cw: marking (biting), possessiveness, blood mentioned, i hope i did him justice
word count: 1000
you don’t know what exactly woke up the demon inside you today.
maybe you didn’t need a reason. the sight of Rafayel, your other half, painting his nails on the couch and half-listening to his yapping about some gossip a fish had sold him, comfortable, relaxed in your presence was enough to make you lose your mind tonight.
"you’re not listening to me, cutie. I’m offended," he says, but this time his pout alone isn’t enough to sober you up.
"you’re beautiful," you counter, his earlier string of words incomprehensible, filtered out by a mind clogged with something expansive, terrifying. primal. and that something urges you closer to him. to feel... "Rafayel, I have to devour you. now. may I?"
a new spark ignites in his eyes, dangerous, hungry, and somehow you know it’s your reflection — two halves of unity. his adam’s apple bobs, ears roar scarlet.
you know he’ll give you consent before he even whispers the first syllable — neck tilting, eyes flicking between you and his own stretch of skin.
yes, yes, yes, his silence screams.
"you may" certain, firm. not a trace of shyness or hesitation.
when your fangs sink into his skin you already know you will never taste anything sweeter in your life. you are an addict now, pathetic, thirsty worshiper. the flesh of his neck yields obediently to your greed, sinking in and trembling sweetly, unsure of what to do with your hunger.
"c-cutie," you hear his pitched-up voice at your ear, just as sweet as the nectar on your tongue. that’s all the motivation you need to feed harder. "you’re a beast, a true beast—AHH!"
you cut his monologue off by sucking at his skin, still rimmed by the imprint of your fangs. sharp, intense, with only one intention roaring in your ears, your veins, your stomach.
mine, mine, mine
it’s ugly, greedy, filthy and messy. some part of you knows Rafayel doesn’t deserve this kind of loving, too beautiful, majestic, eternal.
but he is also bewitching. and that is his downfall.
Rafayel, meanwhile, is convinced he’s experiencing pleasure in its purest form. you’re so close, your hair tickles his cheek, you share warmth, love, possessiveness. you give him the most magnificent gift he could ever dream of.
he shudders again, feeling your fangs sink into his sensitive body.
"so this is what your fire tastes like," he moans, gasping. hands no longer know what to do, fingers tugging hard at your hair — his anchor before drifting away on cloud nine. "it is exquisite, perfect." he presses you harder against him. "more. I want more. I must..."
he wants to stay here. forever and ever. with his beast, his beloved, until he’s certain every inch of his skin is covered in your paint. and when the skin runs out, you’ll mark him from the inside, turn inside out until everyone knows he is yours.
yours, yours, yours
but your hesitation tears him out of paradise. the sucking slows, your bite isn’t as fierce anymore. why? did he do something wrong? didn’t he give you enough signals that you could do absolutely anything you wanted with him, and he would beg for an encore?
in an instant, bliss shifts into panic, though the massive dose you pumped into him still shakes his body: in his panting, in holding you close, in tangled legs. how could his trap have a gap wide enough for you to slip away?
"oh no, no, you’re not escaping." a sudden yank of your arm reminds you of Rafayel’s true strength. "your canvas has two sides. who’s going to paint the other one if not you?" he tilts his head exposing the other, untouched side, bares it, tempts you, seduces, and for the first time in your life you understand why man is a top predator.
a shame that just one glance at your artwork is enough to drag you back into the present.
"rafa, oh god. doesn’t it hurt? are you alright?"
any possessive beast would flee into the deepest corner of its cage at the sight of what it had done to its beloved, and you are no exception. his skin burns and shines at the same time from the excess saliva you forgot to return to sender. but the worst are the fang marks — furiously angry, thundering in a new shade of red. it’s a miracle you didn’t pierce him open — you think with horror.
"puh-lease, you bite like a toothless fish, I barely felt a thing." so repeat the spectacle, harder, fiercer, taste my blood. "still waiting for an encore, cutie." he tilts his head even further, submissive, begging, devour me.
"wait, maybe I should grab some ointment first. shit, raf, I think I went too far, it’s so bad..."
he doesn’t let go of your hand, doesn’t let you escape. and when you look into his eyes, alarmed, confused, you already know why.
"nuh-uh, I need you here. with me. and your fangs." with the tip of his thumb he brushes over your lower lip, pressing with mad determination against those teeth. it’s enough to slowly push you back into that earlier headspace, that phlegmatic shedding of humanity. "right here." he taps the thick muscle of his back.
"and what about your exhibition tomorrow?" you try, swallowing hard right after, though your eyes can only look at the one spot he has marked for you. you barely notice his victorious smirk.
"hmm, what about it?" he hums, feigning ignorance. it’s good you don’t know how much self-control it cost him to hammer that one simple truth into your head. how hard he had to restrain himself from trembling at the lack of your attention and adoration.
"no one’s going to pay attention to your paintings...they’ll gossip."
"good. let them see, let them watch and gossip. I’ll wear a revealing shirt on purpose so they see even better that I’m taken. that I’m yours." he cradles your face in his hands. "and now bite"
