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“Fuck-” The word is muffled, said between quivering thighs as he mouths at your dripping slit, sucking your swollen clit into his mouth just to hear you whimper. It has been hours since he tugged you down to this thin mattress where the springs dig into your back as he pressed a palm flat to your abdomen to keep you in place, yanked your skirt over your hips, and pressed his mouth to the thin cotton of your panties.
He’d made you cum twice that way. Mouthing at the fabric, fisting it with his free hand to pull it taught against you, outlining the twitch of your clit and the way you drooled into the fabric. Sucking the soft flesh through the material dragging his tongue over the fabric until it was ruined by his spit and your slick, until you were begging, pretty wobbling cries that echoed off the thin, stained walls directly into the open maw of him.
You thrash beneath his mouth now, legs pressed to his ears as you keen and whimper and make sounds that he wants to swallow whole, that he wants to pull from your pretty, bitten mouth until you can make them no longer. Until he can press his mouth to your throat and dig his teeth in, until he can take you apart in every way, in permanent ways-
“So good for me.” The words are whispered against slick flesh, worshipful. He, who has looked God and the Devil in the eye and decided neither was worth the effort of rejection- he is undone by this. The wet slide of you against his mouth, the desperate twist of your hands in his hair, unable to decide whether to pull him away or push him closer.
He adores it, adores you.
Adores the way your fingers yank at the greying strands, the way he can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, against his mouth, the way you whimper and cry and complain and still let him take his fill every time.
It is the thing he adores most about you and the thing that threatens to undo him every time.
The first time he had bit you, sunk his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh hard enough to bleed, hard enough to hurt, you had jerked and keened and sobbed into his pillow even as you drooled into his palm.
He thanks God every day for whatever made you this way. Or the Devil. He’s not picky. He’s willing to forgo his pride when it comes to you. Willing to forgo everything when it comes to you, if he's honest, willing to beg on his knees for your smell, your voice, the way it breaks like a note held too long, like a bird snatched by claws mid-song-
“Leon, Leon, please, I can’t, please-” Ah. There it is. Just like that.
The sweet, babbled cries as your slick, swollen flesh twitches against his mouth, another orgasm creeping up over you. Poor thing. It is a sentiment he often thinks about you, in times like this. Poor thing, unable to admit what she wants. Poor thing, clinging to proprietary and morals even when your body betrays you.
Poor thing, he thinks, to be caught in the jaws of something like him.
He lifts his mouth from you, chin glistening in the dim light of the streetlights filtering through the window, eyes gleaming, pupils blown wide, and drags his tongue over a yellowing bruise on your thigh, digging the muscle into your flesh just to watch you flinch.
“You can’t? Please?” He repeats, voice a low, rough rasp, teeth gleaming in the dim light, something almost amused in his tone as he gazes up at you; there is devotion shining in his gaze if you could focus long enough to see it but alas, your glassy eyes dart over his face, catching the mocking, gentle amusement and nothing else. (Sometimes you forget what he is, but the teeth are always there to remind you. Slightly too long, slightly too pointed, slightly too sharp. Every time he digs them into your flesh, it feels as if he takes your soul too. And you let him and let him and let him and let him-)
When you do nothing but whimper again in response, he sighs, lifting himself from between your legs to stare down at you, eyes raking over your mussed hair, your flushed cheeks, the marks that litter you from head to toe, a perverse sense of pride flushing through him at the sight of you, wrecked and trembling.
Sometimes he wonders why you let him do the things he does. Why you, even after you have wept and wailed as he rips chunks from your pliant body, still curl your arms around his neck and bury your face in his chest and ask him in that small, soft voice when he will next come. Why you, with your teary cheeky and soft voice seek him out even when you know as well as he all the reasons you have to stay away.
Sometimes he wonders what you would do if you knew all that he has held back for the sake of your fragile, mortal body. Sometimes he wonders what you would do if you knew that he wants to cut you open, to peel the cage of your ribs apart so that he may press a kiss to your heart, suck the blood from the ventricles, that he wants to curl his hands around the splay of your hipbone, lift that cage from your weeping frame and fit himself in the space that is left behind.
That he wants to tangle his fingers around your spine, to feel the dip and curve of vertebrae, the electric shock of neurons firing, the way your body would sing and choke and collapse as he forced his way past the seam of your skin, as he wrapped greedy hands around your jawbone and listened to the wet tear as he pulled it down, pressing bloody kisses to the white calcium.
He wonders what you might do if you knew that he dreams of snapping your ribs one by one to pick your flesh from his teeth, and then breaking them in half to suck the marrow out too.
What would you do if you knew how deep this hunger goes?
It is a useless thought, of course. He, of all beings, knows the importance of savoring. Of keeping a good meal in reach whenever you need it. And you, like an ankle folded the wrong way, once broken, can never be unbroken. That once devoured, it can never be undone. The bones themselves swell, scar tissue welded to calcium; there would be no space for him left.
So he assures himself with this: with you, dripping for him and with him, the taste of you smeared across his mouth, sliding down his throat like nectar. He assures himself with the fact that he will leave more bruises and bites in your soft flesh before the sun rises, and you will still curl yourself into his side and ask him when he will come back.
“So pretty. Always so pretty.” He means it, he does, but he says the praise mostly to watch the way the flush in your cheeks deepens and spreads down your neck and toward the tips of your ears. He smooths large, rough palms over your thighs, thick fingers brushing your swollen, oversensitive flesh just to hear you whimper, smiling slightly when you blink wet eyes up at him, fisting your hands in the sheets beside your hips, little breaths trembling over your reddened mouth.
“Are you frightened, baby?” He asks every time. And every time, you hesitate, just a second, before you shake your head wordlessly. It’s that sliver of hesitation, you know, that keeps him from ravaging you. The day it disappears is the day you do too.
And just like every time, you hesitate for the briefest of moments before you shake your head and spread your legs a little wider, mouth wobbling. He groans low in his throat and tilts his face toward the ceiling as he quiets the snarling dog in his chest.
You make it too easy to forget himself. To take more than you are offering.
“My pretty girl. Nothing scares you, huh?” He murmurs as he notches the broad head of his cock at your drooling entrance, a mean little smirk curving his mouth when your breath hitches and tears leak from the corners of your pretty eyes. “You cry so much, baby. Always weeping for me. It feel that good?” He taunts gently, using the pad of one broad thumb to swipe the salt from your skin, sucking it between his lips and groaning at the taste.
“Fuck, pretty girl-” He leans down, his tongue following the path his thumb just took, forearms braced on either side of your head as he slides inside with a wet squelch, pressing a gentle kiss just under your eye as his cock bullies its way into your swollen cunt. Your hands lift to claw at his sides, raking red lines across the muscles and he digs his teeth into your neck in retaliation, listening to you whimper as he does.
He can feel it, the pulse and hum of the artery just beneath the skin; it would be easy, so goddamn easy, to press a little harder, to dig into your soft flesh a little more until it broke and the essence of you poured into his mouth, dripping down his chin, staining your collarbones-
But no. There are many noises of yours he is willing, desperate, to swallow, but your fear is not one of them. He presses a kiss to the stinging bite, sucking it gently to ensure it bruises, and listens to your incoherent whimpers and pleas as he splits you open over and over, feeling you clench and drip around him.
You keen when you break, eyes rolling back in your head, fingers digging into his shoulders as you cry and gasp; he follows you soon after, helplessly, devoutly, dropping his head to press to your shoulder, every muscle in his body tensing as he spills himself inside of you.
He does not pull away.
Just drops to his side, careful not to crush you as he gathers you in his arms, tracing the ring of his teeth that dimples your flesh as you wiggle closer, tangling your legs with his, clutching at him like he might vanish.
It is a valid fear, he supposes.
He often does disappear, sometimes for days, sometimes for months, and once, long ago, for a year. How he wishes he could assure you. How he wishes he could press a calloused hand to your cheek and tell you, with all the solemnity of a preacher leading his flock toward salvation, that hunger never really leaves.
That it can be sated, it can be abated, but it always comes back.
The hollow, gnawing ache. The empty tug behind the abdomen. Hunger is universal. Every poor animal, every poor soul, every God, no matter how old or forgotten, knows what it means to be hungry. That every creature, big and small, has looked at the gaping maw and wondered how far they were from tumbling off the ledge. A mouse caught in a trap during winter storm will, just as surely as a wolf caught in the same, gnaw its own leg off to feel full. Your breath settles against his skin, even and soft, fingers curled at your chest like you’re mid-prayer, lashes casting pretty shadows over your flushed cheeks.
He watches for a long moment before he closes his eyes, staring at the dark of his eyelids as you murmur in your sleep, if only to pretend that the two of you are cut from the same cloth.
After all, hunger never really sleeps, does it?