The Wolf Among the Shepherds

"You know," Henry says, nuzzling the side of her jaw, "the first thing I thought when I met you was that you would look beautiful covered in blood."

There are many things Maribelle could reply to that, starting with what, on fucking earth, is wrong with you, though I'm topless in front of you and that's what you decide to talk about? Really? Is a strong contender.

Alas. If Henry is messed up in the head, then Maribelle is just as much. Because against all reason, this horrifying love language of his lights a fire low in her belly.

"Really now?" She answers instead, lacing her arms around his neck, because Maribelle is many things but she is not a hypocrite. "That was the first thing?"

"Mh-mh." One of his hands slide up her belly, almost lazily. "Your skin is really pale, even by Ylissean standards. I thought the red would contrast well on you." He tilts his head to look at her and breaks into a grin. "And I was right! I've seen you stitching up some heavily wounded guys. You look lovely, bloody up the wrists."

"Why, thank you." The compliment really shouldn't please her as much as it does, and yet. She laces her fingers in his hair. It's surprisingly fluffy. I was raised by a wolf, he'd told her, once. Perhaps that's why his hair is soft as fur.

His fingers trace the line of her sternum. Henry can be a really gentle lover, when he wants to be. Perhaps this shouldn't be so surprising. No one knows their way around a body like Henry does; making love or bringing death, in the end, both call for the same skills. He cups Maribelle's breast, and she knows he's thinking of every layer of skin, fat, muscle, bone he can feel underneath.

I was raised by a wolf, he'd told her, once. Comparing Henry to an animal would be innacurate. Animals are not so gleeful when they kill. Animals do not yearn to spill as many guts as they can when they'll die. But he certainly has some wolf in him; she can feel it, in the tenderness of his touches, in how he goes against his very nature to cherish her, in how he bonds with people with a protectiveness inherent to wild things.

Henry can be a really gentle lover, when he wants to be.

But Maribelle does not want Gentle. She wants Henry.

"Hey." She tugs lightly at his hair, just enough to get his attention. "Come on. Don't just focus on me. Take your fill too, won't you?" She tilts her head to the side, offering her neck.

He grins even wider, then kisses her pulse point. "I love you."

Henry is a hard man to please. His pain tolerance, as it turns out, is born from a numbness to any sort of touch. Petting, caressing, hitting- none does it for him. Even grasping directly at his cock barely gets him half-hard.

I don't mind. He'd told her with a shrug. I like seeing you writhe. I like seeing you flush. I love to see what to see what it takes for your blood to rush to that pretty skin of yours. And she could tell he genuinely found pleasure in this, in getting her undone. But Maribelle is no pillow princess. Her husband deserves everything, and if there is anything else that could please him, she'd be damned if she let that stone unturned. So night after night, they tried different things, see what could make him tick, what could make it even better to the both of them.

And they found it.

I was raised by a wolf, he'd told her, once. Perhaps that is why Henry only knows how to desire with his entire mouth.

He bares his teeth, and bites.

Her hips jerk in response, and she moans. Maribelle doesn't care much for pain. But this isn't just pain- this is Henry, in all his rawest, purest glory. This is Henry, hungry, wanting, made feral by her hand. This is Henry, mad with desire from his very marrow, wanting to take and take and take her, not with his cock but with his teeth.

"Make it bruise, you little beast." She hisses, and he groans as he presses closer to her- and ah, there it is, a hard pressure against her thigh. "I'm yours to claim and devour."

Henry detaches his mouth from her shoulder, almost panting. His entire body is tense, as if ready to pounce on her. Huh, ain't that a thought. Maybe she could get him to hunt her down like a prey. She's certainly not going to be against that.

He grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles revenrently. Then he tilts it to the side to reveal her wrist. He runs his tongue over it, almost as an apology, and Maribelle shivers. That's another thing she learned from Henry. Wrists are sensitive.

All the better from when he bites again.

She cries out. His gaze flickers to her face, and it's so full of heat, her entire body shivers.

She tries to kick her pants off, because she's too hot and agitated and she needs to be free of constraints now, but it's very hard to do with a maw robbing her one hand. Thankfully, Henry picks it up, so when he finally frees her wrist he lends his hands to undress her. Then, for equity's sake, he shrugs off his coat, and that's when Maribelle grows impatient.

"Come on, you animal." This always gets to him. Animal. Beast. Wolf. Compliments flatter him and demeaning comments roll off his back, but these? That get him frantic. "Ravish me."

He almost throws himsef down, grabbing her legs with both hands to force them spread. His mouth latches on her inner thigh, teeth and fire and hunger, and though he never makes her bleed she knows she'll be painted black and blue by morning.

"Henry." She calls, reaching down to grab a fistful of his hair, keeping him close closer to her skin flesh muscle bite me, devour me, carve your scent inside of me.

He whines against her skin and lets go of her leg, his newly free hand trailing up until- oh. She's so achingly wet he slides in with no trouble, toying with her most sensitive spots.

He comes before she does, untouched, teeth digging into her hips; she feels the way his fingers tense and still, hear him moan something akin to her name with his mouth still full of her.

"Henry." She hisses, tugging at his hair, before he can slow down. That gets him cackling, then he kisses his way down her navel to roll his tongue over her clit, and there she's gone, too.

I was raised by a wolf, he'd told her, once. She believes him. There is certainly some wolf in him as he curls over her like a content cat, rubbing his face over her shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey." She replies, still panting. "You need to change your pants."

He laughs again, but does not move. Instead, he twirls a lock of her hair around a finger, peering down at the bite marks he left behind. "You know, you look beautiful covered in blood." He comments. "But I like you better in bruises, I think."

Her husband is fucking insane, to think of this as acceptable dirty talk. And so is she, to blush at his words.

"Then perhaps," she says, snuggling him, "you should add some more, next time."

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