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The first time he fucks you, the air bleeds carnelian around you. A subdued hue, and bloodied enough to hurt—agony more than pleasure—but he keeps you quiet, a crushing palm over your mouth as he pins you to the wall, stone cutting hard into your chest. A meager discomfort; damask and down compared to how he takes you, his ferocity unrelenting, his cock deep and searing inside of you.
You’ve been partners for a while now, clearing the streets of beasts together, an unspoken pact. All told, you’ve probably exchanged more by way of mutual distaste than anything that might be considered camaraderie, but it’s all the same in the end. Blood and beasts and triumph and scars.
That doesn’t mean he hasn’t caught your eye. Nor you, his, apparently. Which is probably why you’re doing this here, in an alley, rather than letting him lay you back on silk and rose petals, a pantomime of wedding night bliss
This, instead, is desperate and messy. You, braced to the wall. Him, fucking you from behind. Not even the formality of a kiss, or spit, or anything to ease the way of his cock. But you take him, anyway, beg for more, flail behind you to hook an arm around his head for purchase, because it’s fucking incredible, primal and needy and filthy. He is, after all, a far superior hunter to you, and it thrills you to submit to him, to give your deference as you give yourself for his use. Much as you put on during fights and stakeouts, you know your place relative to him. Intimately. Deeply.
If he’s reached the same revelation, though, he doesn’t bother to share. Just slams his hips that much harder. Filling your ass again and again and again. And when he’s done, his cum dripping down your thighs, he buries his teeth in your shoulder, perhaps a threat, a mark.
To you, though, it feels more like bliss.
The second time blooms a feral shade of cherry. Formidably unwavering, but still with that suggestion of vulnerability you’re really starting to crave in him.
He’s put you to your knees. Thrown you to them, really, but as much as you’d have gone willingly, the humiliation of his strength makes you that much hungrier for him, drooling for his cock.
He chokes you on it. Atonement for your failings. Twice today you lost a quarry, once to near complete defeat, and the last because you sighted it wrong, sent it scurrying away rather than back into the fray.
He was furious.
Is furious, taking it out on your throat, hammering in, so vicious a pace you have to grapple to spit him out, turn aside. Dry heave onto the cobble.
He grabs you by the roots of your hair and slaps you. Still cherry, and now a bloom of fuchsia. Blood beneath the skin of your nose. Blood oozing from your lip, freshly split by his diligent hands. Blood in his teeth as he snarls down at you.
“Ungrateful bitch,” he growls.
And then, “Open.”
As if you’ve any chance against the vice of his fingers. He digs them into the hinge of your jaw, the pain making it spring wide.
Leaning over you, canines still bared, he spits into your mouth, a faint tang of copper spraying across your tongue. You want to savor it. To swallow it like the filthiest of communions, but he’s shoving his cock back between your lips before you can do so. An even crueler pace, now. Filling your vision with starbursts of black; your head with a far off humming nothingness. You refuse to succumb. You refuse to disappoint him again.
Somehow, you succeed, and he comes on your face, his thick fist pumping his cock, swollen and slick and red, and you bask in his pleasure, eyelids fluttering as he spills across your nose, your cheeks, your mouth still lolling open.
He slaps you again, the back of his hand this time, his knuckles bruising in.
“Slut,” he hisses, but you know you’ve done well. You know what you look like, spit and blood and cum on your face, knelt here in the shadows, nothing in these moments but his, all his.
It’s almost scarlet, you think. Almost.
The third, fourth, and fifth times are much the same. You fuck up, and he fucks your mouth till you can barely speak. Can’t breathe without it hurting. He doesn’t even bother to make sure you come, too. Just leaves you to your shame, to rut against your own palm, or endure the discomfort until the day’s tasks are done, and you can slink off somewhere private, fucking yourself on your fingers to the fantasy of his cock in their place. Sucking on as many as you can get into your mouth.
Ruby, these moments, droplets of relief in the bottomless well of your hunger, and you who would open everything for him, every last capillary at his behest.
He doesn’t ask this of you, though. When he wants answers, he takes them by force, or not at all, and you’re not sure which you enjoy better. The former, for its intensity, or the latter, making you wait, making you ache for whatever he deigns to inflict upon you.
To these interims, amber thrums an undercurrent, scoring his silence, and your obedience, as you wait for him to lash once more.
Drunk on him, on every exquisite, volatile second he takes from you, such a thing seems ridiculous anymore, to try and codify what it is you have together. Even if that is an unparalleled brutality. Sick and festering and raw, forever tinged in rust red flakes of each prior violence, yourself never quite healed from him. Him, never remorseful enough to stop.
A feedback loop into each other, devouring each other, slaking each other. Red, to red, to red.
You’ve lost track of what iteration this is, itself only distinguishable because it is decidedly different. Inexorably so. Inevitable to what you are with one another, and what you are not.
Fed up with the pointless grind of the last few days, you go out on your own, itching to spill blood without his judging stare. A few hours in, you’re feeling almost sane, a dead weight lifted from your shoulders, replaced by the burn and ache from swinging your axe. Rote but familiar, and very much welcome. A dull sort of satisfaction.
Unbeknownst to you, you’ve let it get entirely to your head. Let yourself get a bit sloppy, less attuned without the priest’s gaze drilling through the back of your neck.
Of course, it catches up to you. Catches right in your shin, the slavering teeth of a hound tearing into your flesh, lancing white hot agony up your leg.
You scream, slash with your axe, and behead the dog, its jaws still clamped around you. Clumsily, you stagger to the nearest safe alley, collapsing against the wall as your shaking hands search in vain for the last of your vials. Surely you haven’t used them all? No. No no no, this can’t be right. You took enough with you, you know you did.
Evidently, you did not, and as your leg gushes forth a small river, you tremble to the ground, laughing more than crying. Dying never gets any easier, but the pain still scares you. You can’t stand all this fucking pain.
Mercifully, unconsciousness is swift in its arrival. Whether from blood loss or shock, it doesn’t matter, and you welcome the darkness to your breast, the serenity of yourself lost, again.
But then—
Red. Still more red.
Your leg, of course.
And a voice. His voice. Then the cincture of a belt around your bicep. The sting of a needle.
You open your eyes as he pushes in the blood, flooding your nerves with scarlet. You're back at the hideout. He must have found you. Must have been following you.
“F-fuck.”
This, gasped without meaning to, and the hand around your elbow, where he’s placed his thumb to measure your pulse, grips tight.
“Have you learned nothing,” he growls.
Not that you’re allowed to answer, besides. He’s already upon you, prying past your teeth with his tongue, snarling against your lips.
The hand on your arm immediately diverts its course down, down. Your chest, stomach, fanning out between your thighs, a steadfast pressure for you to grind up against.
“Father,” you exhale.
And then, keener, louder—“F-father!”—as he gets his fingers past your trousers, flanking them either side of your cock.
Still kissing you, still biting blue and black from your lips, he slowly begins to jerk you off, gathering slickness with each downward stroke, until all but his thumb pet at your cunt. Teasing you, soaking you, all the while your mouths met, your gasps becoming his groans.
“Fuck me,” you beg. Rubies on your tongue.
So he shoves three fingers into you, splitting burgundy down your spine. Up your throat, and into his. You grind your cock on the heel of his palm. His fingers curl as if to turn you inside out.
“Come,” he demands.
You do. A daze of pleasure, rivulet aftershocks, so much at once, you barely feel him retreat. Tug your trousers off. Swing you astride his thighs.
He holds you upright, the head of his cock rubbing against your pussy as you sway for balance. Your leg, still fresh with your old blood, shrieks from the pressure, the angle. You’ve no choice, really, but to seat yourself in his lap. The full length of his cock like a gun blank through your core. Exquisite. Agony. Scarlet and crimson and deep, wine rich good.
He says this, as he makes you move. Lifts you, lowers you; not entirely, but it’s hardly the majority of your agency impaling you on his length.
Good boy, that seems a favorite. A delighted little thrill tickling into the pit of your stomach.
You wonder if he’d heap such accolades were the situation otherwise. If there were no such ache between you at all, would he have let you die just to prove a point, just to show that you do need him, after all? Or has this been the catalyst, again. Your pain and humiliation and vulnerability the very ambrosia that afflicts you both, now.
A needless hypothetical, really.
Because you’re here, regardless, squirming on his cock. Pain and pleasure amalgamated, everything blood-soaked. Your leg, your cunt around his obscene cock, your lips and tongues. Your heartbeat, as climax tips you over again. Takes him with you. A suffusing moment of nothing at all. Nothing but the blood.
It must have got to him, too, because he lets you slump against his chest when it’s all over, shivering and hurting and sated.
"You know you will bleed," he says at length, "so much more than this."
You know what he means, really, but the absurdity of it said while you're still split on his cock won't let you alone. So you give a weak buck of your hips, feel him twitch inside of you.
"Is that a promise, Father?"
And suddenly you're being lifted, dragged off of his cock before he slams you against the wall. Breathless, giddy, you wrap your legs around his waist.
"I could do far worse to you, Hunter," he warns. "With so few vials, are you really willing to risk that?"
Grinning, biting back tears from the pain imbuing your body, you surge forward and kiss him, moaning your consent in broken pleas over his tongue.
So he doesn't let you go. Doesn't put you down, and you endure him all over again. Harder, faster. Much, much meaner.
Scarlet, crimson, ruby, red. So much red where your bodies meet and tear each other away. And as he opens you up, and spills you over; in dripping, drowning cascades; a lake of it; a sea of it; slaughter of the self at the gracious hand of your executioner, finally you are blood. And blood. And blood.