This is dedicated to a werewolf who inspired this. Whatever this is, I hope you like reading it and I'd be thankful & enthused about reads and/or comments! The title is a lyric from the song "Nothing without you" by The Weeknd.
you're what I bleed
The aftertaste of a sweet French white wine is suddenly sharp within her throat.
She cannot even remember when they have drunk it together. Hours ago, long past now.
Her looking down on him. A moment. An instant.
He can't take it, she knows. He won't last.
And she does not want him to function for her sake. She has always had a taste for pain. Not the kind of pain that wrenches her guts, not the kind that drags the floor away from below her feet.
The kind of pain that is physical, purely, and that balances out all the darkness around her.
His fingers linger on her neck, underneath her hair, she feels them move with intent, tracing her skin and staying there, touch deepening as though he is trying to mark her; a seal of his.
She evades it and kisses him which he counters with a moan, clearly elsewhere.
His fingers won't cease in their movements and for a split-second she wonders whether she has ever thought, imagined anybody could want her like this. As a woman.
No conduit for darkness. No evil trickery. Just want, desire and something else…
Her mind wanders to Claire and whether she will ever be ready. For her or at all. She fears it. She fears she will not be, maybe never will be the mother she wishes to be.
But that is all in the future now and he reminds her of their shared now as he waits for her lowly moaned confirmation and rolls over and on top, pulling her with him so she lies underneath him. His movements withhold the tenderness of the animal.
She rejoices at the feeling of him onto her; he is the first in every way and also in this. His weight feels easy and good on her and she wants to be pulled under.
Trust. That is what she has committed to him. She has committed herself to him, heart, soul. And body. Finally.
His fingers stroke her hair and as he kisses her again, breathing heavily into her and she instantly knows he is being gentle, cautious with a purpose. And she trusts him and crosses every last distance.
His scent is the one she loves now; even more himself, even more his second nature.
She wants to delve into him, hide herself within him. Sheltered, safe. And yet she knows she shelters him just the same; and she longs to.
She feels about to combust even looking up at him and she wants to scold herself for it, feeling silly for what she is already beginning to feel. Too early and still the first impulse tugs at her and she opens her mouth and her lips feel cold without his to be caught into.
He won't do her the favour of simply kissing her again and she knows he is about to do something else.
His fingers trace along her skull, her temple, get caught up in her hair, perfectly lost.
She whispers his name, softly, but she cannot quite help her urgency. His every touch brings her closer and she does not think she can…
One hand on her hipbone, protruding and his thumb already lower. Her eyes close.
His other hand cups her chin, a very human, very familiar gesture at first.
It turns into a tracing of his fingertips on her jawline then and she waits. His hand on her hip grows steadier, securing her which she has not known she needs.
But she does when he suddenly, softly, tilts her chin up so she falls deeper into the pillow. His fingers on her skin and she trusts him as he kisses the skin below her jawline, between throat and chin, a sheltered, safe place.
His kiss sinks deeply into her and he does not make her wait.
His mouth opens on her skin and his teeth linger on her skin before they scrape over it and his kiss deepens once more before he can't help himself anymore and stops kissing and bites her there, sinking into her and she gasps for air and her eyes flutter open to look into his. The wolf.
His bite is over too soon for her, but the sharp, clear pain is there.
How she relishes the feel of his bite, playful, but sharp and he does not mend her pain for a full few seconds, leaving her to savour it before he kisses the mark which seems to her a mark of everything they are.
She puts lotion onto the marked, red skin the next morning, sitting by the mirror in faded morning light. He is in bed and draws her back.
Cool air against the mark as she dresses reluctantly.
But how well, how easily it is hidden behind a high, cream white laced collar.
She relishes both its presence and its secrecy; but most of all how intimate it is.
And the wolf feels the same, she knows.
He handles her with care the next day and she loves him all the more for it.