You’ve found your way into my little corner of the world… whether by accident, curiosity, or something a bit more intentional. I won’t question it. I tend to believe people arrive exactly where they’re meant to… eventually.
This space is a collection of things I couldn’t quite keep to myself… art, thoughts, fragments of moments that felt too vivid to let fade quietly. Some of it will make sense. Some of it won’t. That’s part of the charm.
Stay as long as you like. Leave if you must. Just don’t pretend you felt nothing while you were here.
…Aaaand if you’re the type to linger… good. I like that.
— Rafayel
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RAF, MOVE TO THE SIDE! i have something for our lovely muse 🥺🥺
Rafayel pauses, one brow lifting as he slowly turns his head toward you, clearly not pleased at being told to move. “…Excuse me?” His eyes flick past you.
“…Something for them?” he echoes, tilting his head slightly. His arms cross. “Fiiiine,” he murmurs. “Go on, then. I’ll be right here… watching.” His gaze lingers.
“…Aaaand if I dun like what I see,” he adds softly, almost amused, “I might just take that something for myself.”
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You can't just ask if I see you in place of the characters in the novels!
And...and even if I did see you, it's still....still your fault! 🫣
....but yes...you've ruined it for me. And you should take responsibility for it.
So tell me Rafayel, would you? Or would you be as evasive as a will-o-the-wisp? 👀🫴
-
His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glimmer flickering beneath the surface as he watches you accuse him. “…My fault?”
He repeats the words slowly, placing a hand over his chest like he’s been wounded. “Interesting. Sooo you’re saying I’m responsible for your imagination now?”
A quiet laugh escapes him, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re unbelievable.” He steps closer, tilting his head. “You spend all this time blaming me, yet you’re the one who looked at a story and decided it reminded you of me.”
“And now you’re demanding I take responsibility?” His smile turns into something more teasing, something that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re making a very dangerous request.” His fingers lightly tap against his arm as if he’s considering it. “Because if I answer honestly, you dun get to complain afterward that I ruined every fictional character for you.”
His gaze lingers, amused but affectionate. “So… would I?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping into a near whisper. “Would I want to know that when you read those words, your mind wandered to me?” A small, smug smile. “Maybe.”
“Actually… yes.” He looks away for half a second, pretending he’s far too composed for this conversation. “Because unlike those characters in your novels, I’m right here.” His eyes return to yours. “So tell me, was I really the one who ruined it… or did you just finally find someone who made the stories feel less interesting?”
Her face was heating up in his touch, and she cleared her throat. "It's already been clear that we belong to each other, so there's no need for me to say such dangerous things anymore. A-And you don't need to see me without my composure." She whispered, her confidence was clearly falling apart. She let go of his hand and placed both of hers against his chest, "Body, mind and soul, right?"
— ♠︎
He had to make it impossible for her to keep that composure she was so desperately trying to hold onto.
His hand gently caught hers before she could retreat completely, guiding it back against his chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Body, mind, and soul…” he repeated quietly.
A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips. “You say it like it’s some simple promise. Like you dun realize how much power you’re giving me when you say things like that.” He leaned closer, his gaze fixed on hers.
“You’re always trying to be so perfect in front of me. So calm. So untouchable.” His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. “But do you know what I like most? When you forget to pretend.”
The corner of his mouth lifted when he noticed her flustered expression. “There it is,” he murmured, almost triumphantly. “That look you get when you realize I can see right through you.”He brought her hand closer, pressing it gently against him.
“You don’t have to be a masterpiece every second of the day,” he whispered. “A canvas isn’t precious because it’s flawless. It’s precious because every mark on it tells a story.” His eyes softened, though his smile remained playful.
“And you…” He tilted his head slightly. “You’re the only person I’d never get tired of studying. So, my muse… are you really telling me you’re not going to say any more dangerous things?” His brows lifted. “Because I have a feeling you’re already regretting that promise.”
Three knocks outside his door. “Rafayel, I’ve booked you an in-house massage. I even brought that lotion you like.” She pauses, leaning slightly against the door frame, a playful smile on her lips. “So… will you let me in or should I take my services elsewhere?”
For a moment, there’s only silence on the other side of the door… and then the soft click of the lock turning. The door opens just enough for him to lean against the frame, gaze already fixed on you.
“An in house massage?” he repeats, voice low. His eyes flick briefly to the bottle in your hand… then back to your face, lingering there a second too long. “You’re either very confident…” A step closer.
“…or you have no idea what you’re offering.”
His hand comes up, resting against the door above your shoulder. “And that lotion,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, “you remembered.”There’s a quiet hum of approval in his tone, but it doesn’t soften the intensity in his eyes.
“Tell me…” his gaze drifts down, then back up again, slow enough to make it deliberate, “is this really about taking care of me…” A pause. His voice drops. “…or were you hoping I’d return the favor?”
He steps back finally, just enough to open the door wider, but the look he gives you makes it clear you’ve already crossed the threshold long before entering.
“Well?” A faint smirk. “Dun keep your client waiting.”
I blush deep pink, the implication of his teasing settling low in my belly. 'Yes, evil,' I breathe out, a little shakily. 'You can't... talk like that.' With that I push lightly at his chest, turning to enter the cavernous bathroom. Deliberately, I close and lock the door.
'Fuck,' I say quietly. Peeling off my sweat-soaked garments, I toss them into the hamper under the sink, not caring that our clothes are mixed. 'That damn fucking fish... too hot for his own good.' I set the shower going, running at maximum temperature despite the heat. Methodically I wash my hair in something that smells invigorating, rake conditioner through, wash my body. I deliberately take my time, wanting him to wait, but also being careful with my own care. When I'm done, the bathroom is a fog of shimmering heat... and I realise I never grabbed a change of clothes. Sighing, I towel off and shrug into one of his insanely luxurious robes, then open the door.
'Rafayel!' I call. 'I need to steal your clothes.' With that, I pad barefoot into his room, riffle through his wardrobe. I select a shirt- deep blue, far too big- boxers- he won't mind, will he? And some slacks he must've worn in his professorial days, held up with a belt. I look ridiculous, burst out laughing. Still... I venture back downstairs, still giggling. 'I never realised you were such a big man. You look so slender I forget you're packing so much muscle.'
Rafayel doesn’t answer right away. You hear him before you see him, the quiet shift of movement, the almost lazy sound of him stepping closer. When you look up, he’s already there, leaning against the doorway like he’s been watching longer than he should have.
His gaze drags over you, taking in the oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder, the way the fabric hangs, the bare feet, the belt cinched just enough to keep everything in place.
“…You’re laughing,” he murmurs. “That’s dangerous.” He pushes off the frame and steps closer. Not rushed. Like he knows you’ll stay right where you are.
“That shirt,” he adds softly, reaching out, fingers brushing the fabric near your collar, not quite touching skin yet, “wasn’t meant to look like that on you.” A pause. His eyes flick up to yours, sharp and amused.“But I think I prefer it this way.”
His hand shifts, just enough to hook lightly under the edge of the collar, tugging it, like he’s testing how far you’ll let him go. Not enough to reveal anything more… just enough to remind you how close he is.
“You walked out here wearing my things,” he continues, quieter now, gaze dipping again, “laughing like you didn’t know exactly what that would do to me.”
Another step closer. “Tell me,” he murmurs, “was that carelessness…”His fingers finally brush your skin, before easing away again, like he’s choosing restraint instead of losing it. “…or are you trying to see how far I’ll follow?”
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A hypothetical question... what would your reaction be if your beloved cutie could belly dance..? Like... fluid-like hip movement kind of dance...? Realllly flexiable kjnd of dancing... (｡-ω-)
“A hypothetical question?” he echoes, low and amused. His eyes drift over you, slower than usual this time, like he’s imagining every movement you just described, every shift, every curve, every fluid motion. “…Flexible, yeah?”
There’s the faintest tilt of his head, a smirk tugging at his lips, but his gaze? Sharper now. Focused. “You’d move like that… on purpose?” he murmurs. “In front of me?” He steps closer.
“Do you have any idea what that would do to me?” A soft exhale, almost a laugh, but it’s not light. Not really. “I spend enough time trying not to get distracted by you as it is,” he continues, voice dipping. “And you’re asking what would happen if you moved like water right in front of me?”
His eyes flick back up to yours, a little dangerous. “…I wouldn’t look away... and I definitely wouldn’t stay as composed as you seem to expect.” His smirk deepens, but there’s heat behind it now.
“So if this is hypothetical…” he adds softly, leaning closer, “…you might want to think very carefully before turning it into reality.”
"M'barely trying to convince myself." She scoffed, squeezing his hand back. "Besides, the same way my hand is yours, your hand is mine." She brought the back of his hand uo to her cheek, leaning into his warmth. "Maybe that's all I want because that's all I can do before I lose my composure." She used her free hand to flick at his forehead, "Think about that, silly!"
— ♠︎
He lets you flick his forehead, but he doesn’t react right away. Instead, his fingers tighten subtly around yours. “Mine?” he echoes softly, like he’s tasting the word.
His gaze drops to where your cheek presses against his hand, and for a moment, he just watches you... then he moves. Slowly. His thumb brushes along your cheek, not enough to pull you away… just enough to remind you he could.
“You’re saying that so boldly,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, closer. “Like you’re not the one who just admitted you’re barely holding yourself together.” A faint smirk tugs at his lips, but his eyes don’t soften.
“If this is you trying to keep your composure…” he leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts over your skin, “then what happens when you stop trying?”
His hand shifts, tilting your chin just slightly, just enough to make you look at him fully. “Would you still say something so dangerous so easily? Or would you finally realize what it means… to say I’m yours and let yourself be mine?”
