#yksu

Keeping the little mouse distracted from whatever torments she’s got planned for Raphael proves itself quite easy. The trick seems to be making sure her mouth is occupied, be it with lazy kisses or wanton moans. The only obstacles to his mission are trivial tasks such as brunch, and his own recovery time.  Not that he’s complaining, quite the opposite actually. He’s enjoying himself plenty. By the end of the third day there’s no flat surface in the house left unsullied.  Though Raphael hates the expression (there’s nothing domesticated about him) he’s starting to wonder if this is what they might be referring to as domestic bliss. At least he’s experiencing some type of bliss as he’s got the little mouse pressed against the kitchen counter, hands bundling together the fabric of her skirt.  It’s just very unfortunate that is the moment he’s too distracted to notice the rattle of keys at the front door.  “Darling, I’m home.”  The little mouse yelps, and yanks Raphael’s head away with a force that most likely has him lose a couple of strands of hair before placing herself at a distance that would give the illusion of prosperity, weren’t it for the way she’s flushed red from tip to toe.  Raphael, on the other hand, is in no hurry to give off such impressions. He slowly adjusts his shirt and removes some invisible specks of dust before facing the wide-eyed vampling standing by the door. Though his good mood is completely obliterated, he must admit this is going to be interesting. 

In his dreams, Raphael dies a thousand deaths. 

That’s not completely true, he isn’t too sure about the number and he survives every time. 

But, in his dreams, Raphael should die a thousand deaths. 

At one point he’s drowning, swimming through murky water with no way of knowing what’s up or down, swimming until his lungs burn. And just as his body is about to give up, to take that fateful breath where water will pour into lungs that ache for air, slender fingers grab him by the collar to pull him above the surface. 

But the arm pulls him too hard and now he’s falling, plummeting towards a ground that is made of dragon's teeth. He can’t do much to brace for impact, just close his eyes and prepare for the inevitable pain. 

Instead of the ground, it’s the scent that hits him first, lemon and lavender. Then it’s a sense of security as a soft body envelopes around him and takes the impact when they’re slammed against the ground with a sickening crunch below him. 

Before he can catch his breath, the body betrays him. Where he should find a soft embrace, there’s only flames that tear into his flesh, rendering muscle and sinew from bone. He would scream, but he’s got no throat left to scream with. 

They say hearing is the last sense to leave a dying body, in Raphael’s case it seems to be true. The incantation is spoken softly, in a voice Raphael’s sure he would recognise through a thousand screaming souls. 

The rain hurts at first, the drops too cold in contrast to his boiling blood, but as the initial shock is replaced with relief he can feel his muscles knit back together. But he never gets to be whole again, not before he’s once more submerged in that murky water where he has to swim for his life.