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raphael x reader: now i understand

[song sprint part two, this time to “starry, starry night.” tried to keep this as true to raphael’s onscreen personality as possible, with a little artistic leeway to incorporate a tiny bit of what i picked up from ‘paradise lost.’]

The breeze coming through the window carried with it the scent of drying grass, the sound of crickets, the crisp taste of a warm evening.

The sky danced in blazing golds and sparkling greens, ferocious reds and glorious blues.

The fireworks were near enough that the refractions played on the glass within the ancient window panes, but also distant enough that the sound was nothing more than a muffled roar, echoing from leagues away.

There was a magic to the scene, fireflies dancing in the garden, the fairy lights strung about your room and the patio adding a soft glow that nearly reminded her of Heaven.

She counted the stars glistening above her, shining from a shimmering sky. Part of her yearned to return to the heavens, spread her wings and twirl among them, fall seemingly endless into the light.

The continued ballad of your blade etching patterns into Ponderosa provided enough of a tether to keep her rooted to the present, gaze drifting lazily back to where you were hunched over the large piece of wood.

You hummed quietly to yourself as you worked, fingers tracing gently over each new lines you would carve, reshaping this single branch into a piece of art.

She was mesmerized, watching the way your eyes shined even as you struggled against the grain, lost in the kaleidoscopic dance of your irises.

For a moment, she dreamt of falling headlong into them as well, finding the same sparkling splendour of any star cluster.

Her Father's craftsmanship-

Shaping patterns into every quark, spinning His design into some spectacular sequence she could study for aeons.

That creativity, that passion, that dedication and imagination-

He had chosen Humanity to bestow these gifts to, giving them just enough of a spark to wonder, to dream, and Lucifer bolstering their curiosity and resolve enough to pursue it.

It was a marvel to behold, and there was an intimacy to watching your hands shape the universe to your will, as small a corner as it was.

You worked with such dedication, such careful focus-

She admired your deftness, awed slightly by the delicate designs appearing from the application of such a deadly instrument.

Who knew that your blade- one she had often seen dripping scarlet and gold with both blood and ichor- could also be used for such beauty?

The knife- Humanity's first true tool- capable of bringing both life and death when placed in the right hands.

Raphael turned her attention once more to the sky, losing herself to the memories of a simpler time, soothed by the shimmering starlight and the soft sonata of roses slowly being shaped from pine.

Raphael x Reader: Imagination

There had been a time, oh-so-long-ago, when you had believed Lucifer to be the greatest orator of the Archangels.

Surely the First Rebel, the one who had convinced 1/3 of the Host to fall with him- Surely he was the most skilled at speaking.

Upon discovering that Lucifer's eloquence and allure had dimmed after millennia of torture however, you began to consider others.

Perhaps the honour would fall to Gabriel, Patron of Communications, the angel to whom your station manager always prayed before going on air during football games- Perhaps he was the most articulate.

Upon introduction to the Trickster, however, witnessing him cast mini galaxies across his fingertips, casting acquaintances into dimensions of his own devising- You had accepted that the Messenger preferred to relay his meaning through actions over words.

You next considered Michael, the Warrior, the Viceroy. To lead armies in his Father's absence, to have the whole of Abrahamic Creation at his command, surely he must have some skill with a silvered tongue.

It seemed all of your assumptions fell short however, Michael speaking only when absolutely necessary, each syllable cast in careful consideration, minced to perfect necessity.

Of most surprise, it was Raphael, the Healer, who graced you with her words, weaving whimsy whenever she gained a moment away from her eldest brother's side.

She was a wonderful speaker, sharing with you stories of primordial creation and the first breaths of starlight, creating clear images of the foundations of the universe. She shared with you stories of Heaven, of her brothers, of the years before her Father had trapped His Sister, of the epochs before Lucifer's supposed corruption, before the Great War.

Each tale teased further intrigue, each retelling shaping into a more corporeal form. The only limit to your fantasies was your own imagination, painting caryatid columns in nebula, streams trickling in starlight, every hall gilded with greenery and precious gemstones.

You were overwhelmed with longing, an aftereffect of your orator's own nostalgia.

The Golden Age she shared with you, the stories she sometimes shaped into reality against the homely backdrop of your living room-

It was a realm neither of you could visit.

For that era was gone, a life she could not return to, a world you would never know.

But with her guidance, with her support, you would find your own way to preserve it, to share the former opulence and whimsy of the celestial sphere.