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Scleritas’ chiding rings in her ears even now. He was right- of course he was right. It won’t do, to only butcher the would-be acolytes. It won’t do, this pathetic little obsession she’s harbored, festering in her where there should be no room for anything else but the call of blood. She has an itch under her nail beds and an ache in her eye socket, unaccustomed to the weight of her new prosthetic. If she thinks about it too long, hysteria starts to burble at the back of her throat. Even now the ghost of Gortash’s hands flutter about the scarred side of her face, shockingly gentle. Dubhsláine needs to kill something- someone.
The streets are flush with potential offerings, the autumn festival in full swing. She’s been pacing a ring in the shadowed alleys of the Lower City, waiting for the right time. They’ll call to her; it must be perfect. And it is: a flushed half-elven woman, tittering and giggling her way down the alley Dubhsláine is currently skulking in. She smells of Fireswill, cinnamon and spices and cheap patchouli, and Áine gets one look at her ashy blonde hair and knows that she wants to see it dripping red. Her scales tingle and the woman startles at the spell cast in the dark alley, a brief flare of magenta light and Áine’s voice husky from disuse. It is easy, ridiculously so, to Hold her so she can work: quickly, efficiently. She knows she should be brief, but she uses her knife to tilt her chin to the side and zeroes in on the rabbit-quick flutter of the woman’s pulse at her jugular. Yes, best save that for last.
A murmured prayer rises between them, the taller elf pressing their foreheads together. This is a gift, a benediction this woman cannot appreciate. This is what Dubhsláine was made for, this total annihilation, this sweetest of violent acts. The woman can do little under Holding, but she makes a little noise, wet in her throat and sweet as music, when Áine sinks the blade into her belly. That first dribble of blood is always so liberating; it spreads through her plain dress and down, down, starts to drip onto the cobbles quickly, like an overfull gutter after a summer rain. When she jerks the knife it transforms into a rivulet that echoes up to their ears, a viscous, perverted waterfall that fills Áine’s head like smoke.
Rattling grunts emit from the woman’s throat, tears tracking down her face. Áine wipes them away with a bloody thumb. Oh, the salt of it is delectable in her mouth when she sucks her thumb between her lips. Only then does she shuck up the frayed edges of the woman’s dress and trace her father’s sigil against her lean stomach. What a shame, she muses, that she cannot cast light upon this shrine: what color would her eyes be, under the glaze of impending death, enhanced by the shine of her tears? They flinch minutely, held open by the spell but still reacting to the dagger that Áine yanks out, her pupils constricting to needlepoints. Áine will refresh the sigil with her blade, but before she can, she wants to bleed her, presses the tip of the blade to that thrumming throat and watches as blood beads to the surface. It doesn’t take much, here, and though she’s already lost so much, with one practiced movement the vein collapses under the pressure and spurts an arc of blood. The fluid hits Áine in the face and soaks into her robes- her breath catches, a delighted smile unfolding over her face.
She watches the life drain from those colorless eyes, her hunger at last like a barncat with a mouse: sated and purring.
Gortash is known for burning the midnight oil, which is to her benefit this evening. She has a fresh cloak drawn about her shoulders, so as to not startle his servants. If she tilted her face into her hair, the streak of blood on her cheek couldn’t be seen. She expects to find him engrossed in a book, or even tinkering away- not awaiting her in his study, looking half-asleep in face and clothing alike. She pauses in the doorway at the sight of him: he has a loosely-tied robe draw over linen pants, the span of his furred torso is on display from clavicle to navel, his feet are bare, and the kohl he favors is smudged. He has an easy smile for her, which is dangerous.
“I did not realize I woke you.” Áine grips the doorjamb. Something trickles down her spine and coils in her stomach, like a serpent waiting to strike. Just seeing him like this is nearly enough to undo her, to undo her act of worship.
“And I did not realize you would be enjoying the festivities. Don’t bother yourself with the hour- I told you if you needed me to attend to the eye, I would be available at your leisure.”
He cranes to search his desk for something. His neck is bared for her, stubble thicker at this hour, his hair for once mussed in a direction that reveals his throat working on a swallow. It would be so easy, for her to take his moment of misplaced trust in her and use it to do what she really wanted this evening, to bleed him instead of that urchin. He would look… delicious, beautiful even, his complexion and fondness for dark clothing would compliment the crimson, and his eyes- she’d be able to see them in the light of his office, see the myriad hues of brown and black blowout with panic. Would he cry? He wouldn’t be easily Held, he’d probably put up a fight- it would be all the sweeter for it.
He turns back to her, settling queer little spectacles over his nose, and holds his hand out to her. “You know, I rather think I should show you how to recharge it yourself.”
She closes the door to his office and presses her back to it. For a heartbeat, she is prey and predator both. “It doesn’t need to be charged.”
Surprise flits through his eyes, tailed quickly by suspicion. His hand moves to the pocket of his robe. Áine’s chest heaves with a wanton sigh. Oh, it would be so perfect.
“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of your calling?” the diplomacy of his words is not matched by his tone, threaded as they are with irritation. The venomous thing in her stomach rattles and preens. Distantly, she is aware she is wet enough to feel her small clothes, tacky against her groin.
Before she moves toward him, she pulls back her hood and lets her travel cloak fall to the floor. Her robes are stiff and blood flakes off of her arm and cheek. Her hands shake, shake like the first time she poisoned a man, shake like the first time she tasted blood, shake like the first time she touched herself thinking about him, furtive and ashamed. Beneath her heavy tread the floor creaks, and Gortash pulls a dagger from his pocket.
“Do you think that would stop me, lordling?” she asks, voice whisper soft. Her hands move to the ties at her hips keeping her robe closed. He doesn’t let go of the blade but watches, his eyes dark but still bright, alert.
“I think your throat cut open would slow you down,” he intones slowly.
Áine takes another step toward him; flomph goes her robe onto the carpet. he freezes. She has the rabbit heart, now, with a stomach full of rattling, ravenous snakes and a head full of bad ideas. Another step; she slips off the fabric compressing her breasts. Yes, red does look pleasing on his complexion, though his flush is so much more muted than his blood would be. Step: her hands fall to the laces of her breeches.
“Stop,” he croaks.
The hairs on her arms stand on end at the order. He’s hard, she realizes, the shape of his cock utterly obvious under his pyjamas. Her mouth floods and her cunt clenches at the size of him.
“What are you playing at?” he raises the knife, brandishing it in a way that belies his inexperience with it. “Think it’ll be easier to cut me down if I put my cock in you?”
A noise rips up her throat. Just the idea of it, just his lips shaping the syllables and him giving them voice has her more turned on than she can fathom. The itch under her nail beds is back, and this time it calls for something other than blood.
“…you’re serious.” is his only response for her moan. She nods.
The dagger falls to the floor with a thump.
He hefts himself onto the edge of his desk, his legs splaying open. He’s still watching her with wide, distrustful eyes, but they dip to her breasts and eat her alive.
“Continue.”
She scrambles out of her breeches, focus torn between her laces and the way he palms himself. Her smalls puddle in the open legs of her pants where she leaves them on the floor, her sandals slipping off easily under the weight of the fabric. Áine practically stumbles to him, slotting between his legs and grabbing his hair to pull him into a savage kiss.
He wastes no time in touching her, his palm cupping her, thick fingers dipping between her folds. His moan is a rapturous thing, deep and satisfied, reverberating against her palate until she swears she can feel her teeth rattle.
“What has you this slick, hm? Wouldn’t happen to do with the blood on your face? Would it?”
She writhes just to press her face into his neck, to taste where his heart beats. “No.”
“What was that?” he pulls her away from his neck. What must she look like? What a picture she must make, covered in dried blood and panting for him like a dog. She feels unleashed.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” she gasps.
His fingers crook inside her, push further and aching pleasure builds under his ministrations. Yes, yes she can see his eyes like this, can drown in their black depths.
“Do you always soak your smalls for me like this?” Gortash asks it reverently, the hint of a smirk on his lips, his eyes flitting over her face, her tits, down to where he has her rocking against his hand.
“Yes,” Áine groans.
“Say it again.” The order is accompanied by his fingers knocking against something soft and resistant inside of her that has her seeing stars.
“ Yes! ”
He’s like a man possessed- but aren’t they both? He devours her mouth with a hand against her jaw, the other delved between her legs and forcing her towards a quick, painful orgasm. The shock of it raises her to the tips of her toes. Weave presses against her temples, ripples like a caress under her scales. Gortash groans and rips his hand out of her before she’s even through the aftershocks, but she forgives the oversight given that he’s pushing down his pants.
“I’m sucking you off next time.” she gasps. Gortash grunts, stroking himself off, that smirk coming over him fully now.
“Promises, promises.”
He grabs her by the hips, and she raises one knee beside him on the desk, spread wide for him to press up into. The stretch is obscene, and every point where they touch is hot, blood-hot. Neither of them thrust so much as they collide together, their hands all over each other, their bodies meeting blow for blow. It’s wholly more than she could have expected, the hot girth of his cock splitting her open and his greedy hands groping, taking, bruising.
A particular thrust has her straightened leg buckling, and it has Gortash rumbling a discontent noise and spilling her over onto his desk. An ink well tumbles, shatters; the crunching, wet noise of it reminds her of fracturing bones through skin, and she throbs all around him with a moan that is nearly relief. With a start, she realizes she has to get it- him- out of her system, with this one perfect fuck.
But the way he’s thrusting into her- a burning thing that bottoms out to sparkling pleasure- is quickly proving to be too much. She can’t experience all of what he has to offer now; can’t experience this dedicated reaming just the once and never again. Oh, but she’s always been a greedy thing and he’s like a shimmering horde to her draconic tendencies. She wants him- Gods, Dubhsl áine wants him so badly it makes her sick.
Slap! The impact of his hand across her face rings out, and knocks her from her reverie. Gortash is ruddy, his lips slick, bitten-red, and slanting into a smirk.
“Look at me while I fuck you,” he murmurs, and grabs her roughly by the cheeks for good measure. “This is what you wanted, hm? Look me in the eye while I give it to you. In fact,”
Gortash leans over, that twisted smile close to her mouth where her lips have been smooshed into parting. He licks across them, almost-tender, and ruts into her hard and slow. A noise like agony rips out of her, and he laughs.
“I think you should thank me for giving you this, dove.”
A frisson of sensation races down her spine, equal parts fire and ice. She wants to twist and tear his fingers off with her teeth. She wants to spit in his face. She wants him to hold her down and fuck her until she screams for mercy. And yet, under the endearment dripping with sarcasm, she can only arch into his giving, magnanimous hands and slur out Thank you, thank you, thank you.
He releases her only to grip the desk on either side of her hips and really let her have it. Dubhslâine squints at him, less out of any capitulation to him and more because she doesn’t want to miss a moment. When he bottoms out he bites his lip, and when he pulls out he gasps, a quiet, raspy thing. His pupils are blown, and his fringe is stuck to the edges of his face where he’s worked up a sweat. Will he look like this, when she finally does kill him, when he’s outgrown his use? Arousal coils tight at the base of her stomach, imagining him pale and fraught and diaphoretic on her father’s altar. If she must wait to mix their blood, then the melding of their bodies is a fair placation.
Climax washes over her unexpectedly, then quickly ascends into overstimulation as he seeks his own end. She thrashes beneath him, choking out her pleasure and making ribbons of his back with her nails. They catch on long, ragged ridges of scar tissue, familiar to her even unseen: he’s been lashed. Áine feels dizzy with longing, chokes out Gods, yes, please and he buries himself inside of her with a groan. The perversion of a Banite’s spend within her is exhilarating for mere moments before it becomes nauseating.
Gortash grunts angrily when she wedges a knee against his side and pushes him off of her. His cock slides out of her slickly, and humiliation washes over her in increasing waves as his cum drips from her entrance. She finds him smirking at it, and hurriedly sits up, pushing him out of the way to start gathering her clothes.
“This might be a record display of post-coital regret, dove.”
“Shut up,” she hisses at him, tugging her smalls up and hiding her wince at their chilliness.
Arms wrap around her and grab her wrists to still her. “What seems to be the matter?”
Futilely, she tries to shake him off. “Nothing. I got what I came here for, that’s all.”
His hands squeeze hard enough that her wrists ache. “Try again.”
He’s still naked; she can feel his soft, damp cock against her hip. Her stomach flips with indecision.
“Don’t ever come inside me again,” she finally tells him.
“Hm. Bit of a chore…” He leans in to murmur in her ear, “-what of your mouth? Can I spend there?”
A shiver cuts through her and gooseflesh erupts across her chest. She feels her nipples tighten, and her pants slip from her hands. He’s smirking again, the bastard- she can feel it.
“Glad we could come to an agreement,” Gortash says, and starts to slip his hands beneath her smalls, dragging them down slowly but surely. “Now, how about we retire to my room. You do look good in red, dove, but if you’ve complaints about my claim over you, we can take a bath. Then we can talk more about that- what was it you said?- next time.”
Ah, she realizes as she nods and sags into him. Gods damn him. Gods damn me.
She’ll never have enough of him, now.