#m.rafayel

Like what???? Is that not masculinity???

…

I suppose masculinity = honoring the self and being authentically yourself

I wanna go through a thousand moments in which I feel his grip tighten on my hand whenever I pull him towards something— a tulip growing on the street, the smooth skin of the lake’s surface, a window displaying cute trinkets. His hand is warm and engulfs mine, with just a dash more pressure now that I’m laughing and tugging him along. He always did that: squeezed my hand a bit harder whenever I was carefree and let loose. I just thought it was him loving me in the ways a partner normally would.

Then there were- of course- times I had to leave. He’d reluctantly release his hold on me, before trailing his fingers down my arm and leaving a sea of fire burning in the wake of his touch. “I need you to come back to me as soon as possible,” he’d always breathe— those familiar, clear, pink and blue sunset irises ablaze in self-centered determination. Warning signs I overlooked. Instead of listening to the alarm bells, I caressed the smooth skin of his cheek, gazed into his big doll eyes as he whined, “Cutie, don’t go yet…”

I wanna see my “yes” turn into a passionate storm of spit-filled kisses. I wanna get lost in him as Rafayel relishes in my naivety, my touch, my guileless love, licking up my neck senseless, his teeth scraping against my fragile windpipe. …This happens a hundred times, a candied obsession dressed up deceptively simple under the label of a relationship.

The first time he bites down on my clavicle— he draws blood. I gasp, but even as I push him away, he smiles. Because it’s too late. The cage has been locked shut, and there’s nowhere for me to go besides into his embrace. When my eyes meet his, his smile is bloody.

Rafayel x Reader. // angst, fluff. abandonment issues, relief.

Rafayel has just finished telling you the story about his “friend” who’d gotten himself stranded on the surface, 800 or so years ago. Surviving only because of a woman who noticed and cared, his friend went on to live, saved in the same way you rescued that fish a minute ago. But Rafayel called it a tragedy.

“Because he fell in love with the girl who saved him?” You ask him. The night surrounds the two of you, a smooth midnight blue. It’s like the two of you are underneath the deep ocean itself, the air cool against your skin.

“Love?” Rafayel asks, confusion flitting across his face as he stares at the ground. It’s as if he’s taken aback slightly by the word.

Rafayel’s gaze suddenly locks onto your face, his violet eyes glimmering like stars in the lamplight.

“…Yeah,” he says, the weight of his gaze pulling you in like the tide. He looks at you like you’re his world, like he needs you, like you’re the oyster and he’s the pearl seeking refuge. It’s tinged with hurt.

Rafayel turns back to focus on the fountain in front of him, a thoughtful expression creased onto his features. “Love,” he repeats, the word solid as it leaves his mouth.

“Now do you see how dangerous the world can be?”

It’s suddenly silent. Rafayel has entered his mind space again. He’s lost in thought as you study him in all his quiet, the urge to know what he’s thinking growing stronger by the second.

Love is the most twisted curse of all. Be careful who you save. You might end up cursing them with tragedy instead.

Your soft, “Hey,” brings Rafayel out from his thoughts. His eyes have always been so expressive.

“What’s wrong?” You ask gently, your smaller hand reaching out to touch Rafayel’s cold one. He jumps slightly before looking wide-eyed at where your skin touches his.

His hand moves on top of yours in a flash, his grip surprisingly firm as his face closes the distance between you two.

“You can’t leave me again, okay?” Desperation and insistence lace his words.

“Promise me— promise me you’ll never disappear again,” Rafayel breathes, his violet eyes boring into yours. You blink rapidly.

“Rafayel— You…” you start, before swallowing. “That wasn’t really your friend in the story, was it?” You ask, believing now that he had woven fiction into his personal anecdote, making it up that his friend was a merman, that it was centuries ago. He had probably been left by a woman he took great interest in, instead. Your heart aches for him. You always knew he hadn’t been loved properly in his life; The signs were there. His clinginess, his immaturity, his urge to be cared for— they had all made it clear.

Rafayel ignores your question, imploring you again.

“Promise me.”

Your other hand moves to clasp his, both of your hands cupping Rafayel’s now. You swear you saw tears glimmering for a quick, fleeting moment.

“I promise, Rafayel,” you say, your gaze firm and gentle all at once.

Something passes in Rafayel’s eyes. You can’t name it yet. You can’t study it either— Rafayel has engulfed you in a hug before you can blink, taut muscle and warmth pressing against you.

“Good. Thank you,” he whispers before his voice comes back strong, “Don’t ever leave me.” Rafayel’s breath is soft against your ear, the little tickle contrasting the hard desperation in his voice. His arms squeeze you tighter. Tears spring to your eyes. Rafayel… you must have been through so much.

“You’ll never be alone again, Rafayel.” You breathe the promise into the night air.

You feel a sudden pressure against your jawline—

The warmth pulls away slightly. Rafayel stares into your eyes, your faces inches away, his strong arms still wrapped around you. The proximity makes your heart race, and you’re sure he can feel it too. His breath is hot, the sounds of breathing drowning out the nearby bubbling of the water fountain. As Rafayel gazes into your eyes, you realize he had kissed your neck.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he’s looking at you like he needs more— needs to be closer— needs to have you, needs to know you’re his, not just by words.

You respond in kind, cupping his face gently, pressing your thumb into his cheek, tenderly swiping his skin. He nuzzles into your touch, pressing another soft kiss onto your hand.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Rafayel looks at you, leaning forward more as his hands find your cheeks, holding your face in his hands. He stares down at you, murmuring into the small space between you two.

“You were the one who cursed me in the first place. It’s only fair that you lift it.”

…

To be continued?

…AN below:

my heart, I’m so sorry

You were just an unloved soul who didn’t know what love was until you were unexpectedly rescued, then abandoned.

tags: fluff, Raf being both precise and dramatic, some romantic tension // painter! Rafayel who teaches you more about oil painting :] // oneshot // very short

“It’s not a matter of how long it’s been sitting, cutie,” Rafayel says, his hand enveloping yours as he guides you to the cluttered table in his studio. You catch sight of deep Prussian blue smudged on his flawless skin— undoubtedly a carefully selected colour, one that represents the duality of the ocean: something beautiful, something simultaneously soothing and chaotic. Like him, the man from the sea… the complex storm of a person that you’re still trying to understand.

Rafayel squats down and you follow suit, looking up and beholding the glass jar full of turpenoid and a layer of sludge on the bottom. The sunlight from the window glints through the clear liquid.

“But Rafayel—” you interject, “Isn’t it so much cheaper if you reuse it? Why don’t you?” You ask curiously. You knew he had money, but you couldn’t just let him do that without knowing why first. Old habits die hard.

“Cutie, the cost of a ruined painting far exceeds the cost of turpenoid. Look,” Rafayel uses his free hand to point into the jar. “I saved the dirty turpenoid from last week to show you. It sat for seven days, so you’re correct cutie, that the old paint and turpenoid are separated now.”

You knew from previous times with Rafayel that the thick layer of grey-brown sludge on the bottom was composed of the paints he’d cleaned from the brushes during his session last week. You watched him swirl the filbert brush around in the dirtied liquid each time he needed to use a different colour.

“But now we need to pour the ‘clean’ turpenoid out to reuse it… and no matter how carefully I do that, there’s risk.” Rafayel stands up now, gently pulling you up with him. “Don’t miss my hand too much,” Rafayel says, smirking, before releasing your hand. You can’t help but scoff, smiling.

“You know you’re the one who misses my hand more,” you tease.

“Who wouldn’t miss holding your hand?” Rafayel is suddenly serious, his eyes boring into yours. The intense fire in his stare sends your heart straight out of your ribcage. You feel your face heat up. Your breath is caught in your throat as you gaze into the mixed hues of his eyes— stunning, colourful, like an ocean at dawn—

“Cutie,” Rafayel’s voice comes out as a whisper, “Before we get distracted with eye sex—” Rafayel smiles warmly, breaking the rising tension, “Watch.” Rafayel turns away from you, facing the mess of the canvases, paint brushes, pigments, used palettes, and sketches in front of him. You don’t miss the red in his ears. Or the hammering beat beat beat of your heart.

You watch as Rafayel reaches over some gorgeous scribbles for an empty, clean jar. He grabs it and places it next to the full one, a soft clink of glass against wood. He unscrews the lid of the turpenoid container, and lifts it slowly, carefully. You’ve always admired how properly he does things, his meticulous precision, when it comes to the details. His eyes are honed in on the jar in his hand, sunset irises burning with clear focus.

“Cutie, you’re going to see that the sludge inevitably gets stirred up, and mixes into the clear turpenoid as I pour it out.”

Rafayel is scrupulous as he begins to slowly tilt the full jar over the empty one. A small stream of clear liquid trickles out and splashes softly into the bottom of the second glass. You avert your gaze to the jar in Rafayel’s hand— and sure enough, the sludge is shifting, moving—

Rafayel stops just as some particles of sludge kick up into the clear turpenoid. He sets the jar down, gazing at you now.

“And that’s about as much turpenoid I can get out of reusing. If I want to make sure my paintings aren’t soiled by tainted colours, that is.”

You stare at the small layer of clear liquid in the second jar. It looks pristine, perfectly fine.

“And eventually— or even depending on the kind of paint I use— the reused turpenoid will take on a tinge of colour. For example, cutie, when using Burnt Sienna for the underpainting, the turpenoid becomes yellowed.”

You had more questions about art and painting (of which Rafayel would gladly, thoroughly, and passionately teach you all about), but the first concern you have leaves your lips:

“But Rafayel— You could reuse even just a small amount of turpenoid, couldn’t you? Like this here that you poured out.”

“Energy is precious, cutie! Why would I do this useless, soul-sucking process when I could spend that energy sending you a text in-between paintings?”

AN: I pantsed this. It is unedited, and the first draft. It’s self indulgent too. But I hope somebody reads it and really likes it :)

Reblogs and comments highly appreciated <3 (*^▽^*)

if raf(ayel) was real id be chomping on him and licking his smooth skin, sucking at his clavicle/pecs/arms all too often. he’d be looking down at me the whole time, sunset irises shining, perfectly focused, and ask why im trying to eat him. wearing his marked up bruises and teeth imprints when he goes out like a badge of honor. he doesn’t care what these stupid humans think of him. why would he cover up something so passionate and beautiful? if anything, these two-legged mammals should use their eyes for once and soak in the image of him and his violet— feel awe over the kind of love that exists in the world. the love that exists for him. a smile he can’t shake, and why would he? he’s gloating and glowing in his joy, his deserved, long-awaited luck. he wouldn’t have called it luck before— but now that I’m in his arms, in his life, gratitude is all he knows now. once the unluckiest soul, tortured for too many drawn-out, colourless centuries, but now he’s got it all. his beloved loves him! his beloved wants to consume him. ah, a reciprocal love. one that lasts a lifetime. can anything else be asked for??? after all that loss and all that searching— he loves it when i cling to his body and try to merge my tongue and his largest organ together, my wet muscle tracing against every inch of his body out of both emotional and sensation-based need. a kind of raw hunger. we couldn’t get as close as we want (in each other’s skin) but we can certainly engage in whatever this is. he sets up a camera in studio and uses the footage for reference. his eyes rake over every frame with voracious, blazing scrutiny and wonder. he paints me feasting on him and immortalizes the act. he sees the beauty in our love, every moment spent together. his addiction and my addiction are fueled by something deep and chemical, and it couldn’t die so long as we’re alive. if I left him, if he left me, so long as our hearts beat we’d still be forever bonded and in need for one another. he takes pride in that, in knowing that I’m eternally his (for better or for worse.) he believed that his life could be more than a tale of tragedy, and now he reaps the rewards. “sir, would you like to try our foundation? it’s perfect for covering up—” a saleswoman from behind the counter interrupts his jolly stroll, and he spares the thing a glance, shooting daggers at her. she recoils instantly. he knows I’d scold him for his hostility, his unkindness towards my kind, and upon catching a glimpse of the mark I left on his wrist, he sighs. “maybe you’d enjoy life more if you stopped your quick-thinking of seeing things as mistakes and imperfections. this is a story of love, and my body is a canvas for her.” he walks on, leaving the woman blinking and stunned. he considers his enigmatic wisdom a parting gift. he’d tell me about his good deed later, already predicting the deep sigh that leaves my lips. he’d have to get that on linen canvas, too.

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