pretty little mate full.”

You whine, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leaning up to kiss him before he can babble any more nonsense. His lips taste like seafoam and smoke, and you gasp into his mouth as you feel his tail begin to roll into your hips, the motion smooth from the foreign texture of his scales and your own dripping slick. 

“Ah, you’re going to have to…” Almost embarrassed, Rafayel’s hand leaves yours, trailing down his own body as he prods against the underside of his tail. Curious, your fingers follow his own, finding a spot where the rough scales turn soft and smooth, a seam that feels like muscle, and within it, an equally wet slit. “There.”

You’re too desperate to even tease him, working your fingers in gentle circles until you ease one in, stroking the smooth velvet of his walls until both of your fingers can slip in. Then, something bumps against your fingers, prodding as you help coax it out. 

Rafayel groans, his enormous body convulsing as he presses against you. “Hurry up.” He grinds harder, nearly pulling you deeper into his slit. “Hurry up, hurry up, you’re taking too long.”

Rafayel has always been a demanding lover. But not like this. Not like he might actually die if he isn’t inside of you right at this very moment.

You huff, amused. Why not make him suffer just a little more? 

“What do we say when we want something, Rafayel?”

“Fuck. You are impossibly cruel, can’t you see I’m already suffering and yet still you make an effort to be so–” You curl your fingers up, knuckles roughly knocking against his still-sheathed cock. You very well almost come undone at the face he makes, twisted in pleasure as his eyes roll back, jaw slack with a high-pitched whine as he arches into your punishing touch. “Please! Please, ah, I’ll beg. I’ll beg, I’ll- fuck - I’ll fill you so well, I swear, just let me breed you.”

How could you say no to something so sweet?

Finally pulling his cock free, your breath catches at the sheer weight of it, heavy against your stomach and at least two inches longer and rough to the touch, ridges slick with how badly he’s leaking as you feel up and down his tapered length. But, unlike back at his studio, this liquid is clear and leaves pinpricks against your palm, almost going numb as he spills and drips onto your skin. 

Rafayel gasps, “Antispastic. It’s muscle relaxant to keep our mates comfortable and pliant for us.” 

Comfortable and pliant. You suddenly feel the very opposite, especially when you remember the end goal of this mating session. 

“Shh,” Rafayel coos against your ear as though hearing your fears, his fingers already working against your entrance as he whispers sweet nothings and praise into your ears. “I’ll make sure this doesn’t hurt any more than you want it to.”

And with that his fingers retreat, grinding his enormous form closer as you feel the nudge of his cock against your core, pushing in with the help of the gentle rocking from the waves, tapered tip making the stretch easier. 

You wince and Rafayel immediately kisses you, distracting you with his tongue before he hilts himself in one brutal movement, pinning you down as you thrash in protest. The pain only blinds you for a second, and then the relaxant does its work, filling you with a warm, tingling feeling that almost has you floating. You let out a garbled plea and Rafayel coos in response, lacing his fingers with yours. 

Despite already being fucked deep within you, Rafayel’s hips rut insistently against yours, pushing and pushing until you can feel the round bulge at the base of his cock grind against your clit, making you cry into his lips. 

Every ridge on the side of his cock catches deliciously against your walls, and you arch off the beach, your legs twitching against Rafayel’s tail until he lifts one up, nipping against your ankle and calf before hooking it over his shoulder, still suckling at the delicate skin around your inner thigh.

The intimacy of it all scares you. 

For the past month Rafayel has been insatiable, as if once he finally got you in his bed he never wanted you to leave again, always finding a way to lure you on top of him or trap you underneath, the perfect picture of lust. Regardless, it would always end with fast, frenzied fucking. But not like this. 

Not with him slowly rocking into you, pulling back until just his tip remained before grinding all the way in as he whispered songs in a language you could not understand. Not with him intertwining his fingers with yours and watching your every reaction with utmost receptiveness and adoration. Not with him kissing away your tears as you come undone. 

But for Rafayel, this was long overdue.

After all, he’s chased you throughout every lifetime, forsaking his people, giving up his heart, and vowing himself to you time and time again despite knowing how it ends— how it always will.

Your face goes slack at your sudden orgasm, but Rafayel helps you through it, one hand unlacing from yours as he thumbs your clit until your shudders subside. He whispers, not caring that you’re still too fucked-out to hear. “I’m not a patient man, you know. I’ve been waiting for centuries. And now you’re here, you’re here and you’re all mine.” Another kiss to your forehead before he feels that uncontrollable heat rise again, letting it take over. “I’m never letting you go again.”

When you come to the first thing you feel again is the rhythmic pounding against your sweet spot, and you writhe against the sand with a violent gasp. Desperate for some sort of relief, your hands push at Rafayel’s chest, futilely trying to force him back or at least get him to slow down until another particularly rough thrust has you sobbing, clawing at his arms and shoulders.

But Rafayel hardly seems to notice. He’s lost himself entirely, eyes glazed over as they fixate on where his cock bullies into you, muscles across his back and tail pushing him forward with a force that makes you scream. Fueled by your mindless whimpers, he forces his cock in deeper, chasing his release so he can finally, finally fuck you full. 

Rafayel also doesn’t last long, his third orgasm hitting him violently enough that he nearly collapses on top of you, purring against your throat with a trill that comes from deep within his chest. His fangs dig into the juncture between your shoulder and neck as he continues to come, rope after rope coating your cervix, filling you with a warmth alongside the muscle relaxant. You nearly come too, almost uncomfortably wet, slick enough that even the monstrous ridges alongside Rafayel’s cock slip deeper and deeper inside you with terrifying ease. 

Again, he moans something in another language, a series of clicks and purrs rumbling from his chest, eyes dark and unfocused as he forces you to look up at him. “You’ve been so, so good for me. Pretty little mate needs to be fucked full though, ya? Need to be filled with my brood?” You don’t even realize you’ve come at his words, something else squirming against your clit below his swollen base. Rafayel licks your tears away, tongue nonhuman as its length curls around your cheek, moaning at the taste of your sweat, arousal, and seasalt. “Shh, it’s okay, I’ll defy your silly human biology, make you a mommy.”

Fighting to prop yourself up against the sand, you reach down, hand trembling as it thumbs against Rafayel’s slit once more. But this time, something else has begun to emerge.

Rafayel sobs against your neck, keeping what you now realize is his first cock buried greedily inside you, unwilling to pull out by any more than an inch. Drunk off of him, you messily press two fingers into his slit, hiking your legs further up his shoulders to give you better access to where the two of you are joined against the splash of the waves. 

Dipping your fingers in, you inhale sharply at the squirm of something rough, thumbing the coil out as it writhes and curls into the warmth of your palm. his second cock is not, well, it’s a tentacle for lack of a closer human anatomical reference. All ridges and scales as you coax it to a similarly monstrous length as the first, but thicker, writhing as though possessing a mind of its own.

And right below it, you feel the obvious bulge against Rafayel’s tail where his eggs are. 

You’re suddenly very, very grateful for the Lemurians’ natural muscle relaxant. 

Despite the slick practically leaking from you, you still tense as the tip of the tentacle dick begins to flick and tease at your already full entrance, not giving you a moment to breathe before it begins pushing in alongside the first. It pokes and prods enough to have you whimpering before Rafayel holds your thighs still and thrusts, forcing both his cocks in to the hilt.

It feels impossible. It shouldn't be possible.

But the way he fits is perfect, a tight, burning stretch, the ridges along his first cock and the suctions on the second bruising you in ways that make you scream, vision going dark around the edges as Rafayel moans into your ears. Your cunt feels abused to the point of numbness, the pain dissolving as your mouth hangs open, jaw slack as nonsensical babbles and pleas fall from your lips. 

And, fuck, Rafayel doesn’t even bother waiting to let you regain your sanity before his two cocks start pistoning in and out of you, the bottom one curling and stroking against the first, effortlessly brutal along the slick walls of your cunt. His fangs ghost along the shell of your ear as he splays his huge, slightly webbed hand across your lower belly. 

"How deep am I?" He rolls his hips again, rougher. You cry as Rafayel’s weight forces you to tuck further under him, nearly folding you in half as your legs press against his tail. "Can I go deeper? Can I? Please, please, please—" 

You gasp, mewling and writhing as you feel the bottom cock begin to squirm again. Bullying its way into your cervix, it thrashes violently against that spongy spot inside you that has your vision spinning. Rafayel is fairing no better, losing the capacity for human speech altogether, moaning as his cock finally breaches the tight ring of muscle, fucking into your womb.

Even through the haze, legs numb and twitching, your body still convulses in protest as you feel the bulge pressing against your clit begin to move. Rafayel shudders right as it does, clawed hands digging into the back of your thighs as he forces you impossibly closer. The bottom cock twitches, coaxing your womb open, and you moan as you feel the bulge creep forward.

This should hurt, it should horrify you, and yet it only breaks you in ways that will ruin you for any future lovers. Not that you ever plan on leaving him. Not after this. 

Rafayel thrusts one last time, waves raging around you as he does so, and you nearly sob as you feel the bulge shift up his length, dragging slowly against your walls until it presses against your cervix. Even then you only cry in pleasure, nails digging bloody crescents into Rafayel’s shoulder as he does the same against your thighs, the antispastic doing its work in keeping you deliriously wet and pliant. You roll your hips desperately against your lover, and the sudden shift in position forces the first egg beyond the tight barrier, falling into your womb.

Gods. It feels heavy, it feels wrong, it feels so fucking good you come again with a silent scream.

Rafayel swallows every noise with a messy kiss, his serpentine tongue curling around your own and sucking, nearly fucking itself into your mouth as you get lightheaded from both the lack of air and the press of his second egg already at your entrance. You sob into Rafayel’s lips, greedily moving your hips against his own, forcing him in further before he obliges, shoving your thighs further apart until your knees touch the sand too. Then you feel the weight of the second egg bump against the first, overwhelmed as the next has already begun stretching you full again. 

The two of you are reduced to little more than animals, helpless fucking and licking and moaning against one another as the eggs come one after another, again and again and again until your womb feels bloated and abused, the feeling euphoric thanks to the copious amount of relaxant and cum already flooding you. Rafayel’s bottom cock convulses after depositing the seventh egg, its tip finally wriggling out from your cervix’s vise grip against it, sucking and soothing your abused walls as you come once again, sobbing and numb to the pleasure-pain.

“Perfect,” Rafayel coos against your lips, rutting insistently inside you as his fingers lace with yours, forcing you to feel the taunt skin over your womb, the bulge obvious and hyper-sensitive. “You did so well, my perfect little mate, you deserve a reward don’t you?” 

Unable to form words, you nod, your entire body trembling as Rafayel laughs, thrusting his hips again, each one sharp and punishing against your overly-sensitive cunt, pelvis smacking your clit as your vision spins. He trills, a shudder overtaking his enormous body as his scales glow, pale blues and deep purples flicking violently down his skin and tail as the waves crash around him, continuing until he comes inside of you. It’s endless, the warmth coating every aching surface of your cunt up until your poor stretched womb, hot and thick as you feel Rafayel futilely attempt to keep it all in you with his dicks and then fingers. 

What does end up squirting back down your thighs and onto his abdomen is lapped up by the ocean, and the waves offer a cool relief as Rafayel finally pulls out and collapses onto the sand beside you. You feel simultaneously horribly empty and heavy, something Rafayel takes note of as he pulls you against him, humming into your neck and wrapping his arms around yours, careful not to place any pressure against your sensitive middle. 

He groans against your ear, and you turn in panic, only to see him back to his human form, the only evidence left of his tail the deep valleys against the sand where it once rested. You immediately regret moving, however, as the weight against your womb lurches you off balance and you moan before stilling yourself on your side. Holy fuck, how long will this last? 

“R-” your voice is raspy and you wince, “Rafayel?” 

He hums in answer, already kneeling beside you before lifting you easily in his arms, carrying you bridal style as he litters butterfly kisses over your forehead and nose. “What you said about the, um, fertilizing thing. These won’t actually hatch, will they?”

Again, Rafayel laughs, pressing his nose against the top of your head as he inhales. Another giggle. “Maybe.” You hit him. Hard. “Ouch, meanie. No, even with all of that there’s hardly a chance Lemurian clutches take. Not to mention you’re a human, so therefore not our necessary host.” 

You choose to let his provocative word choice go over your head and sigh in relief. Thumbing gently against the bulge of your lower stomach, you lean further into Rafayel’s chest, nearly lulled to sleep by the sound of his heart thumping in time to the crash of the waves. 

“But,” Rafayel sings the word with a playful lit. “If any of them do happen to fertilize, we can just fish them out before they hatch.”

“We can what.”

Gods, what did you get yourself into?

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace smut #lnds rafayel #rafayel l&ds #rafayel x reader #lnds smut #l&ds smut #l&ds rafayel #l&ds x reader #rafayel

[poisonf0rest]

Kiss Shot

love and deepspace: zayne x fem!reader

tags: smut, light bondage, teasing, semi-public sex, praise kink, pwp, dom!zayne, sir kink, pool & billiards, oh he has pretty hands, exclusive tutorial card

word count: 8.2K

synopsis: Zayne has curated a perfectly polished reputation. He’s a renowned surgeon, the youngest of his graduating class, has a plethora of research papers in his name, and is well-liked and respected amongst his peers. And he would throw it all away to have you like this again, whining and desperate as he fucks you over a billiard table. It’s not fair, really, how easily you manage to get Zayne riled up. Especially when you call him sir.

original ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55931518

Your negroni is fifty percent water by now.

The flock of past classmates, professors, and adorning fans has been relentless, swarming the bar where you and Zayne currently sit— or perhaps more accurately, swarming where the distinguished Dr. Zayne sits. 

You sigh under your breath, fussing with the cocktail dress slit against your thigh before taking another sip of your drink, the melted ice dulling the burn of the gin. It has only been an hour since you arrived, and yet you can already feel your social battery reach its limits, tired of going through the same motions for every other person who bothers to acknowledge your presence: a smile, what’s your name, are you a surgeon as well, what’s your connection to Zayne, no we’re not together.

It’s not that you haven’t met fascinating individuals— your first round of drinks was shared with two sisters, old classmates of Zayne’s who were now Linkon’s top OB/GYN doctors and genuinely the sweetest women you’ve talked to today. 

But everyone has limits. And with the relentless swarm sucking up to Zayne, it hardly gives you a moment of peace, let alone an opportunity to talk with your date for the evening.

Thinking about the stipulations of your relationship and what this night even means for the two of you sends your mind reeling further, and you finish the rest of your negroni in a shot, wincing. 

As if sensing your frustration, the doctor in question looks up from his conversation with a classmate. Zayne gives a knowing, apologetic smile before returning to his conversation, the gesture leaving you with a fluttering in your chest.

Calling the bartender over, you place another drink on the tab before tuning in to the conversation next to you as you hear the echo of laughter. 

“No, no, I’ve been lucky enough to have seen it myself!” An older man laughs again, his drink nearly sloshing over the rim as he smacks Zayne’s shoulder. You snort at the way he stiffens. “Our Dr. Zayne isn’t just a professional at work, you should see him play billiards. Let me tell you, he’s amazing at both the operating table and the pool table”

A deep sigh. “You drank too much…” 

“Nonsense!” The man pats Zayne again before recounting a story from their residency days to the crowd of onlookers.

You yourself are rather engrossed too, more than happy to learn more about your elusive doctor, especially these hidden talents he seems set on keeping from you. Zayne, on the other hand, is far from impressed. Brows furrowed, he turns from where he sits against the bar counter to scan your face. 

Leaning in closer, you inhale sharply at the feel of his cool breath against your ear. “Do you want to go somewhere else?” 

His thoughtfulness would be sweet if it weren’t for the way Zayne had whispered it, lips brushing against your sensitive skin as you shudder at the slow, deep cadence of his voice. 

Noticing your hesitation, Zayne’s hand comes up to rest on your knee, thumb slipping under your dress’ slit. He cocks his head, waiting for your response, drawing soothing circles against your bare skin, which is having quite the opposite effect. 

Panicking, you shake your head. “I’m alright. Plus, I’d feel bad stealing you away from all your adoring fans so soon, Dr. Zayne.”

He scoffs under his breath, but you see the slight curl in the corner of his lips. Still, he has yet to let go of your thigh, and you decide to shift closer, turning in your seat so your knees brush against Zayne’s, his hand involuntarily sliding higher. 

His fingers are calloused and worn, a testament to his many years spent in the medical field, and his grip is firm against your thigh. It feels familiar, and the memories of his hands on you in many different places sends heat rushing to your cheeks.

The thought doesn't seem to have left his mind either, judging by the way his eyes dart down to your parted lips.

Clearing his throat, Zayne looks away. He is about to say something when you decide to interrupt instead.

“Besides,” you hum, taking a sip of wine. “If the rumors are to be believed, then I’m missing quite a show. Is our Dr. Zayne really that skilled at pool?”

“Ah.” Zayne retracts his hand, clearing his throat as he straightens up in his seat. ”You’re trying to gang up on me.”

You know him well enough to recognize the hint of embarrassment in the way he avoids your gaze. But before you can tease him further, another cheery voice interrupts.

“We meet again, sir!” A young man practically bounces over to the bar, caught between a bow and a handshake as he stumbles into both, flashing a gummy smile at Zayne. 

You raise a brow at his overwhelming enthusiasm, glancing at Zayne as you watch recognition flash across his face.

“Good evening. It’s Steven, yes? You don’t need to address me as “sir”.” Zayne nearly grimaces as he says the word, and you take a sip from your drink to hide your growing smile. 

“Yes! I’m honored you remembered.” Steven nods vigorously. “But anything less would be inappropriate. After all, you taught me so much with your hands-on instruction, I owe my knowledge and successful residency so far to you, sir.”

Still, Zayne shuts him down. “I was only doing what I should have done. Any credit beyond that is your own.” 

It’s almost like he’s allergic to praise. 

“Humble and smart,” Steven laughs, winking all-too-obviously at you. “Regardless, I just wanted to thank you for everything formally, sir. You two have a wonderful rest of your night!”

“Yes.” Zayne frowns, leaning ever so slightly closer to you. ”To you as well.”

Quickly feigning ignorance, you pretend to be absorbed in the powerpoint some professor is giving on the opposite side of the venue, immediately lost in a diagram of a heart valve. You’re about to take another sip of your drink when something pinches your ear. Yelping at the sting, you jump in your seat, whirling around to face the culprit.

Zayne scoffs. “I could see you eavesdropping a mile away. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Oh, aside from learning that you are extremely humble, smart, handsome, and rather adept at hands-on instruction, nothing much,” you lean against the counter, blinking up at Zayne through your lashes as you sing the last word, “Sir.”

You watch his jaw clench, a rigid movement that makes your heart skip. Zayne laughs, a harsh, sharp sound. He shakes his head before his hand grips your jaw, tugging you gently but firmly towards him. His eyes narrow, and your heart stutters.

“Clever girl. What is it you want this time?”

This time. As if Zayne could refuse you anything, as if the mere sight of you isn't enough to make him go mad.

But you're not the only one who knows how to play. And he rather likes watching just how far you’ll go.

Smiling innocently, you rest a hand on Zayne’s shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeps through the silky material of his suit. You can't help but slide your hand further up, tracing the curve of his neck with your thumb. “Well…” You lick your lips, tasting the waxy remnants of your lipstick as you fight to keep your voice even under Zayne’s piercing gaze. ”You never did any hands-on training with me, and everyone says what an honor it’s been to be taught by you, sir. I wonder what I’ll have to do to experience it finally.”

Zayne sighs, and for a moment, he appears disappointed.

“It seems like you truly want to learn about surgeries.” A scoff, and Zayne’s face seems to fall back to its stoic facade. But he pulls you closer, tilting your head so his lips graze your earlobe once more. “Who knew my little hunter was so skilled at acting?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your chest in faux surprise. “What accusations, doctor. Besides, I was thinking about something with a… less steep learning curve.”

Zayne hums thoughtfully, thumb venturing from your jaw as it brushes across your lips. Once. Twice. Three times before he stands up, hand finally dropping from your face as he grabs your wrist instead. 

“Then allow me to take our first lesson elsewhere.”

You don’t offer any sort of resistance as Zayne leads you through the crowd, opting to let go of your wrist and guide you away from prying eyes, hand instead lingering against the small of your back as he walks beside you. He opens the door for you, directing the two of you down one of the main venue halls, echoes of conversation muffled by the soft ding of an elevator. Zayne flashes his medical ID before clicking the top floor, the sensor buzzing green as it carries you up with the smooth flow of elevator jazz. 

Zayne’s hand has yet to leave your waist. His thumb goes back to tracing soft circles against the divots in your back as though from habit, nearly touching bare skin due to the sweeping backless design of your dress. You fight the urge to lean further into him, already fidgeting in your heels at the thought of his touch, slow and careful and calculated, elsewhere.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the chime of the elevator. 

Oh, god, snap out of it. You rush out of the elevator, hoping Zayne didn’t notice the furious heat you can feel rising from your cheeks to the tips of your ears.

Smoothing some loose hair back behind your ear, you close your eyes and focus on taking deep breaths, as if it’ll push all these obscene scenarios of Zayne’s large, perfect hands doing unspeakable things out of your mind. 

It works for a moment, expelling all these potential scenarios and instead reminding you of every time Zayne has taken action. Memories of him after hours at the clinic, during movie nights when neither of you paid attention to the TV, and even the drive here where he decided to—

“Does the sight of a billiard table scare you that much?”

The heat from earlier is back in full force. Your eyes snap open, and you are greeted with Zayne’s signature eyebrow raise, feigning concern despite his amused smile that only grows more prominent when he notices the flush creeping across your skin.

“Hardly.” You force a smile, turning your head as you refuse to let him gloat. “I’m just so ecstatic that I’ll finally receive hands-on training from the Dr. Zayne.”

A low hum, “Yes, at least until you feel well enough to go back and socialize.” 

He says this, yet you know Zayne is just as happy as you are to finally escape from the crowds below.

“Well,” you purr, “take care of me until then, sir.”

You giggle as he frowns at the title, waltzing past him to a corner pool table in the billiard hall. The floor is dedicated to different tabletop games, all lined up against numerous floor-to-ceiling windows aglow with a gorgeous view of Linkon City. The city lights bleed in since the entire room was rather dim, no doubt an artistic choice, adorned sensually with faux candlelight chandeliers and the low timber of jazz.

“Have you played before?”

“Once or twice– some call me a natural genius.” You brush imaginary hair from your shoulders as Zayne scoffs before handing you a cue stick. Lacing his hand into your own, you pull the stick and thus him closer. “Why? Are you going to be strict with me, sir?”

Seeing through your jab, Zayne responds without hesitation. “Strict teachers make outstanding students. Let’s start.”

You pout, about to walk to the other side of the pool table to observe his shot, when Zayne’s arm laces around your waist, holding you against him for a second longer. 

“And no more distractions.”

Not trusting your voice, you nod, watching as he bends to aim the cue, muscles beneath his sleeves flexing with each calculated movement. You hear the sound of a cue stick colliding with its target, but your attention is too focused on his fingers to process any of the actual movements.

Another sharp click breaks the silence. You watch as the cue ball collides with a red striped one, sending the former skittering off the sides while the other sinks into the pocket with a dull thud.

“You’re unfairly good at this.”

Zayne raises a brow, “Maybe it’s because a surgeon requires steady hands.” 

And the moment you glance down, any chance of salvation is lost.

You’re not a fool. You’ve noticed Zayne’s hands before, on more occasions than you’d care to admit. But it’s as he says and more. 

Lining up for another shot, you watch him stretch forward, forearms exposed from his deliciously rolled-up sleeves and discarded blazer, your eyes tracing every prominent vein down to his hands, spread wide against the table, tense as the stick rests against his pointer finger and thumb. Even in the dim lighting you can see pale silver scars littering his forearms, and you swear you’ve never seen something so beautiful, like traces of frost against marble. 

Again, it shouldn’t be a surprise that a surgeon must take good care of their hands, but it’s nearly unfair how gorgeous Zayne’s are. Not only that, but you remember how comforting his hands feel against your own, how they caressed your thigh earlier tonight, and just how attentive and precise they can be. 

“You’re not focusing on my lesson.”

Shit.

With a single strike, Zayne tries to sink another ball, but the angle is just off, and the striped ball hits the corner of the pocket, ricocheting against the wood with a dull thud. 

Zayne leans against the pool table, cue stick resting against his shoulder.

"Your turn."

Copying Zayne’s movements as best you can, you clumsily position your cue stick between your knuckles, aiming for what seemed to be a fairly easy shot. Only for the ball to ricochet far left as the white ball knocks into it. Even your cue stick wobbles after, as if shaking in laughter at your poor shot. 

Frowning, you look up to see Zayne’s disapproving gaze locked onto the pool table. 

“Is there not an easier way to do this? One more suitable for beginners?”

“There is.” Zayne leans in, his expression betraying nothing. “First, try adjusting your posture. You’ll see better results.”

Another sigh, and you halfheartedly drape yourself over the table again. “Like this? I’m not sure I fully understand, I think I need your help identifying my weak spots via more hands-on learning, sir.”

“Allow me to guide you, then.”

For a moment you think you’ll have to bait Zayne more, yet before you can figure out how to push the stubborn doctor any further, you feel the weight of his hands, heavy against your shoulder and hip. 

Zayne shifts forward, and you can feel the fabric of his suit vest graze the bare skin of your back, his hands unnaturally cool against the dips in your waist as he nudges your back into an arch. You comply, Zayne’s body nearly folding atop yours as his chest brushes your back. 

He takes the cue stick from your hand.

“You’re too tense,” Zayne pats your back two times. Your waist immediately bends, and you hear him laugh under his breath. “And now you’re too relaxed.”

With his hands still pressed against your waist, Zayne repositions himself and thus you as well, and you can feel the chill of each exhale against the crook of your neck.

He guides your aim, lining it up to the cue ball. The tip brushes ever so gently against the felt surface as it pushes, slowly and deliberately, practicing the gentle back-and-forth motion as you struggle to keep pace. 

“Drop your left arm. Allow it to bend naturally.” He taps your elbow and waist. “Your head, dominant arm, and the cue stick should all form a straight line.”

You begin to shuffle according to Zayne’s instructions, hinging your hips backward before you realize what a wonderfully compromising position he’s placed you in. As discreetly as possible, you allow your right leg to step backward, movement forcing you further against Zayne as you press the curve of your ass into his hips. Immediately, you’re rewarded with a sharp inhale next to your ear. 

But instead of pulling away or reprimanding you Zayne merely continues with the lesson, almost frustratingly unaffected if it wasn’t for the fact that you could feel his reaction grow between your thighs. 

Still, he is nothing if not a professional as he whispers against your jaw, "Behave.”

"I am," you reply, and one of Zayne’s hands comes up to guide your cue stick. “...It just hurts a little.”

You don’t have to see his face to know that Zayne is giving you a smug smile. 

“That means it’s correct.”

You take a deep breath. You practice the same back-and-forth motions, thrusting the stick forward on the third, watching as your cue stick strikes the white ball, sending a solid orange one rolling.

Another click and a thud, and you successfully land a pocket.

Just when you feel like you’re finally getting the hang of it, you make the fatal mistake of looking down to where Zayne's fingers guide yours against the cue stick, and your brain turns to scramble once more. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, fleeting sensation.

And you miss.

Zayne is quiet for a long moment, tilting his head, letting the warmth of his cheek press against your neck. “Snap out of it. Are you even paying attention?”

Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

“Of course,” you retort, skin feeling uncomfortably hot even when Zayne finally steps back from you, your body searing the memory of his touch into every nerve. “I’ll score the next one myself.”

He hums and cocks an eyebrow as if telling you to go on, prove him wrong. 

“Remember, move the cue stick to gauge the shot two or three times, then stop at the position closest to the ball.”

You do, gauging the weight of the cue stick, bending down over the table so your chest nearly brushes with the felt, narrowing in on the solid green ball. 

“Stop and pull back the cue stick in three, two, one.” 

On Zayne’s command, you strike, a satisfying click followed by the thump of the ball falling into the corner pocket. You scored. All on your own.

“It went in!” You jolt up, spinning as you laugh. 

“So it did. Seems like your pool skills are less about precision and more… passion.” Zayne’s lips twitch into a smile, and you’re not foolish enough to ignore his double meaning. “Granted, you might need a little more than passion to come back and win this round.”

You scoff, attempting to change the subject without drawing attention to how red your face has gotten. “Well then, perhaps if you’re not too committed to this doctor thing there’s still a chance for you in the professional billiard space.”

“No, thank you. Now, think you can make another shot by yourself?”

“Wait a moment. When a student does well, shouldn’t they get a reward?”

“Very well,” Zayne relents, tone even despite the searing gaze he practically strips down your body. “What do you want?”

“There are a few balls blocking my next shot. Help me?”

A beat, and he blinks at you incredulously. “That is all?”

“What’s wrong, Dr. Zayne? Scared that if you give me too much help, I’ll steal this victory from you?”

“Provocation doesn’t work on me.”

“Then come here.”

God, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how pliant he is for you, obeying your command without so much as a moment of hesitation. His larger frame now towers above you, close enough that you have to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. And you can’t help but tease him a bit more. It’s not your fault his obedience gives you a rush.

“Closer,” you whisper, teasing your fingers against his vest buttons. “Or else I can’t reach it.” 

Still, Zayne complies. Although this time his brows furrow, shuffling closer so his knee slips between yours and your chest presses against his. “What exactly are you…”

You yank his tie, pushing him down atop the felt tabletop before he can finish his sentence. 

There’s a dull thud, Zayne’s vest ruffled as you pin him to the table. He still looks frustratingly composed, not a hair out of place, but you feel his chest rise and fall uncharacteristically fast under your palm.

Smiling in victory, your other hand brings up your cue stick, making a show of tapping it on his broad shoulders. “Ah, look, the ball is so far away. I think I’ll need a cue rest.”

“Using cue rests would be overkill,” Zayne retorts, propping himself onto his elbows as you pout. You’ve been teasing him all night; surely just one more push, and he’ll finally give in? 

Before he can escape from your hold, you lift the cue stick off his shoulder, letting the tip slip under his tie. Zayne watches with a tight frown as you tug his tie loose. “And this is inappropriate.”

“But are you not enjoying it too?” Your leg slides out from the slit in your dress, allowing you to straddle Zayne’s thigh as your arms cage him further against the pool table. “Sir?”

His brows furrow, almost surprised at your brazenness before he looks down with a huff, and you see the smirk he’s fighting to keep at bay. “I shouldn’t have taught you so much.”

Getting revenge for before, it’s your turn to grip his jaw, brushing kisses against his beautifully hooked nose and down his jaw, leaving smears of cherry red in your wake as you purposefully neglect his waiting lips. “What can I say? I have a very attentive teacher.” 

Zayne is about to say something sarcastic back, no doubt, so you roll your hips forward, cutting off his words as you’re rewarded with a groan instead. The angle allows you to grind atop the rough seams in his trousers, nearly catching against his zipper and the heavy bulge you can already feel straining underneath. 

His hand shoots out, gripping your thigh as you gasp. There’s a warning look in his eyes, but he makes no move to stop you.

Encouraged, you repeat the motion, rocking forward against him as you give an exaggerated moan. Zayne quickly cuts it off with his other hand, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as he muffles your noises. You open your lips further, allowing the digit to slide against your lipstick and push against your tongue. 

Zayne tsks, shaking his head.

You gently nip at his finger before beginning to suck the offending digit, flicking your tongue against the rough pad of his thumb. You watch his eyes narrow, the grip on your waist tightening. Zayne is holding himself back. Again. 

You release his thumb with a pop. "Don't worry, sir, no one will hear." As if to prove your point, you stop grinding, instead bringing your hand up to cup at the bulge straining against his pants. “Besides, you’re too pretty like this. I'm the only one who gets to hear all the sounds you make.”

You smile so sweetly despite the way you torture him with every rough drag of your palm against his clothed cock. But it’s only when your smile breaks into something more genuine that Zayne feels himself flush, gazing up at you adoringly before he tries to play it off with a chuckle and a pinch at your hips.

"The things you say..." His expression changes to something unreadable, stone-cold and conflicted. The chances of losing you again are greater than he once thought. He doesn't deserve this, and he doesn't deserve you. Zayne is reminded of that every time he dares get too close.

But he can't help it. He’d eternally become a fool, a martyr, just for you.

Zayne’s jaw clenches, and a stuttered moan slips through his teeth as your hand squeezes his clothed cock. "Do you think I'm that weak to flattery?"

"No. I just think you deserve it sometimes." You smirk. "Plus, I'm not flattering you, I'm complimenting."

"And what's the difference?"

"The intent," you whisper, grinding your hips forward again.

This time, you catch him by surprise, and Zayne moans, the sound low and rough and so fucking addicting. Zayne grunts, head tilting back as he shuts his eyes, lips parting ever so slightly as more soft sighs and moans slip out, spurring you on.

You lean in, breath warm against his ear as you whisper, "What's wrong, sir? I thought you had a lesson to teach me."

Zayne’s grip tightens, and he yanks you down so your palms skid across the smooth felt of the pool table you’ve pinned him against, pulling your hips flush against his as his palm cups your ass.

“If you actually want to learn, there's another way I can teach you…” Zayne leans up on his forearms until his lips brush with yours, and right as his eyes begin to flutter closed, you shove him backward. Denying his kiss. Again.

“Sir, this seems to be highly unprofessional.”

And Zayne finally snaps. 

“First you use your teacher as a cue rest, then you try to talk about professionalism?” He lets out a curt laugh, and you can practically feel his patience wearing thin. It’s terrifying, and your stomach flutters in anticipation.

“ Unprofessional ,” he spits, and your thighs clench at the growl undercutting his words. “Unprofessional, like that time you were screaming my name in the back of my car while we were still at the hospital parking lot? Or unprofessional, like that time you interrupted me during work hours, begging me to eat your cunt out in my office? Or perhaps it’s like when you decided to turn this lesson into an opportunity to tease me since you’re clearly so desperate?”

You can practically feel yourself drip at Zayne’s blunt words, each one harsh and true— your relationship with him had passed morally ethical the moment you pulled him in to kiss you instead of pushing him away months ago.

Using this moment of weakness, Zayne lifts you up, flipping the two of you around so you’re the one pinned against the pool table as he reaches for his abandoned cue stick. And he finally- finally - claims your lips with his. 

Zayne always kisses like he operates, slow and methodical, as if he could spend hours learning every inch of your body, and it never fails to leave you breathless. But today, the urgency in the way he licks into your mouth is palpable, and it has you whining and clutching his suit, legs wrapping around his waist as you try to bring him closer, the oak rim of the table forcing your back into a deeper arch as you whine. 

A firm hand against your hip stops your movement, pinning you down. You feel so small, caged in between his much longer legs, his superior height much too obvious. The difference in size is almost laughable as he bends down to lick deeper into your mouth. You gasp against Zayne’s lips as his other hand slides to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles against the column of your throat and your fluttering heartbeat underneath.

You whimper into his mouth, futilely attempting to push him away even though your hips grind insistently against his thigh. “Zayne,” his name tapers off into a moan as he kisses you again, addicted. “We can’t–” another kiss. “Anyone could walk in.” Another.

When he does give you space to breathe, a thin string of saliva connects his bottom lip to yours. He pants heavily, lips shaded a hue of cherry red from your lipstick and teeth as the corner of his mouth tugs into a frown. “Hm, I suppose that’s true. But that didn’t stop you before, did it? So I see no reason why it should stop me now.”

And you realize your fate has long since been sealed.  

Zayne returns to peppering your neck with kisses, teeth nipping the soft skin at your collarbone, and you yelp as he leaves a particularly harsh bite. Your hands come up to fist into his hair, and Zayne groans against your chest.

"Do not think I have forgotten our lesson," He whispers.

"Who, me?" You bat your eyelashes. "I would never. Sir."

His gaze darkens. "Then watch closely, I’m only doing this once.” 

Leaning over you, Zayne positions the cue stick against your shoulder, not unlike you did to him before. But unlike you, he forces your hips up against his thigh, watching your eyes roll back from the delicious friction of his expensive trousers. “There are two striped balls left. As punishment for your attitude during my lesson, I want you to come on my thigh before I pocket both of them.”

Dumbstruck, you can only stare up at him, stammering at his demand as you feel your pussy flutter. “I- I don’t think…”

Zayne scoffs, silencing you by roughly thumbing at your lips again. “Don’t act so shocked. You’ve been humping me like a desperate brat all evening, so go on and come like one. Come for me.”

His words are demeaning, each one cold and seemingly emotionless as he stares down at you. But you can see the truth in his eyes as he watches your every reaction, their gentle green filled with an adoration so tender it terrifies you. You feel the truth in his touch, only moving with your consent, already having memorized your body to learn the way you tick and acting upon your every whim, only pushing you just as far as you wish to be. 

Zayne has never told you he loves you, but he has shown you that he does in a thousand countless ways. 

And he’ll prove it to you in a thousand more. 

”Unless, you want more punishment?” Zayne twists his head towards you with his next statement, and he feels the way it makes you flinch— it makes him throb at the same time. You shake your head. 

You can barely form sentences when he’s deliberately tensing the muscles in his thigh, each movement in time with every needy twitch of your hips like it’s a means to emphasize his point. 

“Use. Your. Words.”

“No.”

His grip tightens, fingers tensing against your neck, and you stammer back out the correction. “No, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Your heart flutters at the praise, a quiet whimper escaping you as you buck against him. Your lips are pouty from being bitten between your teeth, and you still hear muffled sobs and moans slip past your lips as you begin chasing the friction against his thigh, the upward angle punishing your clit. 

Despite how much Zayne likes to front that he’s in complete control, something tells you he’s having a harder time holding back than he’ll ever admit. You think maybe the bulge in his slacks and his low moans against your ear is proof enough of that.

Zayne’s not sure which is more distracting, the sight of your pretty pussy grinding against him, only just covered by the thin silk of your dress, or the sounds falling from your mouth. The room is filled with the wet sounds of your cunt, your whimpers, and Zayne's own groans.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Zayne leans in for another kiss, the tips of your noses barely touching. But the proximity makes you slow, and he clicks his tongue, reaching above you to line up his cue stick for the next shot. But he pauses, instead fully tugging off the tie you had loosed.

"Since you were so insistent on taking my tie off earlier, here. Keep it for me." Zayne grabs both your wrists with one hand, looping his tie tightly against your skin, skillfully making a knot without ever releasing your wrists. 

“Maybe this will help you behave properly,” Zayne whispers, voice low as he mouths your pulse point, a fresh surge of arousal rushing to your core as you feel his length pressing further into you. 

With a broken whimper, you hook an ankle around Zayne’s back as you begin to grind harder against his thigh, moaning at the new angle. It hardly compared to the feeling of his fingers or cock fucking into you, but you barely cared, arousal and lust spurred on by Zayne’s voice. 

You soon fall into a rhythm, painfully slow, the mere friction sending jolts of heat through you until you’re certain Zayne’s trousers must be stained. You nearly beg for something to hold onto, hands writhing helplessly against his tie as your sobs are muffled into your red-bitten lips.

But just as soon as the pleasure builds, you feel it plateau, hips beginning to stutter as the dull friction becomes too little, the coiling heat inside you desperate to be properly filled up by something, anything. 

Zayne, on the other hand, is faring no better. 

He’s thoroughly distracted with the pretty little thing desperately fucking herself against his thigh, caging you down to the table as his hands clench against the cue stick, nearly enough to make it snap. 

You continue to push yourself in desperation to fulfill Zayne’s order for you to come, his continuous praises mingling with the lewd squelch of your cunt, and your eyes roll back with a cry. Zayne’s voice is intoxicating, his steady tone rough with lust sending tremors down your spine, infecting you like an aphrodisiac. You were building further and further, mounting pressure in your core dizzying, desperation for release seeping through you, mind lust-drunk as you willed yourself to fall off the peak.

But the familiar sound of the billiard balls clicks somewhere above you, followed by two distinct thuds. 

A hum, and Zayne pries himself away as you whine at the loss, cold air rushing in. 

You failed. 

“How disappointing.” Zayne scolds as if he wasn’t the one who nearly came from your grinding instead. ”But you know what happens to students who fail to follow clear instructions, don’t you?”

Standing back, Zayne discards the cue stick entirely as one hand readjusts his trousers, and you whimper at the sight of him cupping his bulge, stroking and coaxing it against his thigh just so he can stand straight. 

“Turn around and lift your dress.”

You obey, propping yourself up on shaking arms before you flip around so the rough edge of the billiard table now presses against your stomach, the felt hot beneath your bound wrists. 

Zayne hums in approval, almost apathetically observing the way you squirm before he nods at you to continue. Lowering your eyes from his, you allow your leg to slip out from the slit in your dress, spreading your legs back and to the side as the silk falls off the curve of your ass, Zayne’s piercing gaze following every movement. 

“Didn’t think a game of pool would turn you on this much,” he muses, leaning against the rim of the table as he crosses his arms.

Unable to meet his stare any longer, your head falls between your still tied-up hands, every inch of your body burning in shame and lust as Zayne continues to wordlessly observe you. You swear you’ll burn up with the way he fucks you with his eyes.

 Still, Zayne doesn’t move. 

You nearly scream against the table, eyes scrunched as you snap. “Fuck! Zayne, I swear to god, if you don’t finally fuck me I’ll do it myself or find someone else who will.”

The words barely leave your mouth when a hand fists into your hair, pulling you backward until you arch back, and you gasp, mouth falling open at the sensation. Zayne's breath is cold against the shell of your ear, the growl undercutting his words sending tremors down your spine.

"Needy little brat," his fingers curl into your hair, pulling until your jaw goes slack. Zayne's other hand finds its way back to your underwear, the material so damp that it almost feels sticky beneath his touch, and you moan at the sensation, unable to formulate a retort as your eyes flutter closed. “I think you’re forgetting this is meant to be your punishment.”

He snaps the band of your panties, and you choke, knees wobbling.

"Remember to count, or we start over.”

Placing the flat of his palm in the space between your shoulder blades, Zayne pushes you down against the billiard table, the side of your face pressed against the felt.

You hear the sharp crack of his hand meeting your ass before you feel it, the burn returning with a vengeance as you scream into the table. The sting of his palm leaves a searing heat across the curve of your ass, and you bite down on the tie binding your hands to muffle the cries that escape you.

Then you remember his order, lips quivering as you say, "One."

Another smack. This time harder. The strike is so precise it nearly sends you toppling over, the sting and ache following pushing you further against the wood. You let out a sob, eyes beginning to water as you clench around nothing, the throbbing of your cunt only worsened by Zayne's firm grip on the base of your neck.

"Two."

The third strike comes down even harder than the last, the resounding echo of his slap followed by a strangled scream from you, the heat and pain making your knees give out, forcing you to rest fully atop the pool table. “Three.”

You feel tears running down your face, undoubtedly ruining your makeup. But before you can process the fourth smack, you feel the familiar sting against your ass and the paradoxically gentle rub of Zayne's hand against the aching spot, soothing the pain as you count.

 "F-Four." You shutter as you feel sheer cold bloom against your skin, his Evol numbing your ass as you whimper from the pleasure-pain.

Zayne’s thumb dips past the seam of your panties, gathering the slick that has been dripping out of you for the entire night. You feel the heat of his stare on you and the weight of his hand heavy on the small of your back, his other hand still gripping your neck with his thumb tracing soft circles against your pulse.

"So wet. Is this what you were hoping for, hm? Testing me until I finally snapped and ruined you?”

You don't dare look him in the eye. "Please, sir. I can't—"

"Can't what? Take anymore? Can't take any more punishment like the disobedient brat you are?" Zayne's voice is low, and you shiver at his words, unable to respond as the tears continue to flow, the mixture of pain and arousal leaving your vision blurred and cloudy. He spanks you again, this time hard enough to leave a mark, and you keen, legs spreading even wider in desperation.

"I can't— ah shit — please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sir, please, just fuck me already.” you plead, voice trembling as you beg, desperate to be filled by anything other than the emptiness. 

“Language.” Zayne reprimands, and the sting of his strike follows shortly after. “And you forgot to count.”

“Five! It’s f-five.” Your knees buckle with a sob, and Zayne has to hold your waist so you don't slide onto the floor, his touch paradoxically gentle compared to everything else he’s done.

“Shh, you’re far too noisy. It’s almost as though you want someone walking in to find us like this.”

Your dress is only noticeably bunched up from the back and Zayne is still fully clothed. Anyone walking by the billiard hall would just see a couple talking by the tables, but if they were to enter the room it would hardly take a brain surgeon to figure out what was happening. The realization has your walls clench around nothing.

Zayne hoists your wrists up, forcing you into a deeper arch before untying your restraints. You then watch him fist the purple silk into a ball before pushing it into your mouth, gagging you with it. “Don’t worry, this will help.”

It doesn't.

You moan against his tie, saliva pooling against the silky fabric as Zayne pushes the soaked garment deeper into your throat, his chest pressed against your bare back. You look up at him through watery eyes, sniffling, the tingling sensation of being punished in such a way overwhelming you completely. Zayne uses this opportunity to soothe you like he always does— never failing to find the perfect balance between rough and gentle.

"It's alright, I know, my little darling can’t make up her mind. I’ll help you, I’ll show you what you want." Zayne soothes, stroking your cheek with his thumb, his gaze gentle despite his steady and strict voice. Then, he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he whispers, “If anything hurts or becomes too much, tap the table twice." 

You wouldn’t dare, not after finally getting what you wanted.

Zayne slips his hands under the backs of your thighs, easily lifting your weight against his chest as you whimper, the toes of your heels just barely grazing the tiled floor. The position is beyond embarrassing, ass up, face down, completely exposed and at his mercy.

He withdraws one hand, and you cry out, a garbled mess of pleas. The absence of his touch is torturous, the throbbing of your pussy and the soreness of your ass a painful reminder of the punishment you received.

The tent in his pants was tantalizingly obvious, even more pronounced once he pushed his pants down, taking out his length. He spits on his fingers, the slick sounds of him stroking himself making you whine in anticipation. It was oozing with precum, head red and flushed as he jerks himself off with sharp movements between your thighs. You grind your hips back, trying to tempt him, but all Zayne does is coo at your pitiful attempts.

"Look at you, so desperate. All that childish stubbornness just because you want my cock." He lines himself up, the head of his cock catching against your entrance as you shiver. The stretch burns, and you groan, eyes screwing shut at the feeling. "My beautiful, filthy girl."

Zayne whispers, curling an arm between your sweat-slickened bodies. You think he means to finally alleviate the needy throbbing against your clit, but instead his hand presses firmly against your lower stomach as he continues to fuck into you, torturously slow, allowing the blunt head of his cock to bully its way deeper and deeper still. 

The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch of Zayne's cock combined with the sting of his earlier punishment leaves you a mess, fluttering around him as he finally bottoms out.

He lets out a long moan, a low rumble that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You're so full, the head of his cock pressing insistently against the bundle of nerves inside you.

Some distant part of you is mortified of every lewd squelch and moan that echos over the jazz in the public hall, but feeling Zayne gently cup your ass while the other brutally pins you down, hearing him come apart against the back of your neck, knowing that your stoic lover was pushed to such extremes has you keening.

You want to feel every inch of him, so you clench down, and Zayne bites the back of your neck in retaliation, his hips stuttering.

"You’re perfect." Zayne praises, and his breathless voice sends shivers down your spine. "So good for me, taking me so well."

Zayne finally starts moving, letting the tip of his cock pull back until the head catches on the rim of your cunt, trying desperately to keep him inside, until he thrusts back into you in a single harsh motion, watching you fall apart just as he knew you would. 

Your scream muffles into the gag, and Zayne reaches down to push the tie deeper into your mouth, the knot catching on the back of your tongue as he sets a steady pace. 

The hand against your lower stomach shifts, still pressing hard enough so Zayne can feel his cock throb through you, and yet now positioned perfectly to thumb against your clit too. He needs to make you come, to feel it around him. 

Zayne knows your body better than his own, knows exactly what angle he needs to hit, knows exactly where to touch to send your hips jerking back, and knows exactly where to tease to have you clenching down and sobbing into his tie.

It doesn't take long until you're coming, his fingers circling the bundle of nerves until you're screaming, thighs shaking, and he has to hold them open as you fall apart around him, cunt gushing as you squirt over his suit and trousers.

Your orgasm has your walls fluttering, clenching around his cock as it nearly begs for him to be buried deeper inside, and Zayne grunts, a broken moan ripped from his throat as his grip on your thigh tightens.

The pace of his thrusts grows sloppier, and you can tell he's close, the wet squelch of his cock inside your cunt driving you mad as his rhythm becomes inconsistent. You can feel his breath fan against your neck, labored and shaky, with the way he chases his high.

Your cunt aches with how full you feel, overstimulated and sensitive, but you push your hips back anyway, meeting Zayne halfway as you both chase the release that's been building up all night.

With one final thrust, Zayne finally comes inside you, a choked gasp followed by a low moan as his hips stutter, almost fucking his cum back into you as a sloppy mixture of your release drip down his cock and your thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into your skull, and your second orgasm takes you by surprise, your body convulsing at the overstimulation and the warm soothing sensation of being filled to the brim. 

"Fuck." Zayne whispers, his hands holding your hips as his thumbs trace circles against the dimples at the small of your back. The chill and comfort of his hands is almost enough to distract you from the ache, and you groan, legs finally giving out beneath you as you fall forward onto the pool table, the hard surface unforgiving as the wood rubs against your bruised knees.

Ever so gently, Zayne removes his tie from your mouth, turning you around so you’re pressed tight against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his rapid heartbeat and the way his hands tremble, and you smile, the familiar tenderness of his touch calming the both of you.

He slowly runs a hand down the curve of your back and you hum against the top of his head, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. “I think I love you, Zayne.”

He doesn’t say a word, instead, you feel his other arm wrap around your waist, tucking you further into his embrace.

The two of you remain like this, tangled in each other until your breathing finally evens out and the fever that inflected you begins to cool. When Zayne finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your skin, and you shiver at the mere brush of his lips. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Hmm, not any more than I’d want to be.” 

You mean it as a joke, but Zayne immediately stiffens in your hold, pulling back just enough to inspect your neck, then your wrists and hips as he kisses each bruise and remaining mark with hushed apologies. 

"Did you mean it?"

You look down at him, his brows furrowed as you thumb at the stubborn crease that appears between them. You’re not sure why, but something in the way he stares up at you, waiting, longing, makes tears prick in the back of your eyes. 

"Zayne," your voice is gentle, and you cup his cheek. "I do. I love you."

The tension in his jaw melts, his expression softening into something unnameable. His hand comes up to cup yours, scarred thumb tracing circles against your palm. " Say it again."

"I love you," you repeat, the corners of your mouth tugging upwards. "I love you. I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, Zayne–"

The last syllable of his name is cut off by his lips against yours, and you smile into the kiss, pulling him up until his forehead finally rests on your again. 

"As do I," Zayne whispers, voice thick, and the sincerity in his eyes threatens to make you cry. 

And you believe him.

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