eden-_-rainns

eden_rainns on ao3<3 she/her

[edenrainns]

MASTERLIST

Rainy with a chance of angst - still a little baby list

Rafayel -LaDs

Anniversary blues (raf x non mc, hurt/no comfort -eventual comfort, angst) - part one, part two

His muse (paint me like one of your french girls smut)

[edenrainns]

Rafayel x non mc

part 1 - Anniversary blues

part 2: Blue butterfly

sumarry: non mc and raf angst, hurt/no comfort

your 1 year anniversary with rafayel, but where is he? - his pov

How could you compete with the muse of his past? He didn't even remember the day you met.

word count: 3332.......grab the t-issues

Credits to the artist

Rafayel Qi is an artist, a man with a vision.

 A person who sees blossoming fragments of colourful laughter where black and white mundane frowns reside. Someone who looks at 'nothing' and his hands itch to set it upon the canvas and tell the world a story. Since he cannot yell at the top of his lungs and announce how wrong people are in their quick passing glances over the most beautiful scenes life leaves at their feet.

 Rafayel's blueish pink swirled eyes absorb this world like it's a place he hasn't seen before, somewhere he doesn't belong, so he creates something new with the hopes of bringing back the outlines of a tale long forgotten.

 A lemurian in the buzzing city of Linkon - an ancient being in a modern land. Would this incarnation be the last, would it hurt less? The answer was a puzzling one for the mind of an artistic soul – one in possession of the ability to turn sorrow into stormy oceans, thunderous skies and burning lightning strikes in a few strokes.

 A god, worshipped and feared; a fallen protector, cursed and haunted, a lover, spellbound and oath struck; with every first breath he took on this earth, his mind was flooded with those damning definitions of a life past but never ending. Hated by the same crowd which bowed and kissed at his feet. A savior turned coward in the reflection of bloody gazes, their bruised limbs swinging helplessly in a sea marred by dozens of frowns upon tear-stricken faces. Did the pearls that fell from his eyes in the gulf of loss warrant the screams of mothers and fathers pressing close to their greatest creations for the last time? Was love worth this sacrifice, does one death measure to the slaughter of a nation?

 Then, it did. In anger, in arrogance, in a young man's ignorance - love was all that ever felt like something that was solely his. It was the first real thing, like the duty you choose for yourself and not because it was trusted upon you. Loving her was the only tether worth chaining his soul to this cursed realm – where flesh met burning flames of desire and desire turned flesh into silver ashes. For once he would be the one to receive the gift of true bliss without having to adhere to prayers for it. So, when his bride got taken away from his greedy hands before he could even feel her lips utter the vows he'd dreamed of against his, the god decided he ought to destroy everything that ceased the happiness he would've been promised.

 Now?

 800 years past, reborn with the same old ragged soul, with the same whispers of failure and loss in his ear, the same, same, same - falling, helpless, weak. The anger wore off in his first 'new' ages to be replaced by creeping remorse, followed by poorly strewn together crippling lies for the cause of self-preservation. Once the whispers heightened to screams, no solution could be found to soothe his broken heart.

 Reading in the whitening margins of his own history, looking for answers, it all felt treacherous. Not because he hadn't long before realised that the destruction he brought at his people's doorstep was a crime, he could not frame on anyone else, but because he began understanding her. 

 His bride pushed the knife through her chest on that faithful day because just like him she was young, oh so young, heart so full of honesty, heroism and all qualities youth makes seem most admirable. Everything he now saw or read in tragic stories of love and devotion made his own history clearer. A beautiful princess lured into the sea by a young god, both bored of false praise and empty pleas, dreaming for greatness, love and happy endings. Falling into each other’s arms, burning with the passion of the unknown, born to conquer and to pretend – finally finding solace in the warm embrace of someone so similar. Fates intertwining in a world shatteringly cold and demanding for joy and victory while taking theirs away. Loving her meant being understood outside of the role he had to play. He was finally free to choose his script and become what his heart excitedly demanded – a lover - husband, faithful protector of his one and only, worshipper, not worshipped. It was time to create their own tale and be the heroes they decide.

 It was all so idealistic, fantastic in the magical way it enthralled both souls and made them sing for each other, every other melody forgotten in the harmony of their duet. However, hard times have the cruel tendency to cut those moments short – his love chose to destroy herself before having to force him to choose between love and duty. She was noble, one for the myths, he would've chosen her. And so, he acted on his initial whim even after she had long melted into the vast sea. A fatal promise was made, a string connecting hearts across lifetimes even when they had just barely memorised the sound of each other's laughter and had little recognition of each other's cries.

 The only thing that quieted his crazed thoughts was picking up a brush, throwing colour whatever which way, watching it run and drip down, staining the marble floor.  Soon he realised that those angry manifestations of sorrow were breathing life into a lifeless slate – a clean space for the artist to bud and grow, to tell his story the only way he could bear. And so, he did, through shapes and colour because words hung too heavy, revealed too much that he could not bear.

 That was his present life, remembering old promises and reliving prayers which had remained unanswered for 800 years, hiding hope in his back pocket. Living, never free, but now lighter, particularly ready to give up the melody which has haunted him all this time and dive into a new abyss.

  Slow beating rhythms came in the form of a rainy cloud. A shadow slipped past his studio door, unannounced, in a slouched blur of a dark coat, pulled up hood, heavy bag, threatening to spill all its secrets, barely hanging onto one tense shoulder. He didn't pay you any mind at first, it was normal for people to walk in, look around, maybe peek around a corner and catch him painting – there was an exhibition of his art after all.

 You strolled in, marveled at the exhibited works as much as you could with your mind on the verge of exploding from overthinking. You weren't planning to stay long. No matter how breathtaking the art was, you couldn’t expect it to magically pull you away from the storm brewing inside. You were turning to leave when your huge bag bumped into a piece hung on the wall. You panicked, questioning – why you, why now. You caught the canvas before it could really escape the bolt on the wall. 

 Rafayel snapped out of his creative daze, his gaze made a sharp turn in your direction, and he nearly shouted in annoyance or anger, he wasn’t sure. People were so inconsiderate!

 His loud steps echoed in the huge space as he approached. You couldn't really look at who was coming towards you in this precarious position – on your tiptoes, both hands clutching the canvas, eyes casted towards the bolt willing it not to detach further.

 'What are you doing? ', an unfamiliar annoyed huff was heard from your left.

'Can't you see? Help me a little, or else I fear I'll drop this and be sued for millions.'

'Wouldn't that be fun, hm?’

'FUN? What are you on, please help me with this, I'm pretty sure there isn't anyone else here and I'd rather be out before the artist comes and finds me like this. – you said so quickly, you had to catch your breath.

'Oh, does he now? I'm quite content where I am.' – this was the most entertaining thing that happened today and he had been thinking of excuses to take a break anyway soo...., tormenting strangers it was.

'You came up to me and won't even help? Please, I don't even know how much this thing costs but it’s probably a fortune which I cannot spare right now. So please, would you?'

 He laughed; you were ready to drop this and bolt out of there, unfortunately you were pretty sure they had cameras. You gave up all hope of receiving any form of help from this arrogant douche of a guy, until you felt a figure towering behind you, slender hands wrapping around your own and pushing the painting back in its previous place.

You huffed, ‘My god, thank you. I owe you.’, you just wanted to get on with the pleasantries and pull your sweaty hands away from this stranger as soon as possible. Seems like he had a different plan though, he didn’t let go. ‘This “thing” huh?’

‘Wha-’

He guided your hands across the planes of the textured canvas, ‘A little insulting don’t you think, walking into my studio, defiling my work and then wishing to run away?’

‘You-, your work’ – you gulped, oh you were so fucked, so utterly fucked.

As your restless mind spiralled, his hands acquainted yours with the parts of his soul poured onto the previously black page of motionless white. ‘Do you feel the emotion in this piece? Tell me what you see.’

‘I see the beach, it’s um windy I think, sand flying around, a restless sea, looks gloomy.’

‘Does it make you feel anything?’ – why did this man, whose name you didn’t even know, (wait you did – Raphaelo or something like that, wasn’t he that one famous young artist??? Shit, did you have to stumble in his studio of all places) insist on quizzing you on his work, ‘Is an analysis of the art I almost, what was it you said, ah – defiled, necessary for you to let me go? Or do you just lecture everyone who comes in?’

‘You have the pleasure of being the first and no it wouldn’t have been, but you said you owe me, so you brought this interrogation upon yourself.’

‘I meant treating you to a coffee or something, like a normal person.’

‘You insult me cutie, but I appreciate the thought of wanting to take out on a date.’ – his hands travelled lower, was this assault, should you call someone?

You scoffed, ‘The painting encompasses loneliness and longing. And don’t call me that I don’t even know you.’ – time to make a run for it –

His gentle grip on your shoulders allowed him the leverage to turn you around. Face to face now, Rafayel couldn’t look away, the witty remark dying on his clever tongue, mouth hanging half open. Your big eyes scrunched in annoyance even as a subtle blush climbed up your cheeks, you couldn’t look away either, feet firmly stuck on the ground – head already up in the clouds.

You told him your name, breathless, what were you doing, you never approached people first, let alone introduce yourself with such enthusiasm.

‘Rafayel’ – he whispered, out of breath. ‘Correct, your answer I mean.’ – he sheepishly brushed the purple waves away from his usually pale face which had now turned into a blushing mess. This was it, you’ve never seen someone so ethereal, so otherworldly beautiful. Carefully he reached for your worry filled bag which had slipped down your arm and cradled it in his own. ‘Now I owe you. Coffee, you said?’.

 Mo Art studio closed early that day. Two starry eyed idiots ventured into the streets of Linkon, hand in hand, for warmth they said, huddled under one umbrella, circumstances they said.

 The single change in his routine that you caused turned into many shared coffees, even more shared glances and soon enough hearts beating to the same beat, foreheads touching, chests heaving, lips sealed together. His blue butterfly – coming into his life and sweeping his troubles away with one flutter of her wings. Making him forget the bloodied thoughts haunted by her and replacing them with the lovesick smile only he managed to bring out (not that you’d ever admit it, he’s too cocky anyway).

 He remembered. Rafayel remembers you, he knows you, he loves you.

Then why did he allow himself to forget, to fall into the same pit of darkness you had unknowingly dragged him out of this past year? To fall into the same old role, out of habit, out of selfish greed. He needed to fix his story, to change the ending, to prove to himself that this was the answer he had been looking for all these lives, that his theories were right. Night after night he had longed of finding her again, falling in love again, choosing her above everyone and everything again and finally making it right. They would live out their love, and the cruel cycle of fate would be broken, he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

 Rafayel, your Rafayel, couldn’t help himself when he saw her, all his prayers had been answered. There she was in the flesh – his muse fighting wanderers in the centre of town the same way she used to fight her enemies back then – ruthless and precise, for the good of others. He couldn’t pass up this glorious opportunity, served on a silver platter right in front of him. Curiosity made him find her workplace, pull some strings and position her as his personal bodyguard. You two had been dating for almost a year then, his actions weren’t hiding promiscuous intent, he just had to know for himself, to see his bride up close. It was a message in a bottle, long thrown into the sea, finding its intended receiver just now.

 He didn’t mean to get close; he didn’t realise that in the process of returning to her, he distanced himself from you. He hung out with her more often, made excuses to cancel dates, she became the plus one at his exhibitions – crumbling all new progress in the span of a month. Picking up lost parts of his heart when it had already healed.

 They were at the movies, easy enough, casual enough. He didn’t tell her it was a date.  He went into the movie theatre full of expectations and wanted to sink into the ridiculously bright read chair by the time they watched half of the film. It felt wrong, oh so wrong, his guts twisted in frustration. She didn’t remember him no matter how much he acted as his past self in the previous month. Her laugh wasn’t the same, her eyes didn’t look at him with the same flicker of excitement, she had changed and perhaps he had too. He realised how foolish it was to expect her to be the same girl he met 800 years ago, that girl was dead and the God of tides had died along with her. Now it was just Rafayel and MC – two strangers sitting in a crowded cinema, no vows, no strings. The same but entirely different.

 That’s why it hurt so badly when he recognised the disappointment in your voice. It was even worse because he knew it was directed at him and caused by his selfish pursuit of freedom. Your words were clipped, your anger rising, demanding answers, your walls crumbling when they were given to you, voice weakening, line hissing as it fell empty.

 Rafayel wanted to jump off the highest cliff possible. He was the dumbest man alive. Why did he think inviting miss bodyguard to a date was fine? He was in a relationship, he was happy, he felt loved, then why was this persistence at bringing the past back nagging at him. He wasn’t thinking straight. He still went. He shouldn’t have. Not when his love was waiting for him.

 He woke up from the trance, it burned. He quickly excused himself from the date claiming that it was you and it was urgent. He expected to feel MC pulling him back, yelling, questioning, he gave her one last chance to claim his love back. She didn’t – she was confused at his sudden departure but the moment your name was mentioned she understood, offered him a smile and said that it was all okay. He knew then that she was renewed, maybe a friend but no longer a lover. She had no desire to be his, not in body, not in soul.  And he was finally able to admit to himself that he felt nothing too, except a dull ache at the loss of a pretty memory.

  You had sounded upset; you never hung up on him. He knew that you suspected something was going on between him and his bodyguard especially since he had opened up about their shared past before he found her again, but you didn’t question, probably not wishing to seem crazy or overbearing. His sweet butterfly, you could never be anything short of perfect in his eyes and now he felt more than free to show it to you.

 Rafayel jumped in his car, determined to shower you in apologies and affection. Finally ready to reveal all his sorrow, finishing his history at last.

 He pulled up to his  your house(since he planned on never letting you go, all he had was yours by default in his mind). He strolled in, his hands full of your favourite things – a bouquet of irises, a steaming cup of coffee and a box of those delicious chocolate cupcakes from that cafe across the street from the studio.

‘Cutie, I’m home.’ – no answer, okay he deserved it, he’ll have to find you himself.

 You weren’t at the house. YOU WEREN’T HOME.

 Gone were your shoes in the entrance, half your clothes that stayed back at his place, the fuzzy slippers on your side of the bed, your robe in the bathroom, the heavy bag filled with your work – nowhere to be found. NO, NO, NO, THIS WASN’T HAPPENING.

He couldn’t breathe; he was going to die. His heart had run away.

 An idea struck him, it was windy when you called, the crashing waves could be heard in the background – yes, oh thank the gods, you were at the beach. He would just have to look over, and you would be there.

  Rafayel doesn’t run but damn him if he wasn’t going to run to you.

  Empty. No beloved in sight.

 A fallen over table, flowers strewn around,  pieces of torn up white fabric littering the sand along with wait –  what was that? He kneeled picking up a white bud buried in the sand. It was a letter addressed to him. Your red kisses stained the white background; your name swirled alongside his –  it made Rafayel’s heart clench horribly. It was your anniversary, and he had spent it with another woman, he had forgotten the day his life changed.

 The story across consecutively found letters followed two young, devoted lovers, lost in a world which seemed to swallow them whole, finding solace in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Burning with passion but burning together; wailing in agony but reaching for one another, understanding their minds only when they intertwined their hearts.

 Hot tears of shame rushed down the kneeling man’s ghostly face; his hand blindly reached for his phone.

Ring ring ring

 He received no answer, your honeyed voice never reached his ears.

He texted you.

8:13

My love, call me please.

I’m so so sorry cutie, please answer.

Let me apologise, let me make it better, I’m begging you.

He waited, blurry eyes desperately searching for a message that wasn’t there.

 Rafayel had pushed you away, he had caused this mess. The mistake was realised a month too late; the message came an hour too late. You were gone but you had never taken up more space in his heart than you did today.

Whew - well this was heavy! Hope you listened to me at the beginning and got those tissues. Feel free to comment what you like and what i should work on. thank youu for reading and ....... expect more *evil laugh* :)

a little smut for you to feel better: his muse

taglist:

@ixciv, @chocochip-gaia, @cordidy, @sylusbigapples,@lyrisnightblood, @sand342 @fantastucbaby @sylusgirlie7 @nm4565natty @animelover18 @rchltruly @lowkeydepressedandscared @nommingonfood @hajimeowmeow @flameo-hotman12 @l0ren12 @hauntedvault @sillyfreakfanparty @brailsthesmolgurl @sleepykittyenergy @katana-winz @kaz4tora @catchthecase @anayabk @animegamerfox @yumesagashite @emowitchwithatwist

[edenrainns]

His muse

Pairing: Rafayel x you(reader)

(f/m)

Summary: Alternative and more accurate title: paint me like one of your French girls...ifykyk.

Smutty smut, a little contribution for kinktober so MINORS DNI

'Mo Art', you never thought just seeing the name of a studio across the street could make you feel so excited. It wasn't just because you had a certain purple-haired artist in there waiting for you, of course not. You had recently agreed to something you'd never expected to do - let Rafayel paint you, and no not like 'one of his french girls' but it was still very unnerving. He coaxed you into agreeing to being his muse for the day, what could go wrong? 'Everything.' - your brain screamed but you decided to ignore it for once.

You tried not to seem as nervous as you felt, taking a big breath before walking inside. The sight that welcomed you, certainly wasn't helping your ragging heart, which was apparently trying to break your ribs and jump into Rafayel's awaiting hands. The man in question was sitting on his tall chair, gazing into the canvas as if it had personally wronged him, brows knit in that heart-melting pout of his, white flowy shirt halfway unbuttoned, threatening to show off the whole expanse of his sculpted chest.

"Hey Raf-"

CRASH

A blood-chilling scream, paint splattered on the walls, brushes claterring to the floor, Rafayel twisted like an overcooked noodle on the floor. The lemurian was in shambles, one hand dramatically fanning his face and the other beckoning you closer.

You immediately rush to his side and well - laugh. His eyes widen: "My own cutie laughing at my despair, what did I do to deserve this. " "My love-" wheez "I cant-" wheez "how did you just fall like that?" His cheeks burned crimson as he covered his face, and you couldn't help but kneel beside him. "Oh is my fishie hurt, tell me where it hurts" He didn't lose any time, giving you his hand, "Here." "Seriously? Are you a God or something?" Something flashed briefly across his pinkish-blue eyes. Recognition, quickly ignited.

You kissed his hand like a supplicant, but you didn't stop there. Your lips travelled up his arm, his breath hitched and he was sweating profusely by the time you reached his face and peppered it with kisses.

"Cutie-"- his voice was so whiny, you couldn't help but to smother him with affection, "Yes? " "Youre not helping" "I'm not? Would you like me to stop then? " "No, no-"- you were already rising to your feet, extending a hand to help him up. "Mister Qi, I thought I was here to help with your work, c'mon get up"

A miscalculated move on your end, giving the siren a way to pull you in. And now you're falling down on top of him, both hands locked being your back by one of his. "Inspire me angel" "Hm? " "Hm? "- he mocked, "do you not know how? "

You didn't even have the time to respond as he moved beneath you his hips rubbing deliciously against yours. You gasped, wanting to hold onto his shoulders for stability but being unable to, since your arms were held firmly behind your back. He looked up at you, hazy eyes and puffy lips, and you could do nothing but bare your neck. You were giving yourself to him and he pounced without a second thought. Tongue sliding against your neck in such ways, you wondered if it would feel just as good somewhere softer, teeth sinking down, making you wish they went lower and lower…

You felt dizzy as his deft fingers moved the straps of your dress down your shoulders, revealing your bare chest. "Nothing in my way mm. Did you wish for me to paint these? " - his hands cupped your breasts, squeezing. "I- ah"- he twisted one pert nipple, his mouth latching onto the other.

"Cutie you're being so quiet, what happened?"- he had the audacity to say this as his saliva was dripping down the valley of your breasts, sticking to your ruined dress. "I need you"- pleading way too soon, grinding your clothed cunt against his already prominent bulge, his flowy pants doing nothing to hide the sight or feel of him growing beneath you. "You're rushing, an artist needs to view all angles before making his masterpiece. "

You weren't having it, you have been pent up since the moment you walked in here and he's teasing you! "Ive come prepared though, don't you wanna see? " - you were ready to play dirty. Curiosity took over him and he followed your gaze to his lap where your dress had ridden up, revealing your glistening heat against the wet stain on his pants.

He gulped audibly. "I ... you.. didn't bother with covering yourself today, hm? Wanted to drive me crazy, is that it?" Suddenly he picked you up, dress bunched at your waist, legs wrapped around his torso. Rafayel placed you on the loveseat, conveniently just opposite the easel, and without any care in the world started positioning you to be drawn.

You froze, "Love what are you-": as he was carefully spreading you out - one arm draped over the top of the seat, legs spread in a sinful display, arousal dripping down your thighs.

"Sit still" - your mind was a whirwind of racing thoughts most of which revolved around how you would kill to have him on you right now. But he was busy running around getting his canvas into place and collecting his paint from the floor.

"Baby is now really the time to clean up? Come here. " - you were begging, one hand circling your sensitive bud out of sheer desperation. He was determined to not give into your calls, it seemed. By the time he finished setting up, you were panting, your fingers pumping in and out of your sloppy drenched cunt. He's knees buckled as he turned and saw the sight in front of him - so beautiful, so his. He almost feel to the ground again, almost.

"Keep going just like that my needy girl, let me see how good you can please yourself. " "Are you just going to stand there and watch? " - you huffed. He chuckled, at least this was entertaining for one of you- "When I've found my inspiration? No, I think you deserve this, showing up all ready to be ravished. You'll wait cutie, you wanted to help me work, no? ". He was the devil, you were going to choke this arrogant beautiful man.

"Now be good and slow down, there you go ", you didn't want to listen to him but he's voice felt hypnotic, the praise going straight to your core, you were intrigued to see what he wanted.

"I'll sketch you like that, but I'll need you to hold on and not come, can you do that pretty? " "Ngh….yeah but whyy"- dragging your fingers slowly past those tightening walls was maddening. "Dont sound so defeated cutie, I'll reward you for each stroke of my brush, you'll get a lick on that sweet pussy, how does that sound? " "You hate cats, but you keep acting like one" - you tried to chuckle but it came out wrong, as a broken breathy moan instead.

He laughed, despite his seemingly cool demeanor, the artist was shaking in his seat, barely restraining his desire for you, especially when you were presenting yourself to him so willingly. You stroked your folds, fingers slow and shallow in their attempts to enter, since every time they did, you were met with a firm: 'tsk', for moving too much. "Raf, beloved please I can't take this anymore, I feel so sensitive. " "I'm almost done cutie" - for once he was actually concentrated on his work and it had to be today, you were so frustrated, your short fingers felt useless, your pleasing uneventful.

A single tear ran down your flushed cheek when he looked up, he couldn't hold back anymore, he'll finish it later, now his muse needed assistance.

"No one can make my beloved cry, not even me" - you melted against the cushions as he licked down the path your tear had taken, landing on your soft lips. The kiss was that of a man starved, as if he wanted to fuse with your flesh and warm you from the inside, not that you werent already burning. And when you looked up at him all teary eyes and bitten lips - he sinked to his knees, ready to service his goddess.

You were already on the brink of insanity but when he put his hot mouth on you, your eyes shut, pulling him closer and closer by the purple locks, a woman in a trance. He dove in with all his hunger, tongue swirling his name into your core, two fingers slipping inside without resistance. It was pure ecstasy. "Ghhn ngh m coming raf please..."

"Let go my muse, let me taste you"

You broke with a loud scream of his name, echoing through the studio, squirting all over his face and yet he keept lapping you up through it and after. Once you settled, limbs tired, your breathing heavy; you reached to ruffle his hair as his head rested on the inside of your thigh, kitten licks still swirling up your residual release. You pulled him to look at you: "Oh God, youre face is so wet. " "Mhm, you did so very good, the perfect artist. " "Legs up, your turn to be the canvas. Let me show you how a muse should be worshiped. "

aka he painted your insides white WHAT who said that???

anyways, hope y'all enjoyed

[edenrainns]

Rafayel x non mc

part 1: Anniversary blues

part 2: Blue butterfly

sumarry: non mc and raf angst, hurt/no comfort

your 1 year anniversary with rafayel, but where is he? Could he be in the arms of another?

word count: 925

Credits to the artist

You were buzzing in anticipation, waiting for him. Smoothing the non-existent wrinkles on your dress for the umpteenth time –  you’d chosen the one he picked out some time ago. Hand in hand skipping through stores on a cobbled street, blue and purple mixing on an iridescent canvas flowing around you like the waves crashing on the shore, glimmering as the sun kissed its surface. Tucking your hair behind your ear and untucking it again, you reached for your phone.

6:37

Are you on your way home?

 Nothing.

 ‘He’s on his way’ , you assure yourself as the chatter of people fades away, the beach empties, he’ll come just in time, it’ll be perfect – just the two of you. You’d planned this and when something is so well organised it’s supposed to last, right?  

 The table was set, white tablecloth swaying with the gentle breeze, basket with food you’d prepared sitting half open, wildflowers scattered across letters – each one written with tears threatening to ruin the ink, sealed with a kiss and wrapped in your scent. They documented your year together, from the initial shyness as you walked into his gallery, tired and confused, looking for something to distract you from the countless sleepless nights your work had caused, to kissing under the moonlight, clothes half-soaked in the salty water, feet covered with the golden sand. You wanted to go unnoticed, you hid – he found. He swiftly swooped in your quiet world with his nose upturned at your ‘critique’, his confident smirk and his hand, ready to take yours and prove you wrong.  

 Rafayel refused to leave in the months after your first meeting (not that you’d let him), he plagued your thoughts and managed to fish out every insecurity you had about being with someone like him – so refined, well-known, perfect where you were not. Or so you thought.

 7:12

Silence.

 The food was getting cold, you were actively fighting against the wind, which had replaced the breeze ruffling your hair with the scene of you chasing after falling letters, scattered shells and wilting flowers. It wasn’t anticipation anymore; your stomach twisted with the possibility of being forgotten. Surely, he wouldn’t, everyone forgot you, but not Rafayel, never him. You couldn’t take playing the guessing game anymore, you dialled his number.

Ring ring ring

No answer.

His voice came through on the third call. Third.

Raf, where are you?

At the movies.

At the movies? What, ……..why?

With Miss Bodyguard, I promised to watch that new movie with her, remember?

 Remember. You did, you remembered, but he didn’t. Your feet sunk into the sand, you’d be glad if it could swallow you whole.

 He called your name. You were shivering, you didn’t remember it being so cold just a minute ago.

Have fun.

Cutie, are you upset? Did I –

 You hung up. You felt sick, your head was spinning, and you wanted to throw your guts up, to hell if you ruin the surprise, there wasn’t someone to appreciate it anyway.

  You felt ridiculous. Of course he was with HER. The artist and the muse, the sea god and his beloved bride. You knew about his  their past, but you still foolishly hoped his future was yours.

 He didn’t say he’d choose her; he didn’t leave you, but he pulled away, painted portraits of another while you reached for his empty side of the bed. Dates became fewer and far between with the excuse of exhibitions, work, no time – but she was allowed to invade his space, always lingering, always there, while he worked, while he presented, while he was away. Her work as his bodyguard, a poorly constructed attempt to keep her close. You scoffed through the tightness in your throat.

 Your lover didn’t shatter your dreams, but you so hoped he would – tell you, you don’t compare to her confidence, vision or mind, that her voice sounded sweeter as she called for him, laced with memory, with years of longing. You wish he didn’t let you believe that you were worthy of his love.

 All of these thoughts raced through your head as you were methodically placing everything back in the baskets you had brought it over with. All your senses were screaming to run, to hide your sorrow, as hot tears streamed down your face. The makeup you spent hours on was ruined, the wind made a nest of your hair, your nails were digging bloody crescents into the soft skin of your palms.

 The beach used to calm your nerves, now it only reminded you of him and still you wished to drown. Maybe you’d wake up from this nightmare, or you’d die cradled in what was most dear to him.

 Of course this couldn’t make you not love him, couldn’t pull your bewitched heart out of his cruel grasp.

 Table falling over, letters buried under the sand like useless cigarette buds and white cloth flying towards the trashing sea. Left it all behind and you hoped and prayed to whatever god would listen, to help you do the same with him.

 Being alone was never bothersome until he came into the picture and shattered the frame, painted over the organised print in bold colour - messy, disturbing, exciting. Rafayel ruined your isolation, replacing it with his infuriatingly sweet presence, his essence clinging to your  very being, his voice drowning out your thoughts. Not now. Now you would be forced to listen as you subject yourself to the harshest of judgments and you would be left to unravel, this time – alone.

This is my first post on here so i would be glad to hear your opinion on it. Feel free to comment what you like and what i should work on. thank youu for reading! :)