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The first time Rafayel bit you after the incidents in Linkon, you were confused. After all, you had explained your circumstances to him — you were immune to a Praedator's bite. But he didn't seem to mind nor care, didn't seem to have any ulterior motive, and so you let him have his way. The second time it happened, you noticed how his shoulders dropped afterwards — as though something inside him had finally unclenched. By the third time Rafayel bit you, you began to notice an emerging pattern. Now that it seems to be about to happen for a fourth time, you decide to take matters into your own hands and investigate.
You've been watching for the pattern all day, waiting for the moment the tension in him coils just enough. And finally,although the gentle sound of waves drifts in through the windows and the scent of fresh flowers on the table perfumes the salty breeze, next to you, a bundle of frustrated energy bounces his leg. Now that the two of you have retired to bed for the night, it's the perfect opportunity to test your hypothesis.
"Rafayel."
"What," he says, more like an exclamation than a question — impatient, and slightly on edge.
Perfect.
Placing your book in your lap, you keep your voice soft, composed, as if speaking to a child throwing a tantrum. "If you want cuddles, you can just ask, you know?"
Of course, Rafayel is never one to be too embarrassed to demand to be physically close to you, yet now, he merely throws a pout your way and remains where he is, as he is, scrolling on his phone. He's not mad, you know, so even within that petulant action of his, there's an unspoken wish that colours you amused. He can be so stubborn at times.
You place your book aside to open your arms in invitation, leaning back into the cushions. "Stop pouting. Come here."
Rafayel follows your call, just like that. With a defeated sigh — both at your ability to read him this well, you figure, and also at his own restless frustrations — he tosses his phone aside and shuffles closer. His arms wrap around you, tightening, adjusting until his face is comfortably buried in the crook of your neck where he can find solace in your embrace. And you knew it — before long, with his legs entangled with yours that urge you to stay close, to stay still, Rafayel begins mouthing along your neck, just below your ear, and lets desperation turn his gentle kisses into soft nibbles. You let him. Of course you do.
"Are you using me as a stress toy?" you point out, tilting your head to the side to offer him more of your skin.
"...Can't I?"
The question is rhetorical. You both know the answer matters little when Rafayel finds himself on edge like this.
"My teeth ache," he admits before you can counter with another playful remark, and surprise turns your head to glance at his slight pout at your neck.
Of course, this probably has nothing to do with dentists — they wouldn't be able to help, you figure. Considering this revelation and previous instances, Rafayel is more like a teething puppy like this, really — wide eyes that are inherently pleading, teeth that insistently gnaw on lips or the hollow of his cheek unless he gets to sink them into you instead. Perhaps it's his Praedator instincts, or something about his unique physiology — either way, you've come to understand that whenever he bites you, it is desperate need to soothe rather than malicious intent that drives him. Not necessarily a relief for pent-up stress though, as you'd thought all along.
"Do you want to eat me?"
"Mh-hm," he hums and presses a smile into your neck. "That might help."
His teeth graze your skin again, gentler this time, like he’s trying to test the edge of his own restraint. You feel him hesitate. His breathing is uneven, caught between apology and need.
"Poor thing," you coo softly, feel his breath hitch further.
When you reach up to guide his chin, Rafayel follows the motion easily and buries deeper even as his eyes turn glassy and searching, his gaze flickering to your face. But he trusts you, he really does, and so you willingly bare yourself to him more.
Slowly, as the room thickens with want as time passes, that same trust carries over into every shared touch. Soft bites, kisses to exposed skin, his trembling weight against you — and then, finally, nude bodies half-covered by rumpled sheets and the soft clink of metal.
Rafayel's skin is beautifully flush by now — need and restraint warring within him —, and his fingers steadily drum on his bare thighs. You feel his eyes on you, heavy, following every shift of your body, focusing on your throat, your nape. Each of your movements is met with the impatient tap of his foot against the sheets. You almost laugh. He's so cute when he's trying this hard to be still. But good spouse that you are, you only mean to help — so when the leash clicks into his collar, you give it a satisfied tug. Rafayel grunts, low and breathy, because it's all the permission he needs before his mouth finds your neck again, teeth tracing the slope of your shoulder. The sound draws a shiver out of you.
There's still a beat of hesitation there — trembling caresses of canines against skin —, until the tension crests as you tense with a slight wince. Then his restraint finally snaps, and he moves before either of you can think.
Rafayel's lips lift only to crash against yours with heated urgency. There's a discord of breaths and tongues and teeth before your back hits the mattress, causing air to leave you in one startled exhale. He doesn't stop, follows you down, and eagerly latches back onto your neck. It's like he can't decide between satiating desire or greed. You can't tell either — it blurs together far too easily.
His weight presses into you as heat blossoms amidst biting kisses, where low grunts intersperse softer and more needy breaths. It's dizzying. Even as you keen from the overwhelm, Rafayel still craves more, yet doesn't allow himself this. With nails biting into your bare skin, his hands roaming across your body, them trying to grab everything yet seeming to fail in even that — you understand it now. He doesn't trust himself to want. Not like this, when he can't even explain himself, can't explain his intensity towards you.
With a push to his shoulder, you fight his weight but can't shift him. Blindly, your hand finds the leash and yanks. The pull breaks through Rafayel's rigidity — just enough for you to lift your head and catch his throat, biting right where lips meet pulse. His groan rumbles against your mouth, and you respond with calm precision, claiming the moment back from his frenzy.
Although his breathing staggers and catches on a more urgent keen, the tightness of his hold eases slightly. It's when your gaze meets his — slightly dazed, his pupils blown — that you feel a soft warmth surround your hand. Care lifts it towards his lips where Rafayel ushers kisses to your knuckles, hard yet soft, until it's replaced by the gentlest pain. A single canine digs into thin skin, sharpness grazing your ring finger just above the band adorning it, and drags a hiss from you.
The sight stirs something within you — lust, yes, but more so love, affection — and suddenly, your world tips. Pain floods your senses before you can even gasp, and heat blooms from your nape. But even as you falter from the sudden action, Rafayel pulls your hips up, keeps a steady hold on them — not punishing, but insistent all the same. Like demanding 'stay just like this', but also like asking 'please'.
Even as language fails him — as it has all night, really —, Rafayel remains deliberate in his actions. Along with the rhythm of the waves outside, his hips press against your bare ass slowly, until the room diffuses with the thickness of salt and the heat of his breaths against your skin. Everything else slips from him. What’s left are his rough breaths against the back of your neck, his teeth replacing words as he pushes into you.
Warmth bleeds through you with every shallow breath as you adjust to the increase in sensations. The first proper push of his cock drags a gasp out of you, yet Rafayel remains slow, careful, tests your give even as his mind no doubt singles in on wanting nothing more than to mindlessly rut into your tight heat while marking you all over.
One of his hands steadies and holds you upright by the hip, even if his fingers tremble slightly from control warring with his need of letting go. Skin meets skin in a steady rhythm, the wet sound muffled beneath the hush of waves. You breathe through the pain — stinging bites to your flesh, the dull ache of his cock having entered you without much preamble — and offer him more of you all the same. It's but a little price to pay for the pleasure that already blooms in your belly from Rafayel's blatantly frantic need for you and you alone. Like you are the only one who could satisfy and soothe him at the same time.
Your head tilts and you tug at the leash, pull him closer, invite him in, and his thrusts find rhythm as he leans closer — tremblingly patient and hungry. He feels tight against you, his muscles coiled, but still, your body moves with his, encourages his need. Rafayel's mouth grazes your neck with damp breaths tracing where he's bitten you before, like he's mapping out the next spot, and the next, while still holding himself back, too afraid to hurt you. It's frustrating, really. His bites have always been gentle despite, but you can tell that tonight, he is too close to unravelling fully. Perhaps that's what scares him so much. Every exhale of his hits your ear — rough and uneven — as if words are trying to form but ultimately fail, over and over again.
His teeth drag lower, and another bite blooms heat across your shoulder. Whether it's his own frustration or pleasure overtaking his senses, when his hand slips forward, his fingers splay over your stomach to draw you back into him. Clenching around him in response, you exhale a trembling moan into the pillow underneath your face, let him drive into you with increasingly fast grinds.
"That's it," you praise in a low murmur, though even this sound is swallowed by his mouth and warps into a breathy groan spilling from yours.
His thrusts slow enough to stop altogether, drawing your attention to the heat of his breath caressing your sore skin. But even if his motions begin to occasionally stutter due to his inner conflict and mounting pleasure, it's still not enough. He needs more — more confirmation that you'll be fine, no matter what. Without much thinking, you turn your head enough to catch his arm, teeth sinking into tight muscle. The taste of salt and sweat answers you, and the act itself answers Rafayel's conflict — you're saying 'go on' in the only language he understands right now.
He groans into your skin, stillness faltering, until the sound collapses into a whine. Next to you, the sheets rustle where his nails dig into the crumbled fabric. At the same time, his grip on your flesh tightens, and he pulls your bodies flush, presses his chest against your back to the point you can feel each pulse of him inside you, each twitch. He resumes his thrusts, and everything seems to narrow to touch and sound — your ragged breaths, joined by his, your throbbing heartbeat, the rushing of waves.
The next bite to your skin is far too sharp to be considered gentle — a quick sting — and a faint metallic tang scents the salty air. You jolt, but stay still. Because he needs this. You can take blood blooming slow and red beneath his teeth. You can take his confusion. The leash remains taut, anchoring you to him even as your pulse throbs loudly in your throat.
And, well, if there is blood, then so be it — it wouldn't be the first time anyway, and you know Rafayel inevitably will nurse your wounds, no matter what. Already, he does lick at the marks left behind instinctively, frantic yet tender — a rhythm of carelessness turned into affection — and groans into your skin like a prayer.
Yet he trembles, still tries to hold on to a final thread of coherence. Every breath of his is a rough drag against your shoulder, is a muttered slur of words — half curses, half pleas.
“Easy,” you whisper hoarsely, swallow around the word. “You’re okay. I’m not hurt.”
Rafayel answers with a sound that’s half moan, half snarl, words falling apart before they even manage to leave his mouth — something like your name, or maybe just plain need. You can no longer tell.
"So good," you catch, then something closer to a growl.
"Rafayel—"
The taste of your blood only spurs him on. Something snaps, and his thrusts pick up — heavier now, faster. It's too much, but it's perfect, and you can feel Rafayel slip past words entirely as pain and pleasure mingle not only for you but also for him. You pull the leash again, remind him, remind yourself, that he's still yours even like this.
"That's it, that's— fuck—," Rafayel moans, the sound raw and unguarded, startled.
You answer with a soft, broken laugh that melts into grunted praise. "You're doing so well. Just like that..."
He follows your demand with another moan until there is no more space left between your bodies. Each bite grows heavier, yet also slower — more reverent the more your blood is spilled. The waves outside fade to background hush, and the only rhythm left is joined breaths and the slap of skin on skin. Rafayel moves like the tide turning, rough and relentless, until nothing exists beyond the pulse beneath his teeth and the sound of you bleeding for him.
He’s lost in it now — all instinct, all need — driven by the taste of you and the tremor in your voice. Yet even like this, when he’s gone too deep, the sound of your moans still calls him back, reminds him of who it is he is holding onto with all desperation. Worship manages to bleed in despite, diluting his harshness.
"Hold still," he growls into your skin, and you feel its vibrations travel through you to settle low in your belly. Fuck.
"Doing so good," you moan back.
Rafayel keeps you against him with one arm cinched around your waist while his hips snap against you. His full weight presses against your back, your bodies locked, friction rough, and rhythm growing unsteady. He ruts into you with feverish desperation, teeth grazing and pulling at skin, until, finally, everything tightens and unravels in the same moment. He’s shaking. His thrusts falter, turning into erratic grinds instead of steady drive. You think he might break apart like this — half snarl, half sob — until neither he nor you can hold it anymore.
He bites down as pleasure explodes through your whole body. Your cry is caught by the pillow, his by your skin, until it feels like only the sea remembers to breathe for you both. Like waves crashing around your head until violence melts back into tenderness.
The world contracts to heartbeats. Rafayel's weight draped over you as you collapse into shared silence is interspersed only by your shallow breaths. He whimpers occasional gasps into your skin where he nurses the extent of his tongue-tied desperation as your walls flutter around his softening cock to milk him for every last drop of his.
The scent of bruised petals fluttering on the sill still clings to the room but by now appears absurdly gentle against the copper tang of blood between you. Yet bit by bit, it fades with the soft, almost ticklish licks and kisses trailed across the bites, is replaced by the familiar salty sweetness of Rafayel's love.
"You bit way too hard," you murmur, but there’s no reprimand in it. It's soft, and it's fond, more than anything.
"You let me," he huffs against your neck, a smile brushing where blood lingers.
The leash is slack by now, your hands loosely resting in the sheets. Rafayel carefully lowers your hips, but doesn't bother pulling out — it's nicer like this, anyway. You breathe together until the rhythm of your climax evens out, while outside, the sea continues its steady ebb and flow of waves coming and going. His actions always carry far more language than his failing words ever could. Rafayel always comes back to himself — through your touch and voice alone.