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He looks at his disciples as the demons surround them. Sorrow and fury war over Reinhardt’s features, easily read even as he bleeds profusely from his eye. Mako, maskless and emotionless, squeezes his fists at his sides, tension pronounced in every muscle.They have fought well, but they are outnumbered.
Zenyatta smiles beneath his mask, sad and pained. They say without words to continue fighting, even though it means their deaths.
The pack of demons jeer as the circle, shoving and grabbing Zenyatta. He stumbles to the ground, tearing one sandal and dirtying his robes.
“We will give you a running start, little monk.”
The sickening miasma of its breath turns his stomach, but Zenyatta does not withdraw. He will not give them the pleasure of the chase, not when there is no hope to outrun them.
Motion catches his eye. Something red, something powerful, hides in the shadows.
Do you wish to die here?
Death would be honorable, but he doesn’t draw the small blade from his robes, will not leave Mako and Reinhardt to the same fate. Mondatta warned about emotional ties, chains to the physical, that he must unbind himself.
He cannot.
Run.
Zenyatta does.
They do not give him much time. Over the sound of his bare feet disturbing bramble and leaves the demons scream, auras clashing and roiling, fighting among themselves as they pursue.
His entire body aches, his ragged gasps thunderous. His crown catches against a low branch, sending it to the ground. He cannot hide; they know his smell. As they gain, hooting and clambering like a storm, he takes comfort in knowing his disciples will not see his demise.
Something snags Zenyatta’s robe, and he jerks backwards. The demon’s howl warms his head and chills his spine.
He lands on his back, winded and dazed. More screams. Hot liquid splatters across his mask, catching his eyes. He tears it off, swipes his face with his arm, stares at the vermillion smeared across it. The demon towering over him falls with a thick, squashed sound, like overripe fruit dropped from great heights.
Zenyatta stares.
Corpses, decapitated and worse, are strewn between the trees and brush. The screams, panicked and horrified, begin to die, their last breaths gargled pleas as they choke on their own blood.
He forces himself to his feet, even as they ache and bleed. Nicked from branches and brush, he is otherwise unharmed.
Only his slackening gasps reach his ears as the silence descends, but he is not alone.
He does not flinch as the shadow appears in front of him. Smaller than his kin, coated with viscera. The demon lifts his mask, the scarred lattice of his face revealed as he licks the tacky blood along his wrist, watching Zenyatta with glowing eyes.
“I had thought you craven.” The demon says. “But your heartbeat is slow.”
Suddenly the eyes are close. Pressure at the base of his neck, the threat of claws. The demon’s hot tongue lashes against his cheek, and his eyes dip, half-mast to survey him.
“I wonder what it would take to make that blood rush.” The words roll over his neck, a ghost of lips, of teeth.
Zenyatta could fight.
He does not.
The demon takes him there, surrounded by the corpses of his brethren.
Zenyatta’s pants sag between his knees, the fabric of his robe pinned to his waist as the demon crushes him to a tree.
The demon growls with his thrusts, using him fast and hard, and Zenyatta buries his face into his forearm, unable to tear his mind away from how heat pools feverishly between his hips, each thrust catching along the entire length of him. It should hurt as the demon stuffs his cock between his thighs, but the demon slickens him easily, copious pre-cum drooling down his legs. It’s huge, though he has not had the courage to look, only feels the strange texture of it, how much it leaks but doesn’t spill, how thick and heavy it feels crammed between his thighs.
Each point of contact is sudden, like lightning strikes, surging beneath his skin. Teeth at his neck, not quite drawing blood, scrape and nip as if more than anything he wants to drink the life force thrumming within.
Zenyatta gasps into his arm as the demon’s gloved hand gropes down his flank, eases his thrusts as he draws one cheek to the side, inspecting him. A shiver jolts through him as the pad of that gloved thumb glances across his hole.
“Please.” Zenyatta whispers without thought when the demon’s cock recedes and slides between his cheeks instead, coating him with warm, tingling slick, grinding against a place it cannot hope to fit. His thighs grow cold, cock aching and unspent against his trembling stomach.
The demon only chuckles against his throat, then groans as he fucks between his legs once more.
A whisper of fabric, but Zenyatta has little time to wonder as his thrusts grow hard and quick once more. The demon never stops teasing him, circling and prodding, gauging his reactions with a now ungloved hand. Zenyatta shakes, hips twitching, bites his lower lip and draws blood when the pressure, strange and foreign, nudges inward. He spreads his legs on instinct, and the demon huffs into his ear.
The drag between his legs slows as he sinks his finger inside, the sensation jarring, singing along Zenyatta’s spine. A few, awkward questing presses, then the demon curls his finger.
Zenyatta moans hard, bites his arm to muffle himself, and the demon surges against him, laughs into his ear.
“You like that?”
He speeds his finger, butting against something deep and sensitive and almost too much, and Zenyatta shakes his head against it.
“Wh...what is?”
The demon laughs again, mouths beneath his ear as he works him open. It takes only a few deft twists before Zenyatta fucks back, seeking more, too shocked to unburrow his head. His lower body feels alight, the hot sparks of pleasure heady and dizzying.
Another finger makes his knees quake dangerously, and the demon presses him harder to the tree, steadying him as he stares between their bodies. The pre-cum, thick and viscous, guides him deeper, slickens his insides, makes Zenyatta pliant and shivery.
“You’re sucking me in so greedily.”
It should hurt, but he only feels full, full and wanting. Tears prick at his eyes as the third finger slips inward, the stretch of it delicious, and then they grind against that place inside him, forcing air from his lungs as his cock throbs and leaks. The demon has all but halted rutting against him, intent on watching his fingers split the monk open.
Zenyatta twists his head to the side, presses his cheek against his arm as he breathes raggedly, voice wavering, rolling his hips, chasing the sensation bubbling inside him, a whisper of something dangerous and inescapable.
“Hurry.” The monk casts a look over his shoulder, flushed and burning.
The demon hesitates before pistoning harder, forcing a groan from his lips.
“You forget yourself, monk. Do you want to be fucked so badly?”
“My disciples…will see...”
The protest dies on his lips, a sudden clench of pleasure ricocheting through him, and the feeling doesn’t recede, only swells, ember to wildfire. His toes curl, hips freezing as he’s overtaken.
The demon forces him forward, flattening him to the tree, burying his fingers harder and faster, sinking his teeth into his neck, and the pain is his undoing. His cock pulses against the demon’s hand that had wiggled between the bark and his lower body, and he sobs and groans through orgasm, the feeling heightened, nearly pained, a longer, more intense one he has not known. When he finally returns to himself, boneless and sated, his cock still swells along his belly, pleasure not quite receded.
Zenyatta sags against the demon who nurses at the harsh, angry wound at his neck, skin broken where his teeth are longest, but the pain feels distant with fingers still lazily fucking him, dragging him back towards mindlessness.
With an ease that shakes him, the demon gathers Zenyatta in his arms, pulling him flush to his chest. His hands dig into the meat below his ass, spreading his thighs open. His head lulls against the demon’s shoulder, aching and tired, moan lodging in his throat when the demon nudges against his opening.
“You want it?” The demon murmurs, dragging his swollen, tapered cock along Zenyatta’s hole.
The monk trembles, shifts, but before he can grind against or angle away the demon slides between his legs again, and Zenyatta groans, wild and needy. He should not want this; he should be on his knees, bruised and beaten, he should be dead, but he is not. He is held, gently, relentlessly, and he yearns.
“Y-yes.” Zenyatta whispers, and the demon hefts him higher, balancing him on a precipice of his own undoing.
Lips meet his neck as he lowers Zenyatta onto his cock, so hot and slick, more substantial than he imagined. It splits him, his body unable to clench against it after the first few inches, and he cries out, hips shivery and wild with it, cock bubbling soft, clear pearls of slick. Every ridge, every bump, grinds against his insides, working against the spot that makes him quake.
The demon rocks carefully, swearing cruel, filthy things, some Zenyatta does not know, as he takes his pleasure, not letting gravity have its way, moving the monk as easily as a toy.
He is at the demon’s mercy, but the demon grants it, stuffing him, stretching him full, and when he thinks there is no more to take he withdraws in increments, pressing forward just a fraction deeper, just a little more insistently.
It is not long before his hips snap forward, the demon mouthing at him endlessly, leaving bites around the first, marks that could not be hidden by clothing. His disciples would know what had transpired, would know even without, if he could even walk after being used.
"I cannot fit fully inside you." The demon grunts, glee and lust threaded in every syllable. "How many times would it take until I can? Knot you, filled to the brim with my seed, trembling on my cock. I suppose we will find out."
The demon swears, and it burns all the way through as he feels the first, hot pulse of spend pumping him full, the sensation enough to rip another orgasm from his own body, his cries echoing the demon’s harsh grunts. He shifts suddenly, grasping one arm around Zenyatta’s middle, pinning him in place. The demon grabs the base of his cock, grown round and swollen, still inches from Zenyatta’s abused opening, stretched to the brink. He cups his knot, massaging, working more spend from his body, imagining with mind-shaking intensity stuffing the monk so full he could plug him with it, keep him swollen with his cum.
Instead, with a painful, pleased huff, the demon withdraws, and his spend spills out of Zenyatta, splattering against the monk’s pants left trampled beneath them. Zenyatta keens, so embarrassed he cannot draw breath, afraid to feel between his own legs with how molten and spent he is, how empty and swollen he feels.
The demon sets him down, but does not let him fall, even as his legs give.
“Best cover yourself, monk. We do not want your disciples to see you in such debasement.”