Kiwi

Dont worry^^ I don't mind helping your hyperfixations

His study is warm tonight—an unnatural warmth, almost suffocating. The windows are shut tight, and the only light comes from the flickering candles and the hearth, casting long shadows over shelves of ancient books and artifacts that hum with forgotten power.

Dottore sits at his desk, quill discarded beside parchment inked with half-written scripture. He’s not focused. Not on work. Not on doctrine. His eyes haven’t left you for the past five minutes.

“You’ve been staring,” you murmur, half-playful, half-nervous.

He doesn’t deny it. “You’ve been haunting my thoughts,” he replies, voice low, husky. “Even when I close my eyes, I still see you.”

You should laugh. Tease him, maybe. But your heart clenches.

So you speak.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Then—he rises slowly from the chair. You think he might reject you. He’s a priest. A vampire. A being older and darker than you can fully understand.

But he crosses the room instead, standing in front of you, and reaches for your hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into my cursed mansion and looked at me like I was something human,” he breathes. “I’ve tried to resist it. I can’t anymore.”

Your heart stutters.

He lifts your hand, kissing the skin near your wrist—right where your pulse beats strongest. “Say it again,” he murmurs.

“I love you.”

That’s all it takes.

---

His lips crash into yours like he’s starved for you, like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy his eternal hunger. It’s not neat or restrained—there’s desperation in the way he kisses you, tongue sliding into your mouth, fangs grazing your lip but not piercing. Not yet.

You gasp when he presses you against the bookshelf, his body caging you there, hands roaming your waist and lower back.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to ruin you,” he growls softly.

“You’re a priest,” you whisper, dazed.

“I’m not a saint.”

He lifts you effortlessly, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he carries you across the room to his bed—heavy, carved mahogany with black silk sheets. It smells faintly of him—cedar, candle smoke, and blood.

He lays you down as if in worship.

Then he strips you slowly. Carefully. His hands don’t shake, but his breath does. Every piece of clothing he removes feels ceremonial. Reverent.

When you’re bare before him, his red gaze devours you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Soft. Warm. Alive.”

“And you?” you whisper, reaching up to trace his collar, sliding his robe off his shoulders. “You’re mine.”

He shudders.

You pull him down into another kiss, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. You can feel him now—hard against your thigh, restrained only by layers he quickly strips away.

He kisses every inch of you before he takes you—neck, collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach. When his mouth brushes over your inner thighs, he groans, fangs accidentally dragging against tender skin.

“Can I taste you?” he asks, voice trembling—not with fear, but restraint.

“Y-Yes.”

He bites lightly—just a drop of blood—and licks it clean, moaning softly at the flavor. “Sweet,” he mutters. “Even your blood is sweet.”

You reach for him, your voice breathless. “Dottore… please…”

He finally moves over you, aligning himself, his eyes locking onto yours.

“This may hurt,” he murmurs, cupping your cheek, “but I’ll go slow.”

When he pushes in, it’s with infinite care—but he’s thick, and your breath hitches as your body stretches to accommodate him. He shushes you gently, stroking your sides, kissing your throat.

You cling to him as he begins to move, every thrust deliberate and deep, filling you completely. The sensation of him inside you is overwhelming—pleasure tinged with something darker, something sacred.

“Feel that?” he whispers against your ear. “That’s me claiming you.”

You nod, moaning softly, your nails raking down his back.

His lips kiss your throat again, but this time… he bites.

The fangs pierce you gently, and the wave of sensation that follows makes your eyes roll back. The pain is dulled, overtaken by ecstasy as he drinks from you—just a little—while still moving inside you.

He’s careful not to take too much. Just enough to feel you. To taste the love blooming in your blood.

When you climax, your cry is muffled in his shoulder. You tremble beneath him, walls tightening around his length, and that’s what undoes him. He moans your name, thrusts harder, deeper—and then stills as he spills inside you, groaning like a man who’s finally found peace.

---

He doesn’t move for a while.

You lie tangled together in the sheets, his head buried against your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

He kisses the bite mark. It’s already healing.

“I’ll never let you go,” he murmurs.

You smile, fingers stroking his hair. “Good. I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

He lifts his head just enough to kiss you again—slow this time. Sweet. Deep. Then whispers: