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It wasn't often that Rafayel found himself in such a situation.
Or that’s what he’d like to believe - what he’d like to say to anyone who asked, to anyone curious enough about the entangled mess that was now his and Sylus’ “relationship” - if it could even be deemed as such.
They were exes, supposedly. Yet they spend more time together now than they used to when they were lovers.
Whatever this was, they were already too far gone to put an end to it.
Or that was Rafayel told himself in those moments where he needed to find an excuse to justify his shameful behaviour - to justify the craving he felt gnawing at his bones everytime the thought, the image of Sylus crossed his mind even for just one second.
It was embarrassing, truly, how far gone he was.
They were by the foot of the bed, letting time pass by as they recovered from their highs. Neither of them spoke, not wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere and start another one of their classic arguments.
Sylus’ hand was caressing his bruised hip, the other wrapped around his neck. His sharp claws were digging crescent moons on Rafayel’s neck, almost drawing blood. Almost.
There it was. This need for violence he craved that rolled up to the surface sometimes, when he wasn't strong enough to control it.
A beat passed by. Rafayel wanted him to puncture his skin until his neck was covered in carmine, his body laying limp and lifeless in the bed where all his sins lay to rest. The place that had seen him at his most vulnerable and shall see him at his last breath.
It’s the only way he’d be purged. The only way he’ll ever be free.
Sylus had always told him he looked good in red. He wants to find out if it's true.
Sylus was a demon.
Someone sent to Rafayel’s life with the sole purpose to lead it off track. To make him confront his deepest desires in such a way that left him not only mortified but also aching for more.
The moans that came out their mouths were loud enough to be heard in every part of the house. If Rafayel was another man - a better one - he’d feel ashamed, but he’s not, so he doesn’t.
It was hard to care what anyone else thought of him when Sylus gripped him like this - hard and harsh enough to bruise. Purple marks will litter his skin for the next few days - a reminder for the rest of the week of what had transpired between these walls, a secret that was only theirs to keep - and the thought alone excited him to the point of reaching his peak.
In the height of his climax, Rafayel bit Sylus’ shoulder so hard, refusing to let go till it bled. The white haired man groaned in pain and a smile illuminated Rafayel’s features at the heavenly sound.
Good. He wanted it to hurt.
He didn't know or understand where this fascination with hurting Sylus came from, but he welcomed it. He felt a little bad, sometimes, but it passed by quickly - joy replacing all the negative feelings in an instant.
He deserved it. Sylus deserved to be in pain. To feel a quarter of the agony he feels everyday because of him.
He’ll get over it anyway, he's a tough guy.
This fascination hasn't bypassed Sylus though - nothing related to Rafayel ever does. He lets him, it makes him feel an odd mixture of something that he can't quite place - guilt, maybe. Pleasure too. Some fondness, perhaps.
He understands, he has his own obsessions too. Sylus, though for very different reasons, likes to mark Rafayel, rough him up, leave his mark - evidence. He wants to brand him. Make sure that anyone brave (stupid) enough knows these are owned goods, ready to be reclaimed at any moment.
As they recover their breaths - Rafayel on his back and Sylus on top of him - he gets an idea. Sylus bites him on his stomach, right atop of his ribs. Leaves a bloody impression of his teeth and smiles at him as he rests his chin on his cum covered belly. They’re matching now.
Sometimes, they’d be kissing lazily after sex- sated limbs, head fuzzy - and Rafayel would foolishly think, just for a moment, that getting back together with Sylus wouldn't be such a bad idea.
But then the illusion breaks and he’s back on earth, back to reality and the problems resume again. Another fight, over something trivial - the stupidest thing you could think - and he remembers why it could never be, why this thing, whatever it is, can never exist outside these four walls, outside of this bed.
It’ll never work, they both know it. They have tried, many more times than they can count, yet neither of them have the guts to call it quits. To truly put an end to this mess that hasn’t brought them more than endless headaches and chest pains.
Rafayel knows he should leave. He should get up from Sylus' king sized bed, block his number and start anew, but it’s hard. It’s really, really hard.
Especially when Sylus holds him like that. Like he’s precious; a delicate being that he has sworn to protect, despite Rafayel being anything but.
His naked skin is cold now, sticky. It should feel disgusting, and in the back of his head he knows it does - but Sylus presses a warm kiss on his shoulder and he can't find it in himself to feel anything other than an immense contentment at this moment. His chest feels carved open as he stares into the ruby of his torturer’s eyes and he knows right then and there he’ll be doomed forever.
There’s no escaping now, but it’s fine. He wasn't actually looking for an exit in the first place.