#unknownasks

He spends so much time making you feel good– you come once in his mouth first, then twice on his fingers– that you practically have to command him to put it in and fuck you.

When he thrusts in, so slowly and gently, it's impossible to not melt under him from the stretch of his cock. You're so full and he's overwhelming all your senses in the best way; you can't help the few tears that slip free. Naturally he worries, assumes he hurt you, but you're quick to reassure him they're happy tears. You never thought you'd get to experience this level of intimacy with anyone before, the fact that it's with him makes it ten thousand times better. You melt further when he kisses you all over, giggling as he whispers praises and reassurances into your skin.

When you allow him to move, he's gentle. Contained. He focuses on every hitch of your breath and every moan, watches every reaction, follows the undulation of your hips, obeys every plea that falls from your lips. And it's good, it's great, he's making you feel so good. But there's something missing. Something sharp marking your skin, something his.

Your fingers tangle on the strands of his hair and you pull him down to where you need him, exposing your neck without a fear.

"Bite me," you say, and for a moment Sylus wonders if you took the aether core in his eye for yourself when he wasn't looking. You ask for just the thing he's been holding himself back from doing so this would be a pleasurable and wonderful experience for you.

“Do you want the house tour?”

You offer over your shoulder, pushing the door completely open for him to come in as you take off your heels. Admittedly, you don't want the date to end, not without a grand finale. He's pampered you so well throughout the night, hit all the right spots with his attention to detail and his words.

(If you don't do this, you swear you'll go fucking crazy.)

There's something in your tone of voice that makes him pause. Not in an obvious way, of course, he steps in confidently, but mentally he's catching the reference.

(Months ago, when he'd invited you over to his place and offered you a tour. One that was interrupted midway because you decided to kiss him senseless after he'd shown you the library and suddenly keeping your hands to yourselves had been hard.)

Are you imitating him?

“Is that how I sound to you, sweetie?” He exchanges his shoes for the slippers you offer him, pretends not to fall for your mischievous smile as you pull him deeper into your apartment by the lapels of his suit.

“No.” And he can see the lie at the twitching corners of your mouth, but instead of calling it out he smirks.

There's something in the woods that lead upwards into the mountain.

Not a person, not quite, something in between beast and human. An amalgamation of both, if that makes sense.

During the day, the woods are peaceful, birds sing happily, the trees dance to the melody of the wind. But during the night, everything stills, even the nocturnal creatures hesitate to make noise in fear of whatever is there.

The village elders always say one thing, and one thing only:

Don't go there, not unless absolutely necessary. And when you do, don't stray from the trail, make it so you go in and out while the sun is still up.

The house your family lived in was the closest to those woods, with the beginning edge of them marking the end of what would be your backyard. As the kid who grew close to the woods and actively sought refuge from your family in them, you never listened to those warnings.

Why would you? They kept you safe after all.

The first time you saw it, you were ten. Your mom had thrown you out of the house, deciding that your punishment would be to sleep outside in the cold. Glowing red eyes, staring right at you.

Naturally, you'd been terrified, the tears that had slowly calmed down intensifying once again at the sight of the glowing eyes. But they didn't approach, just stayed near the edge. The moonlight carried whispers of reassurance that slowly put you to sleep. You didn't expect to wake up with a blanket over you.

The second time you were 16. Same punishment, same stupid argument. You were so exhausted you didn't even fight it. You saw the eyes again, but you weren't afraid, that memory of kindness was still fresh in your mind.

You were reckless, quietly hopping for a quick death as you approached the edge. You didn't cross into the woods, something held you back– to this day, you still don’t know what or why your soul screamed at you that not yet– but you said hello, gave your thanks for that night.

The night chill carried its voice this time, and you spoke in hushed whispers until you had to walk back to your spot and pretend you'd been asleep.

Seeing those blood red eyes became more frequent, each time you got into trouble, into arguments, they'd be there to soothe. And on the night the village decided you were going to be the offering for the beast in the forest, you weren't afraid to walk into them.

He watches as you move around the kitchen.

You're humming along to the song playing softly on your speakers as you buzz around like a busy bee. You look beautiful, with one of his sweaters on and only your underwear underneath, dancing and shimmying happily.

He can't help but fall deeper.

You, who he never thought he'd get to have by his side.

You, who never judges, always listening and being understanding.

You, who he cherishes so greatly he doesn't know what to do with himself most of the time.

You feel like a dream, a reality he never thought he'd be a part of. Sometimes he needs to pinch himself to remember it's not a dream.

Good morning, baby.

You coo, and he shifts to move closer, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer and kiss you. It's a slow kiss, deep, a silent confession of love. The only way he knows how to express how much he loves you. One that will never be enough, but will have to do.

Good morning.

He rubs your noses together before pecking your lips.

Did you sleep well? Dream of anything?

You break into a ramble after the question, and he listens attentively. There's nothing more fascinating to him than you, nothing that he'd seek out more than you.

What do you think about going out today?

He asks over breakfast.

Dinner?

He tries not to preen when you look at him, thriving under your attention like a flower under sunlight.

Anywhere, as long as it's with you.

Oh, your smile. It breaks him and mends him all the same.

A date then.

Rafayel triggers the fuck out of your cuteness aggression by just existing.

It's astounding, really. No matter how much time passes, the intensity remains the same. Or maybe it grows with time, you can't tell, you just know that you're not getting used to it any time soon. 

His laugh takes over the room as you tackle him to the bed and tickle him. As obsessed you are with songs and music, you reckon you’d give it all up for his laughter.

“Cutie–” he gasps, but he doesn't get to speak, your next attack comes in the form of kisses. All over his face; his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, his temples. You kiss anywhere and everywhere you can– your hands are still under his shirt but now you're just holding him under you– each kiss is more dramatic than the last. 

“I swear to God, I'm gonna eat you up one of these days.” The thought slips out through mumbles, and before you know it, he's yelling as you bite his cheek. 

“Ow! Oi! I'm not food!”

You giggle as you kiss over the teeth marks, “Sorry, baby, you're just– fuck, you're so beautiful.” Your kisses trail downwards, they follow the line of his jaw, pausing at his pulse point to leave another bite, this one accompanied by a blooming mark.

He complains, but his actions don't match his words. He's pulling you closer, tilting his head to expose more of his neck, quietly encouraging you to keep going, to leave more bites and mark his neck.