Being with him is like drinking my favorite French coffee. They are both smoky, dark, and velvety. Spending his day surrounded by strange and exotic potions ingredients, you would think that he would be composed of a culmination of odd scents. And yet the only scent that seems to linger on his perfect skin is that of the fires he keeps constantly burning in his otherwise freezing dungeon rooms. He makes an effort to use the wood from near where he grew up in Cokeworth, one of his only fond memories being that of the trees. The scent of the wood is so different to that of the rest of the castle that I can't help but associate every flame I see with him and only him.
He is perhaps the only man that can own an entire closet full of pitch-black clothing, wear most of it over the coarse of his still relatively short life, and still manage to look dead sexy. Granted, he looks perpetually swoon worthy, but I admit that I love it when he throws in a bit of color. Occasionally, if he knows that I've had a particularly bad week, he'll change into a dark green or dark blue sweater before I come down to meet him. He would never emerge into the castle while wearing it, but when it's just the two of us, I can tell that he's pleased by my positive reaction. He soothes me as even a fresh cup of coffee never could.
The description of velvety shouldn't even need to be justified. You need only to hear him speak. And Merlin, does he speak. He knows just how to drop his voice into the purest whisper I have ever heard, his breath ghosting over my ear and his hands running down the goosebumps on my arms. I can't help but to hear the smirk in his voice as he knows what he does to me, his arrogance only adding to the deep timbre of his voice.
I love the way that he wakes me up, no matter the time or day. I may love a good cup of coffee, but I love the way I spend my life with him even more.