𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐒, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘.
remmick x male reader
summary: you're a vampire hunter tasked with the challenge of killing a generational curse that's plagued your family for decades. only when you look death in the face do you realize how out of your league you really are.
tags: oneshot, dead dove, blood and violence, angst, dubcon, pwp (porn with plot), foreshadowing, manipulation, afro-latino!reader (tejano), hurt/comfort(?), references of grief, death, kissing of a shotgun (i have no explanation for this), needytop!remmick, frottage, oral sex, biting, turning, whatever the vampire-equivalent of a feeding kink would be, pain kink if you squint, semi-public sex, oral fixation, slight dumbification (both parties but reader is fighting it HARD), dacryphilia, spit/drool kink if you squint a bit, hive mind, anal sex, blood works as an aphrodisiac for vampires, chain dangling used as honorable mention, remmick goes dumb when he fucks it's kinda scary, author is a firm believer in pathetic!remmick
wc: 7.7k
a/n: i had a lot of fun when i started writing, but i honestly hate writing endings. i contemplated how to end it for a long time before i settled for this. i think it keeps it light enough. i kept seeing lots of remmick x vampirehunter!reader which is great and all, but i kinda felt like it was boring, so i put my own spin on it. i honestly like it a lot better, but i feel like i could've done more w it. idk, lmk if you guys like it, enjoy. (also this was a bitch to edit so if you see any mistakes or gaps, please ignore it. i will avoid reading this like the plague out of sheer embarrassment. likes, follows or comments/asks are encouraged.)
⸄࿆࿆⸅ྃ⸄࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆ ⸅𓊆†𓊇⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄῁࿆⸅⸄῁̟࿆⸅ྃ⸄࿆⸅⸄࿆࿆⸅ྃ
The pads of your fingertips grazed over the last page of your calendar. September 28th. Today is the day– your day. Your chest tightened, nerves getting the better of you, like always. You were certain of how it'd go– that silver, crested shotgun in your hand, an emptied flask of holy water tucked in your belt, and the devil on his knees. Every decade, the devil would come wandering from shadows to take his pick of the litter to feed off of in Greenwood. And every decade, your family stood their ground– boots docked in dirt, gun in hand. Your grandmother would tell you stories of it as a child. About how there was a white devil pretty as sin that lurked in the shadows within the edge of the darkened woods, waiting. How he liked a challenge– liked it better when you fought back. Makes the blood sweeter, apparently. “Why can't we just call someone for help?” you'd ask her. “Those white men got good guns and trucks, I seen ‘em!” Naive, ignorant. Nostalgia tickled the back of your mind, the fond smell of her perfume flooded your nose. Like you were still there. Roses. She gently held your hands within her own, wrinkled with age. “Oh darlin',” she cooed, smile saddened as she spoke. “They know.”
Your mouth grew sour at the bitter memory. It sickened you. Ironically, those same men never failed to show up a month early when the time came to pay your dues, white-knuckling their trigger guards. Families watched anxiously from their cracked windows as they strode into town. They knew we didn't have enough each time, but they left each time with full pockets and bloodied knuckles soiled from whoever couldn't pay up. The next day, there'd be a house for sale. Since then, you knew better than to ever expect the kindness of a white man– knew better than to rely on one after they'd sent the devil to your door.
The distant muffle of conversation lures you out of your room, the wood creaking as you shuffled through the gloomy hallway. Hushed whispers slowed your footsteps, approaching the edge of the kitchen quietly. You peered into the small kitchen. “I can't,” Mami folded her arms. Her cardigan fell loose over her frame, disheveled as it draped her form. Her knuckles masked her lips as she bit away at her nails, pulling them away from her teeth forcibly. “I won't.” Nana's lips set into a thin line. “Do you really want to spend this morning being stubborn?” she asked, fingers interlocked. Her hands splayed neatly over her lap. “Today?”
Mami looked unsure, slowly shaking her head as she turned her back to Nana. “Dios nos va a proteger, (God will protect us.)” she assured. Mami didn't seem too convinced. You stepped forward out of the darkness, catching their eyes. Mami looked saddened, guilty for some reason. Nana gave a small smile, patting her lap softly. You roll your eyes, playful. “I'm too big, nana. I’ll end up breaking your hip.” She rests her arms against the chair's own. “You'll break my heart faster if you don't come here.” You sigh, long and drawn out. Too long to be taken seriously with that dopey smile on your face as you scuffle toward her. She pulls your hips down onto her lap, as if you don't weigh a thing– as if you were still that little kid playing with your wood-carved figures.
Mami doesn't bother facing you, not when you try to meet her eyes. She rests her hands on the cutting board, the blade of the knife resting at the edge of her palm. Your eyes linger over the the potted plant, wilting and withered. “You should give those some water and leave it by the window for a bit,” you suggested, voice lithe in hope to turn this into a good morning. For both your sakes. “It'll die out,” Nana nods. “There's nothing we can do, hijo.” Her words settle onto your skin wrong, for reasons you can't explain. You crane your neck to look at her. “There's always something we can do,” you insisted. “Just give it a bit of water—” Mami storms out of the kitchen, the sound of her door slamming shaking the walls. The silence after lays on thick, and Nana bows her head with a heavy sigh. “Don't worry about your mother, papi. She's just having a hard time.” she explained. You tilt your head slightly in confusion. “With what?”
“Saying goodbye.”
She tapped at your hip, not insistent, but enough for you to move off of her lap. You watched as she slowly stood, pushing off of the arms of the chair to anchor her weight and shuffle past you into the hallway. You could hear the soft knock on your Mami's door, and then waited. One second past, then two. Nana wouldn't knock again, only waited. There was a creak, a sliver of light and then darkness again as the door shut with a click. You don't know how long the two had talked, but long enough for the window to be idle as the blue morning sky faded into a warm yellow. There was a bang at the door— not of knuckles, just palm and brute force— one neither your Nana nor your Mami had hurried to answer. You stood from your chair, the seat left warm in your absence. Twisting the lock and pulling open the door, you're greeted with the sight of your tío you hadn't seen since your cousin's last birthday.
He looked tired, yet eager to see you once again. “Hey, kid. Long time, no see?” he chuckled. You pulled the door open further, smile giving faux annoyance away. “Seen enough, thank you.” He strode past you and into the house. You hadn't realized until the door opened how bright it was outside compared to the inside– dark and dreary. “Where's your mother?” You nodded toward her door, “She's been in there all morning talking to Nana. Is it...dad again?” You watched as his jaw set, his hand rising to his hat, like he considered taking it off. He hesitates, opting for scratching at his neck instead, the movement awkward and stiff. Mami said it was something he'd do often, a bad habit she hated— but a habit for what–? “Sure– yeah, of course. I'm sure she's upset about that.” he nodded, dismissive, walking past you. “Just sit tight, sobriño. We'll leave at dusk– gotta wait for the boys.”
You pushed the door shut, snuffing the daybreak's light from the room out like a dampened fire. You could hear heavy boots dragging down the hallway, the light peeking from the room. Small conversations are mumbled too low for you to hear. Your eyes distract you from distant chatter, flitting to the crested shotgun bolted to the wall behind glass. Markings had been carved into the silver of the receiver, some of flowers, some of crosses. Your legs tugged you closer, ducking your head beneath the glass to see more markings under the loading port. No, letters. No— initials. Your hand blankets your chest and over your necklace, gripping the cross Nana gave you tight in your palm. Pops' cross.
There was a drag of feet that thumped toward you, then stopped. Idle, like it'd been waiting for you to notice. You turn, meeting your tío's eyes once again. He looked exhausted. The same look he'd give to Pops whenever it came down to the nitty gritty of protecting this town— scraping together coins to get by. “You ready to carve yours there?” he asked, slicking back dark curls that fell short at his nape. He'd grown his hair out since Pops passed, stray hairs growing silver and out of place. You gave a slowed nod, nervous in ways you can't explain. Your chest felt tight again. It took him a bit to pull the thing down, nails stubborn to unhook from the wall. You watched as he struggled, unease never settling for what was to come. Finally, he pulled it free, nodding over at the dining room table. You settled back into your chair as he took his place beside you, placing the shotgun in front of you. Mami hated guns on the table. Your eyes slide over to her door, still shut and locked tight. “Eyes up, nephew.” he sniffed, brushing scarred knuckles against his nose.
His hands graced yours as you held the shotgun. Rough, worn. Your fingers trace the silver, over the carvings of flowers and leaves, down to your father's markings. His initials. M.N. — Malachi Narváez. You part your lips to a sigh without meaning to, tracing the patterns of his memory. You hadn't noticed the lingering eyes on you until your tío slapped his palm against your back, thumb brushing over your shoulder blade solemnly. “Let's put yours under his, yeah?” You nodded, gracefully accepting when he hands you a small chisel— a pinprick, really. He watches as you work at the metal, insistent. The sound of a door creaking open doesn't deter your focus, carving into the silver barrel. You lean back, proud, turning your head to meet— your mother's own. Her lips curve into the smallest smile, not meant for anyone else to see but you. Her eyes her bleary, swollen. She'd been adorned in her favorite blanket. The one you never thought would see the light of day. The one that lounged over Pops' chair. “Get ready, it's almost time.”
You nodded, pushing from your chair to grab your mudded boots by the door. “I'll check to make sure you loaded it properly.” he offered. You nod half-heartedly, distracted, shuffling into your boots. “Shouldn't I grab some more ammo?” you called out, fiddling with the laces and pulling them tight against your ankles. No answer. You could hear the pop of shell clank against the table, rolling against the wood. Your eyes linger over your tío's frame, half of it covered by the wall beside him from the distance. He whips his head around to meet your eyes with a small smile— forced, you note. “Just checkin' to make sure everything goes right.” he assured you. A lingering uncertainty swirled within your chest, but you ignored it with a wordless nod. “Shouldn't I grab some more ammo?” you asked again. He raised his head, meeting your eyes as he spoke. “Youdon't need to be loaded up on ammo,” he explained. “One shot is all it'd take.” There was a knock at the door, quiet, polite. Two shadows stood before the blurred, patterned glass, just on the other side of the door. Most likely your Pops and tíos' old friends. You sucked in a breath. Here goes everything.
Worn boots trudged into darkened woods, only led by the lantern that the ground beneath you basked in. Not even moonlight reached through the branches. Silence filled the air, the only sound echoing through the woods being footsteps overlapping. Your uncle and a few of your Pops' friends walked behind you, measured. It was tradition. No words would soothe the nerves of the hunter chosen, so no words were spoken. No songs would dull the fear in your bones— so no melody reached your ears. Minutes stretched on, silence dragging on even longer. Your breathing fell soft, blowing cold as you reached deeper and deeper. You hadn't even noticed the laterns behind you dimming with distance as you carried on. Your fingers clutched your gun, itching, waiting. Your eyes snap to the trees, to the flutter of something in the dark— an owl, you're sure. Maybe. You continued on, pace stuttering slightly. This is what you trained for. You opted for checking your gun again, every ounce of blood in your body screaming for you to— but you refuse. It's just nerves, you tell yourself.
You barely register it when you see it— a stretch of darkness stood still. Waiting. Just like they said he'd be. You halted, finger pressed against the trigger guard. The creature hadn't moved yet, didn't need to. He just stood there, as if he was waiting on you. You spoke first, voice loud as it echoed into the clearing. “You him?” you asked, and when the question fell short with silence, you spoke again. “Are you the devil?” Nothing. Not at first. Then, the figure stepped forward from beyond the shadows, languid. He said nothing, not at first, so you continued. “My Nana told me stories of a devil pretty as sin,” you noted. “You must be him.” She wasn't wrong. The man was handsome— defiantly so. The way curls settled over his forehead, the shadows hidden from moonlight cast under his brows and highlighting bright, flecks of red in his eyes that anyone could mistake for shine. Anyone other than you. His collar was loose, haint blue, in fact. He adorned a gold chain draped over his collarbone tucked beneath his wifebeater. His smile held false charm, wearing a lop-sided grin across his face, inviting. It was so... unsettling. Like staring at a wolf in sheep's clothing. He seemed entertained, cocking his head slightly. “That so?” his voice a honeyed rasp.
Your eyes fall over those fangs of his, glinting sharp in the light. “No reason we have to do this,” he reasoned, stepping even closer, his movements betraying his words. They way he approached you was downright predatory. “I mean— I don't even know yer name, darlin'.” You hesitated. Normally, you wouldn't have settled for so much small talk– you weren't here for that. But you couldn't help but feel for the man. He seemed...nice. Nice isn't the name of the man who killed your family. Nice isn't why Pops isn't here anymore. Your brows furrow.“You don't need to know my name,” you grit, bitter, angry. “You know why I'm here.” And that's all he needed. Your hands tightened over your gun. “Well, alright then.” he conceded, holding his palms up in mock-surrender. It felt...too easy. You were sure there'd be more fight. Nana said he liked when you fought back, so why isn't he? “I thought you liked a lil' challenge. You just gonna give it to me?” you asked. His grin grows, like a weed. “Just tryin' t'make it easier for you, sweetheart.” You shake away the sickness pooling in your stomach from the nickname. Right, sickness. Focus, you admonished. Your finger slipped into the guard, holding the pad of your index over the trigger. Your palm clutched the forestock, tight. Breathe in, breathe out, brace and...
Click.
The sound was hollow, barren with silence following after. The man stood in the same place as before, with that same cheshire grin. What? You pulled again, harder this time. Click. Click, click, click. You froze, as still as a deer in headlights. No. God, please no. Don't tell me... Your heart sank, blood running cold as a chill washes over you. It was loaded, right? Right? You racked. You remember doing it. You even checked after. Double-checked. Your tío had even offered to check after you. Wait. You didn't bother glancing back up at those fiery, red eyes on you. Like danger was an afterthought. Right now, your sanity was being tested. You couldn't put it together. Why would he have needed to check after you anyway...? He knew you knew how to load a shotgun, he'd help you practice cleaning it after. Your ears buzzed, his words rang in your head, “Just checkin' to make sure everything goes right.” he assured you. You knew it had to be loaded, because you could hear the clack of the shell popping from the action onto the dining table. Oh. Oh no. No, he'd never... You press-check, desperate fingers slide over the loading port.
“Pretty, huh?” his voice drawls, dipped low in molasses— thick, suffocating. Like he'd been eager to make himself known again. He strides forward, every step languid, savored. His eyes raked over your body, like sin. Your finger fumbles, hands clumsy as you desperately search your hips for ammo. Your uncle's voice whispered through your terror. “One shot is all it'd take.” And all at once, it clicked. Why his lingering eyes hovered too long. Why he was quick to hush conversation. Oh god. Oh god. Tears flooded your eyes, face wet as you sobbed, open and broken. They set you up. Your own family— your own kin. Mami's face flashed in your mind. Her swollen, reddened eyes. Her words. “I can't,” Her voice– strained. “I won't.” Nana's words— saddened, downcast, guilt-ridden. She wouldn't dare to look at you. “Saying goodbye.” Realization sank into your bones, your skin running cold from the air's chill. It hit harder than a truck. No, this was worse. Not a single bone twisted or broken, not a single scratch or scrape of skin. Just heartbreak. Betrayal. Your legs caved, dropping into the dirt— your mind was at war with itself.
“They didn't tell you, did they?” The man rumbled, and you stopped, your cries deafened. You paused, eyes slowly traveling back up to meet the man in front of you. Whatever was in your eyes was enough of an answer for him. He shook his head in some sort of mock-sympathy, “They never do. I can't lie— the look on yer faces is worth it every damn time.” He chuckles, the sound wry— like he'd been stripped of any sense of normalcy of conversation. He steps forward, measured, like he'd been approaching a scared animal. “Tell me what? Who?” you asked, defensive. You didn't miss the way he ate up the distance between you, clutching the flask of holy water at your hip like a vice. He slows, eyes flitting to the flask in your hand. His hands fall easy at his side.
“A couple decades ago, I found this town o' yers. Less people than when I first came.” he nods to himself. “Yeah...I was gon' kill every last one of ya.” he mutters to himself, eerily casual— like he was talking about the weather. Your heart sinks as he steps forward, arms folded behind himself, restrained. “But yer great-great-so-many-fuckin'-greats grandaddy convinced me to only kill one of ya every good couple of years or so. Said it'd be bad if the livestock up n' died before they could carry on multiplyin'.” What? His voice carried through the emptied clearing, nothing but you, him and a prayer between you. A hope you wouldn't die slow. Or at all. We can't all be so lucky. “Yer ancestors made a deal with me— a pact. One that's been carried on for longer than you've been alive. One that keeps me fed, and keep most of you alive.” Your mouth fell open, and he pretends his eyes didn't linger when it did. “No, that— they'd never,” you averred. “And yet here you are.” he attests. You could feel bile rise to your throat. Livestock? Like you were nothing but sheep and cattle? “Course they still had to keep up appearances n' all. Paintin' it out to be some heroic effort. Strange how you ain't even question why all them men lined up to fire, and yet you were the last to be handed that gun o' yers.” He jabbed his finger at the shotgun in your hand. A hand-me-down. Your eyes pool with tears again, sniffles growing louder, having purpose. How stupid of you— feeling purpose in a meaningless death.
You could hear your daddy's voice screaming into your blood. Get up. Did he know? The man's pace didn't slow, didn't need to. You clearly weren't going anywhere. Get up. Did they send him off to his death too? Your eyes fall over the list of initials carved into the shotgun in your hand. Oh god– all those names. You choked back bile, sobbing harder. You held a graveyard in your hand. Get up. Was it here? Did your father die here? Blood smeared over his face, unrecognizable— his chest caved in? Did he rasp your name with his last breath? Your chest heaved for air, desperate. You felt sick. Get up. Now. You shook your head slowly, eyes blurred with tears. Your body trembled, weakened. What was even the point of fighting? Stronger men had been standing in this very dirt. Stronger men had their initials left behind on the same shotgun in your hand. What was there left for you to do? The earth had shattered all around you, your resolve crumpled beneath your knees.
“Aw, don't cry darlin'. S'alright, I promise,” he cooed, kneeling before you— mirroring you. His fingers felt light, gracing the gun in your hand before his grip around it's neck tightens. You can't pull away, frozen. You watch almost helplessly as he points the gun toward his lips, pressing a light kiss over the barrel. You could hear a brief sizzle. You ignore the way your chest flutters from it. He doesn't. “Each time I stood right here— staring down a man in the face, I offered him a choice not to fear death— but to be loved by it. Yer father, and his father's father, and every man that stood where you are right now met the same fate not because they'd been damned by me— but because they wanted to— because they refused my gift to them.” His hand rests over your cheek, careful claws guided away from dredging into your skin. He lifted your chin to meet his gaze— those pools of red light washing over your skin. “You don't need t'bury yourself in death's arms unless you crave for its kiss, sweetness.” Your mind swam, all reason holding on by a thread as your head throbbing. You had cried yourself dry, and he had let you. And now here was, picking up the pieces. A question dug at your mind, recalling something your Nana said. Was the devil pretty because he was kind, or because he was tempting?
He rested his head against your own— not fearing what you'd been owed to do to him, but what you'd do to yourself if no one had been there to do so. “If you give yerself t'me, completely— I'll cherish you in ways your lil' heart isn't capable of fathomin'.” You hadn't even processed the shift in position until your back pressed against something soft, until you'd already been sinking down into the dirt, his hand cradling your head— practiced. Like baptism. You couldn't speak, didn't need to. The whisper of words you beckoned to leave your lips were answered by his own without needing you to. “I ain't gon' kill you, sweet thing,” he spoke, his voice low and honeyed. “I'm gon' turn you int'a something new,” He avowed, nuzzling against your cheek. You feel his lips brushing against your neck— featherlight, before he pulls away— like he punished himself for closing the distance between the two of you. “Only if y'want it.” he adds under his breath, The sound of his voice felt like deliverance. “Tell me you want it.” he whispers. “I– I can't,” You stammered, the words fall so easily from your lips before you could even think. Your arms scrambled for ground beneath you. You can't? Not ‘you don't want to’— can't? “My– my family said you were—”
“Your family let you live a lie,” he interjects, sharp-tongued and vehement. As if he shared your anger like a secret— like a burden. He persists, and you let him. “You fought for a lie— lived for a lie.” Your eyes zero in on the pointed claw before you, his jaw clenched. "Y'know, I– I'd lie to you and say I didn't enjoy killin' some of those men,” he granted, “But you've had enough of that, now, haven't you?” Your mouth opened and shut, wordless. He took your silence as permission to continue, “I can't say I regret what I've done– That I regret feeling their ribs crack and cave beneath my palm— regret their blood, warm as it soaked my lips or the way my teeth sank beneath their skin int'a somethin' real– somethin' raw. 'Cause deep down I knew it'd lead me to you— to my salvation.” His eyes were honest, reverent. “You will be my greatest creation.”
He settled over you, thighs bracketing your waist. Gold dangled over your face— what felt like a glimmering virtue swung above you. His claws trailed over your sweat-soaked shirt, lithe as they popped your buttons with ease. His palm mapped over your skin, supple under his touch. He shuddered, lips parting with need. He was drooling, saliva thick dribbling down over his chin. “Let me be your liberation,” A soft plea as eyes flit to your open throat. “Please.” he pleaded, broken open. You nodded, acquiescent. What else could you do? You'd been playing into some fantasy, self-assured and righteous. The ending had already been picked out for you and you just sat there and took it— hands held out for more. His hands to slip over your wrists, firm. He places a kiss to your forehead, devout. He guides his lips down, down, down over the call of your pulse. Your blood thrummed beneath your skin for him as you squirmed. You felt bare, vulnerable. Messing around with boys behind the church was one thing, but this...this was something else entirely.
“I can smell you,” he rasped, nosing under the soft of your jaw. “'Can smell the fear in your nerves— your hesitance.” He lapped at the skin, desperate. “In case you ain't notice yet, darlin', yer body ain't fightin' back.” Then you feel it. A pinch at first, the point of his fangs slipping beneath your skin before the burn grows, your skin stretching to make space for him. You writhe beneath him at the bite, his teeth clamping down. Your lips were useless, babbling sweet cries and sobs for him. “No, no, hurts, I can't do this, I can't—” He doesn't shush you, only holds onto you tighter, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder. “You can, sweetness, I know you can,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “What's mine will forever be yours.” And then, cold rushes over your wound, accompanied by the crawl of something wet. Then, quiet, his body growing rigid. “Oh, hell...”
He inhales, deep. Like a shark smelling blood in water. A shudder follows silence. And then you feel it— feel him, anchored to your neck something desperate, filthy. He suckles and god, it's so good. You whimper, soft. He groans, the sound reverberating against your skin. He pulls away, eyes rolled back in ecstasy, blood dripped from his lips like molasses. “Fuck, so good—” Your ears buzzed, almost drowning out the sound of blood squelching, pulsing from your wound. Almost. “Like heaven on my tongue.” He wasted little time opening you up beneath him, suckling, biting and lapping at your neck. “More, more, please–” he begs, dragging his mouth from your neck as he ruts against you.
“Been— shit— needin' this,” He pushes your thighs aside, crowding into the space between them like he owned it. And he did. “Starved of it like you wouldn't believe.” he chuckles, chest heaving, panting like he'd been out of breath— like he couldn't breathe without being buried in the soft of your neck. Your face contorted, twisting in agony from the ache, the burn sinking deeper into your skin— searing. You couldn't even focus on the pain alone without his filthy, needy sounds flooding your head. Was he...getting off to this? Were you? Something thick pushed eagerly against your inner thigh, deprived, heavy. Heat pooled in your stomach at the thought, something dark — hidden being pulled to the surface. Fuck. You hadn't even realized you'd been rocking your hips against him. Shame buried itself beneath your skin, face flushed.
You gasped as he fucked his hips into you—once, twice, three times— bucking into the tent of your pants. You didn't want this. There's no way you did— no way you were seriously getting off to this man— no, this devil above rutting into you like some desperate, heat-seeking mutt. The same devil you'd been sent to kill— the same devil haunting your bloodline for years, like cold sinking deep beneath your bones. You prayed it'd at least go unnoticed, but with the slightest drag of his hips, a moan falls from your lips like a prayer— and there he is to answer it.
“Ah-ha? What's all this?” He rolled his hips again experimentally, flush against your own, eliciting a sound you didn't even know you were capable of, buried deep. You felt caged beneath him, his hands dug delved into the dirt as he relished in the sight of you— no doubt a mess. Your curls mussed, sticking with sweat against your brows, shirts raked up and pulled apart. “Knew you needed it just as bad—” he keened. “Fuck—tryin' to hide it from me, huh, sweet thing?” he tuts, tugging your slacks down from your hips, claws dragging against your skin. His demeanor changes almost completely, no longer some desperate thing ducked between your thighs, no. Something colder, certain. He yanked away the last barrier between the two of you with a hiss, impatient.
“I can me show you what sanctuary could be,” he vows, truth waiting beyond what patience could hold. “With me.” Nothing but shredded cotton surrounds your naked hips. Nothing but his lips, soaked, bathing in your skin. Blood drips from his lips— your blood as his spits onto your hole— filthy. You groan, craning your neck to watch. His eyes flit to meet yours, pupils blown into black watching you, fervent. A claw— no— two push past your lips, open, pushing onto your tongue. Your moan is muffled, drool pooling under the muscle. His attention on you, rapt as he nods— drunk on the sight alone. “Yes, yes— so good,” he praises, candid. “So, so good. Savor it.” Your lips enveloped the taste of his fingers, salt coating your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut, suckling on deft fingers, thick in your mouth. He pushes them in deeper, relishing in the way you gag— gasping for breath.
“Fuck, can't wait,” he pants. “Gotta do it now— gotta make it good for you.” He's drooling like a dog and it's filthy. You couldn't even ask what he meant before he returns to your neck, like home. His jaws shut over the expanse of your throat, over the bite he where he marked you as his. You clawed at his back, desperation eating away at you, but to no avail. He hadn't even budged. You couldn't even scream, cold rushing over you as your strength waned. You gurgled, only able to listen to the flesh tearing from your throat— to the sound of teeth gnashing flayed flesh, blood squelching, gluttonous. Your vision began to white out, and then, you felt it— something pressing into you, between your thighs— slow, purposeful.
“So fuckin' sweet for me,” he growled against your neck, hips flush against your ass. Memories flood your mind, desperate— defiant. Mami, her soft eyes as spun, Pops there to catch her, high on an old melody. Nana watching, her eyes crinkled into crescents with a small chuckle. Your tío, taking a swill from a bottle nearing empty, grounding as he kept his eyes on your little cousins, jumping to the music, giggles filling the air. You choke, eyes rolling to meet moonlight above you. You could barely stifle the sob that'd been punched out of you. This is what your life had come to— ended. A hand angles your head, baring your neck more, saliva slicking your throat— well, what was left of it. Your vision swims in darkness, and then... Nothing.
Nothing but cold. Nothing but dark. Nothing until— you gasp, lunging forward. Once again, he's there to catch you, shushing your sweet sleep-drunkened cries softly. He cups your cheeks, soothing you back down. “S'alright, 'm here, darlin'. I'm here.” Your chest heaved...needlessly. You could feel it somehow — a shift. A shaky hand travels over to the wound— to where he bit you. The flesh had still been torn open, but you felt...nothing. Nothing but hunger— raw, a primal need to sink your teeth into something. Anything to pacify the itch in your gums. Your eyes travel up to meet his, an image floods your mind of you— you staring back at him. Him staring back at you. Letters flood your thoughts, persistent. Like it was determined to be carved in your very consciousness. A name falls from your lips, the only one that matters, “Remmick.” you whisper. “Yes, yes– that's right,” He nods, pleased, his smile stretching over blood-soaking lips. “Let me feed ya, sweet thing. Y'must be starved.”
And you were. Your stomach felt hollow, empty. Go on. It ushers, the voice in your head not your own— not even your father's. His. He pushes his wrist before you, and your eyes fall over the skin, pale in moonlight. You move before you can even blink, teeth piercing his skin. He groans, within bliss. “Fuck— yes, bite down, darlin', let me feel those pretty lil' fangs o' yers.” Warmth rushes past your lips and you slurp, natural— needed. You moan, the taste fading from copper into something sweet. God it's good, so fucking good. Your hands wrapped his arm, firm, grounding. You couldn't stop, not that you wanted to. It felt so relieving. So—
Good. The voice filled, his own. “Go on. Drink me down, darlin'. Don't stop.” He watched, enamoured by your need, by your hunger. You could feel him twitch, pulsing between your thighs— to where the two of you connected. He'd been so patient, waiting until you woke to fuck into you, nice and slow— buried to the hilt. Your eyes flutter as he sinks into you, rolling back. You could drown in this feeling. He groaned— no, you— no, the both of you did in unison. So this is what he meant. A gift, born from death. Sanctuary. His eyes trailed over your lips, pressed insistently against his wrist. He moaned, and in turn, so did you.
The feeling was freeing, a lustful haze clouding all judgement and reason. “Fuckin' beautiful.” he breathed out, hips pistoning into you once again. He filled you completely— mind and body, blood and soul. You could see where you two connected, a bulge in your stomach. “Oh god—” you mewled, head dipping back with blood-slickened lips. He shook his head, amused. “Not god, sweetness, just me.” You groaned into his wrist, not wasting a single drop more. Your cheeks hollowed as you sucked, paced. He mirrored your tempo to the buck of his hips, feeling you fill him and him, you. You clenched around him, testing, and a ghost of something tight and wet enveloped your cock. Oh fuck. You could feel him fucking you, and you fucking him— sharing sweet, melodic pain as it sings into you both. He'd memorized your name, reciting it. Like a poem. He hovers over you, mouth dripping with your blood like honey falls from his lips and onto yours. And it's so good. Why is it so good?
A shared thought between you before you can catch yourself. Intrusive, you tell yourself. But a call to him nonetheless. Move faster. He indulges. He eases you back to his wrist, to where pain hums your name, but you shake your head— full, in every sense of the word. He pushes his wrist into your mouth, uncaring. He loved it. The sight of you drinking him dry—the insistent feel of his cock nudging against that gummy spot ruthlessly, your hole squeezing his cock like a lifeline— like he'd leave. Not going anywhere. He filled, never. You sob and he moans, reverent, pleased. He doesn't wipe the tears staining your cheeks. Of course not. You don't smudge a painting if you see a stray scrape of off-color. You embrace it. “Fuckin' love it when you cry for me,” he rasps. “Can feel you gettin' tighter each time.” You could see yourself in the slivers of moonlight within his eyes, sobbing and blood-slickened beneath him. Beautiful.
You lift your hips on instinct, allowing his thighs to slip beneath your ass. The movement practiced, synced. His hands fell over your hips, claws biting into your skin. He held his palm over the bump under your navel, over him. “Told ya I could make it good,” he chuckled, breathy. “All you needed, all you could ever want—” he groaned. He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward with grit and little grace. You swallow him whole, opening yourself up to take him impossibly deeper. Your voice drowns out all reason, sweet little moans and whimpers fall short from your lips. Delectable. He droned. You felt dizzy, the sky and stars spinning above you with heavy-lidded eyes. You mumbled pretty little nothings, thighs twitching and hips jerking to meet his own. You both moaned in tandem. Everything felt clearer— every memory of his overlapped your own, feelings and thoughts so clear— they felt like your own. You could see everything, and he let you. Bared. Faces, names, some you'd never meet and others— others you'd...
You'd known. Your hips slowed, stuttered. His hadn't, pressing into you like salt into a wound. Your grandfather's face flashed in your mind, smothered in dirt and blood. His hands were withered— wrinkled. He spat into the grass below, charging with nothing but an empty shotgun. Same as your father— his face was bruised and bloodied. You felt sick. If Remmick noticed, he never slowed, cock still pumping in and out of you without falter. Your legs kicked out faster than your brain could process what you were doing. “Wait—” He growled, pushing your thighs further apart muttering something incomprehensible— something ancient, something dangerous. Your consciousness slipped the words into your head like a note beneath a door. “Feum ort...dh'fheumadh mi. Chrath thu— (Need you...needed me. Craved you—)” They were muttered to himself, but shared nonetheless, like a prayer— like a ritual.
“Rem– Remmick stop it—” you gasped, feeling yourself teetering on the edge. Memories of your father's ragged breathing flood your ears. The haze had begun to fade, disgust festering in your stomach. You didn't want to see that. You didn't want to remember what he was. And that's exactly what he wanted— to give you a taste of what he is— what he's capable of. Remmick leaned down, nipping at your ear. “So sweet, god, it's killin' me.” he groaned. He licked at the shell of it, tempting, distracting. Heat pooled in your stomach, a flickering flame. “Remmick, fucking stop, you're doing it on purpose—”
The voice continued it's incantation, etching itself like a sigil in your mind. He tilts his head, empty, not quite there. Like he wasn't even aware of what he was doing— saying. “You don't want me to.” he states— not cocky, but assured. “I told you darlin,” his tongue darts between his lips, slow. Languid. “What's mine, will forever be yours.” You choke, a moan spilling from your lips as you swallow. “Fuck, wait I'm gonna- I have to—” You struggled against him, attempting to stave off your impending orgasm, pushing it down. It didn't matter. He'd fuck you through it, thrusts growing sloppy— thoughtless. “I waited long enough, darlin'.”Look at me. His voice chanted into your mind— into your soul. Look at me, he commanded again. His hips slowed, granting you focus on anything other than searing pleasure ripping through your body. Your eyes met his– his never straying from yours, pearls swallowed in black so far, you couldn't see a shred of light in them— cold.
You could see yourself through him, your lips sullied in blood and sin. Only then did he pick up his pace, fucking into you. One word kept ringing in your head— mine. You didn't look away—couldn't—his eyes compelled you to meet his own. “So pretty like this,” he rasped. “Please,” you whispered, soft pleas falling on deaf ears. “I don't want your memories—” you sobbed. A flash of hurt washed over his face, his head tilting to the side with knit brows. “Without his eyes even needing to stray from yours, his fingers laced over your cock, thumb smearing the long-neglected dribble of precum over the tip. Mine. Your cock twitched, needy. Remmick's tongue darted past his lip, slowly withdrawing back into his mouth. Mine. He could feel it— how close you were, didn't allow you to shy from him. You belonged to him. The thought was overwhelming. You tried to fight against it, uselessly.
Thick spurts of white coat the expanse of your stomach and you whine softly— but that hadn't stopped him. “Attaboy,” he murmured. Your stomach flutters, squeezing tight around his cock. He stroked you through your orgasm, unrelenting, pushing you into overstimulation. “Fuck, wait–” Your back bowed, shaky hands pushing against his chest. “Please,” you whimpered. He leans down, his body blanketing your own, so much closer— deeper than before. You could feel yourself clench around him, like the feeling was your own. You moaned, lips parting. “Remmick, please—” Mine. He was long gone, completely fuckdrunk. “Takin' it so good, just like I knew y'would,” he slurred. Only when he comes— slamming so hard into you, your sure it'll leave bruises over your ass does he come to. His come spills into you— hips bucking once, twice to make sure it stays. All mine. He doesn't even register that he came, fixated on you entirely— on the way your chest rises and falls, the way your thighs twitch when he rakes his nails over soft skin, the way your voice had fell quiet right as you came— it was addicting. You could feel it, the way he looked at you. Everything of his was yours now.
He pulls away, cock softening between your thighs. The sound he makes as his nose dips into your neck is ruinous. He groans openly, the sound broken— pathetic, lonely noises finally having an audience. “Waited so long—” he keened, voice wrecked in every sense of the word. “All I needed, n' here you are. A prayer in my arms.” He cradled you tight against his chest. Soft, careful. Like you were made of glass— easy to break. He could feel your mind stirring, small thoughts bubbling to the surface, boiling. He knew exactly what you were thinking. Still, he spoke, low and sweet— “Tell me,” Not commanding, but authoritative. “My family,” you whispered. “They...they left me to die. They knew, they all knew and—” you cut yourself off, swallowing thickly. He could hear your heartbeat, a loud, rhythmic thrumming within your chest. A melody he'd commit to memory.
“You're supposed to be dead. Or I am. Whichever doesn't matter anymore I suppose, since we both are.” There was no lithe to your words, hanging heavy in silence. You could feel him shift, reddened flecks of light drawn to you like moths to a flame. A claw dents your skin, not enough to scratch as he cups your jaw. Gentle, reverent. “For years I've grown bitter from seeing what man has done unto man,” he rumbles, a small shift in his voice. A mix of spite and something unheard of. He continues, eyes flitting away from you and to the darkness.“And for years, I've let it fester. Let myself fall privy to man's sin— to their greed, their selfishness.” A soft stroke of his thumb to your cheek. “Until I realized what man fears most—”Silence lingered as you waited for him to fill it, tilting your head slightly. His gaze was trapped, sunk into the darkness as it stared back at him. “Judgement.” he filled. “A firm hand to guide them, not of righteousness, but of cynicism.” his voice shifted into something lower, foreign. His eyes flit to you, devout. “You will be that hand, darlin'. They fear regret— fear emanation. Consequence.”
“So be their mirror, and stare them in the face.”
With every drag of your body, your strength threatened to wane. You limped forward, the lace of your boots strung out, your shirt carved open— blood sunk into the cotton. Mudded soles thump against the wood of the porch. Your hand twisted at the knob, unsurprised to find it stiff. There's a brief moment of silence, of waiting. You could see the stars swimming above you in fading darkness through the patterned glass. Then, a click. The door creaked open, unsure. You were greeted by the sight of your family, your tío with his hand on the door while Mami and Nana sat at the dining room table, peering from behind the wall. You could imagine how you looked— blood-soaked mouth, dried at your neck. It did little to cover the gaping wound. Your collar pulled loose, drenched in darkened blood. Yours, his— did it matter? You waited, eyeing the threshold. Your eyes met your uncle's, lingering. His hand jerked without it meaning to, habitual.
The door pulled back, away from you, welcoming. You strode in, feet dragging against the hardwood. Mami would've said something about the mud, about leaving your shoes at the door. Mami was quiet, her eyes wide, fearful. Your curls were mussed, humidity caught up to them all the same. You still clung the shotgun in your hand, this time careful to avoid the silver-lined carvings. You let it hang at your leg, almost dangled. You didn't bother turning your head, walking straight for the table— to where you'd first heard the clank of a shell. Your tío didn't stop you, just held the door open in fear, like the devil's shadow would follow after you. A revered guest. In a way, he was. Your eyes don't meet Mami's, never bothering to glance at her terror-stricken face. Your nails rake down over the table, until they meet the silver shotgun shells. You hesitate, feeling the heat of them before they even reached your fingertips. You scoop them into your hands, the sizzle in your hands agonizing. Mami and Nana watch in horror, understanding washing over their face. You muttered, under your breath but loud and clear enough for them to hear, the silence surrounding it deafening.
“Forgot these.”
