The "Dad of the Year" award goes to this flathead catfish on the Black River in North Carolina. A sudden drop in water level caused the fish to be stranded at the base of a rotting tree. I wondered why it didn't leave as the water receded-until I saw the pile of pink eggs by its tail. I realized the fish was trapped by staying to care for its offspring.
It's common for males to watch over eggs and defend them from potential predators-and, in some cases, even from the mother. Of all the things I've seen in swamps, this was one of the most striking examples of survival.
Cypress swamps are difficult places to thrive. Seasonal fluctuations of water shape these ecosystems and the residents that call them home. Although I didn't stick around to see what happened to this father, I was encouraged to see that the water levels did come up just a few days later.
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Here’s my finished piece of Rafayel for a LaDS cupsleeve 2 year ani CNY event in SoCal!! 🥰 this community is so great, thank you everyone who came out!!
I’m always looking for more opportunities to draw the boys so ty for the opportunity!! 💙💙🐟🐟
*They hear what seems to be some kind of wet shuffling noise in the walls. Whatever it is, it sounds pretty big..*
( @the-reverse-storycrafters )
*....Elemental is not in the room. The other mutants look at each other with a knowing look. Galaxy is trying to figure out who it could be. ...El promised he wouldn't look out there...*
Who-???
No clue, man.
*Rainbow and Gerald are asleep on the couch. Shadow just shrugs.*
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Soft spotlights illuminate each canvas, sweeping oceanic blues, fractured light, something almost haunting beneath the surface of every piece. Guests murmur thoughtfully, champagne glasses clinking in polite appreciation.
At the center of it all stands Rafayel.
The deep midnight-blue blazer fits him like it was stitched by fate itself. He speaks calmly to a collector, one hand in his pocket, voice smooth as glass. But every few seconds? His eyes find you. Across the room. Through people. Through noise. Like a tide returning.
When someone lingers too long in conversation with you, laughing a little too brightly, Rafayel doesn’t interrupt. He finishes his sentence. Smiles politely. Then excuses himself.
He approaches slowly, expression unreadable. His hand settles at the small of your back. “I see you’ve become the highlight of the evening,” he murmurs.
The other guest stiffens slightly under the weight of his gaze. “And you are?” the guest asks. Rafayel’s lips curve faintly. “The artist.” The silence that follows is sharp enough to frame. The guest makes a polite exit.
You turn to him. “Jealous?”
“Not jealous,” he says softly. His thumb presses slightly against your back. “Selective.” Then he leans closer, voice lower. “Come with me.”
The hum of the gallery muffled behind closed doors. Stacks of framed pieces rest against the wall. The back room smells faintly of paint and linen canvas.
He locks the door. You barely have time to ask why before he steps forward, backing you gently against a table. His hand cups your jaw. “You stood beside me tonight,” he says, eyes darker now. “Like you belong there.”
“I do belong there.”
His expression softens. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, you do.” His thumb brushes over your lower lip. “For hours,” he continues, voice rougher now, “I watched them look at you.”
“And?”
“And I endured it.” He leans in. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s controlled at first. But when you respond? That restraint fractures. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, blazer brushing against your dress. The kiss deepens, like being pulled under a wave you don’t want to escape.
He exhales softly against your mouth. “You distract me,” he murmurs between kisses. “In my own exhibit.” Your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest. “Good.” A low laugh escapes him. He presses one last lingering kiss to your lips… then another to your temple.
“Compose yourself,” he whispers, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “If we’re gone much longer, they’ll assume I’m incapable of professionalism.”
Chapter 2
The gallery lights feel brighter when you step back out. Too bright. Your lips still feel warm. Your pulse hasn’t quite steadied. You smooth your dress, once, twice, pretending nothing at all just happened.
Beside you, Rafayel looks infuriatingly composed. Except… his shirt is slightly untucked. Just enough to be noticeable. Just enough to suggest.
You elbow him lightly. He glances down, then at you. “…Ah.” He makes no immediate move to fix it. Before you can whisper a warning, a familiar voice cuts in. “Well,” a sharp-eyed curator says, eyebrow raised. “You both look… invigorated.”
You freeze. Rafayel doesn’t. He turns slowly, polite smile in place. “The discussion in the back room was… passionate.” The curator’s gaze drifts to his shirt then to your flushed cheeks.
“Mmm.” You can practically hear the assumptions forming. Rafayel finally adjusts his cuff, smooth as silk, but leaves the shirt untucked for a little longer. Then casually, he fixes it.
“Art requires intensity,” he continues calmly. “Surely you understand.” The curator gives a tight smile and moves on.
You exhale. “That was subtle,” you mutter. Rafayel leans closer, “You’re still blushing.”
“Whose fault is that?” His eyes soften, but there’s a flicker of smug satisfaction there. “You came back glowing,” he murmurs. “I find I don’t regret it.”
A passing guest pauses nearby, clearly noticing the tension. Rafayel’s hand finds your waist again, not possessive enough to be scandalous, but intimate enough to confirm suspicions.
He bends slightly, lips near your ear. “If they’re going to speculate,” he says quietly, “we might as well give them something worth discussing.”
Your heart flutters.
He straightens, addressing the next collector with perfect composure. As if he hadn’t just ruined your lipstick five minutes ago.
Chapter 3
The room settles as a well-known critic steps forward, champagne glass balanced delicately between two fingers. He studies one of Rafayel’s largest pieces, a turbulent ocean split by silver light.
“Fascinating,” he says loudly enough for nearby guests to listen in. “Your recent work feels… different.”
Rafayel inclines his head politely. “Different how?”
“Less solitary,” the critic replies. His gaze shifts , directly to you. “More inspired.” The word hangs there. A few guests glance between you. You feel it immediately. The implication.
Rafayel doesn’t look at you right away. He studies the painting instead, as if genuinely considering the observation. “And what would you suggest is the source of that inspiration?” he asks calmly.
The critic smiles thinly. “Artists rarely improve without… motivation.”
A couple of people murmur. You can feel the attention sharpening.
Instead, Rafayel turns to you. His expression isn’t defensive. “When you spend enough time studying light,” he says evenly, still looking at you, “you begin to recognize what makes it worth capturing.”
Your pulse jumps. The critic raises an eyebrow. “So you admit it.”
Rafayel finally faces him again. “I don’t deny what is obvious.” The room stills. He steps closer to you. His hand rests at your waist. “My work reflects what moves me,” he continues. “If that unsettles you, perhaps you’re looking at the wrong canvas.”
A quiet ripple of approval moves through the crowd. The critic exhales sharply. “One hopes the art stands on its own.” Rafayel’s gaze cools. “It does,” he says. “She simply reminds me why it should.”
The critic, finding no leverage, lifts his glass in a tight acknowledgment and drifts away. The tension dissolves into conversation again. You turn to Rafayel. “You could have denied it.” He looks down at you, “Why would I?”
“You don’t mind them talking?”
A faint smile curves at his mouth. “Let them,” he murmurs. “They were going to speak about my art tonight regardless.”
His thumb brushes lightly against your waist, “I prefer that they speak about something real.”
He leans closer, “And if they understand that you are the reason the sea looks softer in my paintings…” His gaze lingers, “…then perhaps they will finally understand me.”
Chapter 4
The car door shuts with a soft thud. For the first time all evening, silence. Just the muted glow of streetlights passing through the windows as the city hums outside. Rafayel loosens his tie slowly, gaze fixed ahead.
You can still feel the weight of his earlier words. She simply reminds me why it should.
He exhales. “You were uncomfortable with what I said in there,” he says at last. You turn toward him. “A little bit, but it’s okay.” He nods once, absorbing that. “I should not have allowed it to continue.”
His car turns a corner. Light brushes across his face, and for once, he doesn’t look like the untouchable artist. He looks tired and vulnerable.
“Well… you didn’t have to claim me like that,” you say gently. That makes him glance at you. “I wasn’t claiming you. I was just refusing to diminish you.”
The honesty of it settles heavy between you. He reaches over, fingers finding yours in the dim light. “You know, they speak as if inspiration is something trivial,” he murmurs. “As if it weakens the artist. It does the opposite.” His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, thoughtful. “It does not weaken me.”
The city lights flicker across his eyes. “It makes me precise.” You swallow. “Precise how?” His gaze drops to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. “I know exactly what I feel,” he says quietly. “And I do not confuse it with performance.”
The car slows at a red light. For a moment, the world feels suspended. He lifts your hand and presses a slow kiss to your knuckles. “I let them speculate,” he continues softly. “Because I do not intend to hide you.”
Your heart stutters at that. The light turns green, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “I paint the sea,” he says, almost to himself. “But you are the reason it has a horizon.” It’s not flashy. It’s not for an audience. It’s just him.
When he rests his forehead lightly against yours, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Come home with me tonight.”
“Okay.” He presses on the gas. One hand on the wheel and the other intertwined with yours. When the gates of his studio come into view, something in his posture eases.
The headlights sweep across the metal as he slows, tapping the code into the keypad with practiced familiarity. The gate hums and slides open. He drives in slowly like he’s letting the world close behind him one layer at a time.
Chapter 5
The gate shuts with a quiet metallic sound. Only then does he exhale fully. The engine idles for a second before he turns the key. The low vibration fades, leaving only the soft ticking of cooling metal.
Silence settles inside the car. He sits there for a moment, hand still resting on the steering wheel. A faint curve touches his mouth. He steps out first. The night air is cooler here, quieter than downtown. The scent of paint and faint cedar drifts from the studio building nearby.
He closes his door gently then he walks around the front of the car. There’s something deliberate about the way he does it. When he reaches your side, he opens the door. The overhead light flickers on, catching the edge of your dress, your expression, the lingering flush from the evening.
He offers his hand, “Cutie”. You take it. His fingers curl around yours as you step out, heels touching pavement. The gate behind you stands closed now. The city is distant. It’s just the two of you in the quiet driveway. He shuts the car door gently once you’re steady, his hand sliding briefly to the small of your back as he guides you toward the studio entrance.
The kind of touch that says the night isn’t over yet, but it’s yours now. He doesn’t give you a tour this time. He doesn’t explain anything. He just unlocks the door and lets you walk in. You slip off your shoes in the same spot you always do.
You pass the main studio without slowing down. The half-finished canvases don’t intimidate you anymore. The scent of paint is familiar, comforting. Upstairs, you walk into the closet, take off your earrings and set them in your seashell dish.
Rafayel watches you with that quiet look, the one he gets when something feels dangerously close to becoming permanent. “You didn’t hesitate,” he says softly.
“I never do.” That earns you the faintest smile. You wander toward the kitchen, opening the cabinet without asking. “You’re out of tea again.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “You say that every time.” He steps closer, loosening the last button on his shirt. “You’ve slept here around a dozen times now,” he says, almost to himself. It isn’t a question.
On nights when the city felt too loud. On nights when he finished painting at 3 AM and found you curled up on the sofa with one of his cardigans wrapped around you.
Chapter 6
You move toward the large window overlooking the ocean, fingers tracing the glass. “This place feels different after your exhibits,” you say. “It does,” he agrees.
He comes to stand behind you, close enough that your back brushes his chest. “But you don’t.” Your breath catches slightly.
His arms slide around your waist, like this is something your bodies already know how to do. “You’re still dressed for them,” he murmurs softly. Your fingers brush the fabric at your waist. “I didn’t think about it.”
His gaze lowers, “Turn around,” he says quietly.
You do. The zipper rests at the curve of your back. For a moment, he doesn’t touch it. His fingers hover, barely grazing the fabric, like he’s considering something delicate. Not rushed. Just the steady slide of tension releasing.
His other hand settles lightly at your waist to steady you. He lets the dress slip from your shoulders slowly. His fingers trace the path the fabric leaves behind. The dress pools at your feet.
He doesn’t immediately pull you back against him. Instead, he steps closer and presses a soft kiss between your shoulder blades. “Much better,” he murmurs.
His hands slide around your waist, drawing you gently against his chest now. You turn in his arms, studying him in the dim light. He reaches up and brushes his thumb along your cheek. “When you stay here,” he says quietly, “the studio stops feeling like a place I hide in.”
“Then I should stay here more often, huh?” You tap the side of your head slowly while pursing your lips. “Maybeee,” he leans down and kisses you. “On that note, I’m going to take a shower before...”
When he pulls back, he nudges his forehead against yours. “You can wear my shirt again,” he points to the chair as he makes his way to the bathroom.
You grab it from the back of the chair and slip it on. It smells just like him. Sea salt, sandalwood, and something you can’t quite put your finger on. You breathe in slowly and smile. Doing a little twirl before sitting down in the chair.
A low, pleased hum escapes him from the bathroom. “It looks great on you,” he says softly, peaking around the corner with a smirk.
“Rafayel!” You turn your head to look at him. Only catching a glimpse of his hair before he shuts the door. You scroll on your phone while waiting for him to come out.
“I’m back, cutie.” He walks out of the steam toward you while running his towel through his hair. You blink a few times because it looks like he’s in slow motion. His speed finally looks normal again.
“What’s wrong?” He sets his towel down on the table next to your chair. “Oh, nothing. I think I’m getting tired.” He grabs your hand and guides you toward the bed.
When you settle against him, his arm automatically wraps around you. “You always sleep on this side,” he murmurs sleepily. “You always pretend not to notice.” He presses a soft kiss into your hair. “I notice everything, cutie.”
His fingers trace lazy, familiar patterns along your back. Just the quiet rhythm of someone who’s used to you being there. And before sleep pulls him under, he whispers, “Stay tomorrow, too.”
