I DREAMED THAT YOU & I MET AGAIN IN THAT PURE WHITE WORLD WE CREATED.
kei ; she/her ; not a minor !
masterlist : rules + character list : ao3
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networks — lnd @oracleofstars ☆
welcome to my writing blog! i go by kei or sam. feel free to drop by and say hi! this started off as a very vyn-centric blog, but i jump around fandoms now, like with genshin and love and deepspace !!! i have a soft spot for vyn (real shocker), kaeya, alhaitham, wriothesley, and rafayel <3 i hope you all enjoy and find some comfort in the things i cook up here !
— desktop theme by amboise on tumblr
— image in this post is from vyn's depth of desire card
( & an eternity of the divine. ) ; ceremonial body paint and scars fulfill the same purpose—stories imprinted upon the skin. or: the god of the sea teaches you what the ceremonial body paint on your body means & in the far off, harsher future, he lets you worship him—though his scars replace the body paint he once bore.
cw: implied fem!reader (the sea god's beloved bride) ; fluff ; suggestive themes ; mentions of fertility ; mentions and descriptions of scars (abysswalker) ; abysswalker and god of the sea rafayel ; body worship.
“you love to learn, don’t you, my beloved?”
“if i am to be painted on like a temple’s mural, i simply would like to know the meaning of said designs, rafayel.”
the depths of lemuria are cold tonight, the rays of the sun below the waves filtering in through the arching windows of your bedroom do nothing to heat up the waters around you. and yet—you feel so, so warm, flustered by the young god’s proximity, the heat of his hands and brushes of breath against your skin feeling like the flames he conjures… but if it’s any consolation, rafayel too, seems just as flustered. the tips of his ears and his cheeks are flushed a brilliant crimson, more red than any flamulla he’s ever shown you. it seems no amount of stolen moments sleeping under the fake sun, drawn close to his side with your head on his shoulder, could ever prepare the two of you for this intimacy.
the intimacy in question, being a miniature rehearsal of what awaits you in a few moons time—the sea god’s ceremony, the image of your lovely rafayel wreathed in gold and flame and divinity. and you, at his side, at the temple’s altar—as a bride, where once you were nothing but a sacrificial lamb. the thought makes you squirm under his touch.
“which one would you like to learn about, my heart?” rafayel murmurs, that final bit much quieter than the rest, as his fingers deftly dip the brush into the paint. (it seems he’s doing anything at all to avoid looking into your eyes, for now.) a shiny blue now coats the bristles of his brush as it returns to your skin. it is careful, just the right amount of pressure, as it glides across your shoulder in a smooth arc. and then, little dollops of paint, in a smaller, gill-like design. it’s beautiful, only possible with a steady hand—you know that all too well, given the arcs you’ve painted on rafayel are not quite perfect, yet.
your hand drifts downward, fingers drumming against the dark-blue designs now adorning your waist, just above your hip bones. “these.” you say, hushed, like a secret. “i want to know what these ones are about.” rafayel follows to his knees, hands skimming up and down your sides as he hums, now eye-level with your exposed stomach. with bated breath, you drum your fingers over the back of his hands as they finally rest on your hips.
( memories of many a night tangled in his bed sheets come to the forefront, a sacred, makeshift altar. flesh transmuted into the divine, moans and prayers swallowed into the hungry maw of a god, salvation in the haze of pleasure. religion in reverse—it is the devotee that is worshipped. )
you’d already asked him about the crimson and sapphire insignias he’d painted onto your back and shoulder blades—and as you painted matching ones upon his skin, asked him about those as well. something about strength and wisdom, he’d explained, and how the gods would help ease the burden from your shoulders. the golden dusting across his collarbones sparkle as you look down upon his kneeling figure. like glittering moonlight on the surface world, they catch the light of lemuria’s fake sun—like thousands of little twinkling stars upon the porcelain perfection of his being.
“ah, these ones…” rafayel kisses the now-dry paint, curved lines and diamonds of blue that he’d so carefully painted minutes ago. those soft lips of his trail a burning path down the painted lines, skimming dangerously close to the opulent fabric around your waist. the way his gaze flits upwards to meet yours is dangerous, and gods, he tugs at the fabric with his teeth— “these …” he repeats, almost in a trance, “...are a blessing of fertility.”
“your highness—”
a choked protest, it dies the moment it rolls off his tongue and your lips connect to the marred skin of his chest. if rafayel was any louder, you’re certain amund (who has had nary a night of restful slumber since you’d taken up residence in rafayel’s tent, and proceeded to make up for aeons of lost time) would throw a grumbling fit in the morning. rafayel lies beneath you, his gaze burning into your very soul as you pepper loving pecks to the scars scattered on his skin. he can’t hide from you now–not with his mask thrown aside into some corner of the tent and his overly-complicated garb half-done–and when your eyes flicker upwards you can see how red he’s gotten. his cheeks are flushed, the tips of his ears too, and there’s a haze in his eyes that you recognise well.
( gods are meant to be perfect in every way, sculpted without imperfection by the hands of some higher power. and yet, this god, so far removed from what he is meant to be, is where you find the grace of divinity. isn’t it only fair to thank your god with the worship he so deserves ?)
“how did you get this one, ra’el?” you murmur, warm breath fanning against his skin in a way that makes him shudder. your fingers trace a large scar that stretches from his collarbone to right above where his heart would be. the scar tissue is smooth under your fingertips, a dark silvery-pink line borne from who-knows-what. you hum, offer him a gentle smile as you draw a heart over the end of the scar, right over where his heart should be. “and you better not say it’s from another sandworm—i’ve yet to encounter one in the bestiary amund gave me.”
“not a worm,” rafayel manages, once he’s found his voice again. a calloused hand coming up to cup your cheek, and you lean into it like a too-eager cat. the act is gentle, delicate, as though he wasn’t all rough and rugged edges. ( in another life, perhaps, he was more well-versed in the sweeter, gentler things in life. ) “it was from a noble who thought he could best me.” his hand drops to grip your chin, tilting your head up. the look in his eyes holds a darkness you can’t quite place—a beast lingering just out of sight.. as he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, he murmurs, hushed like a not-quite secret; “he didn’t, of course.”
you hum at that, breath hitching as another kiss falls on the other corner of your lips.. when he pulls his hand away from your chin, you lower your head to the jagged skin of his chest once more; “of course.” you echo, another kiss pressed to those battle scars, and it earns a blissful hiss from him. each press of your lips against him is reverent, as though each one sings praises of his triumph. “only i can do so, yes?”
silence captures the tent, and you think you see his eyes widen just the slightest in shock. as quickly as it came though, it is replaced by a warm amusement, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "how bold," he says, the little huff laced with a lilt of challenge. the rumbling in his chest is soothing, and you place your hand above his heart to savour that feeling-he is alive and happy and present, with you. "but you would be correct, your highness..." rafayel's hand moves to hold your wrist, a firm touch. he lifts it, pressing a kiss to a palm-and it feels almost like the kiss of a dagger against skin, a scythe to a soul. "only you can tame a beast like me.”
( lone stray dog, looking for your home amongst these endless sands, have you found your master once more? shall you bite the hand that loves you, as your fellow brethren pray for, or lay your life down for a semblance of love once more ? )
and then, a tug. you’re brought flush against him, his burning skin against your own, like hot coals compared to the cold desert air. “enough about these scars.” rafayel practically purrs, sounding only pleased by how he has you in his arms now. his voice drops to a whisper, and you can tell something in the air has changed, any semblance of power you thought you had ripped away;
“there are better ways to worship your god, my heart.”
a/n: changing up the format a bit! no small text bc editing it on tumblr is! a pain! but!!!! i'm honestly so proud of this one: the idea of rafayel's live paralleling religion is so dear to me! thank you to my lovely twt moots who gave me this idea !!! (this was supposed to be an entry for the wander in wonder event BUT i got carried away and it became too suggestive so uh. none of that.)
( your guiding hand pulls me under. ) ; there is no such thing as less, when it comes to rafayel: always more. at least when it comes to you, of course.
CW: fluff ; slightly suggestive content ; mentions of abysswalker!rafayel my beloved ; just lots of kissing bc rafayel is big and greedy!!!
no matter what it is, rafayel always wants more. more conch shells to crush to attain a singular gram of lustrous pink-white paint. more plates of seafood platters when you both go out to your favourite beachside restaurant. more time with you when you’re away from your rightful place by his side, wrapped up in nothing but the scent of seasalt and paint and each other’s arms.
“what happened to just one more…?” you pant, nails digging slightly into the bare skin of rafayel’s shoulders—they’ll be his battle scars for the night, red crescent moons borne of greed. one kiss had turned to two, and two to three, and—well, now the two of you are breathless, bodies flushed warm and lips kiss-bitten on his couch. your eyes zero in on his, and you drink in the sight of his darkened eyes—the blue depths you want to be baptised in, the red desire that will burn your very soul. everything fades away; the sound of the waves breaking upon the shore, the seagulls cawing, the moonlight filtering in through his grand, arching windows. there is only him.
( lord, there is no saving you now—only in him will you find salvation ever again. )
“you know it’s never just one.” rafayel chuckles, the soft breath of it fanning across your skin as he presses his forehead against yours. he looks beautiful, ruined like this—lips a darker red from how you bit at them, his cheeks and the tips of his ears painted the prettiest shade of red, his bathrobe almost slipping off his shoulders. rafayel’s hand falls from where it was at the back of your head, down to cup your cheek. his thumb gently brushes against your lower lip, as he murmurs, with a growing smile, “i need more, cutie. always more—”
he doesn’t even let that final word hang in the air before he presses his lips to yours once more, melding together in a sweet desperation.
more, more, more. more of your touch, more of your lips on his, more of your very presence. how could he ever want any less than all of you after going an eternity without? he won’t deny it—he’s a selfish, greedy man, and the only thing he ever wants to hoard is you. rafayel’s kisses, often, are sweet and chaste—like the softest flutter of a butterfly’s wings that have you chasing after more. and yet, there are times like this, where he seems intent on consuming you, a hunger unrivalled as his lips move skillfully against yours. it’s as though if he had anything less than all of you it would be his undoing.
( the thing about stray dogs, you suppose, is that they will hoard the food and affection they are given. after all, who knows how long until it is ripped away from their maws again? he can’t survive another hundred years without you, with nothing but memories of those no-longer-lonely nights in lemuria, and desperate visions of what could have been. it would be too cruel an existence for a starving, stray dog. )
when you pull away (and even then, he chases after your lips), you feel absolutely winded. your hands clutch uselessly at the dark satin of his bathrobe to ground yourself. even as you try to steady your breathing, your senses are assailed by his very being—every gulp of air is laced with the scent of seasalt, citrus, and sandalwood. he occupies your every thought, now. (maybe it has always been that way, since a time long lost.)
“i thought you said… you were hungry…” you manage between shaky breaths. right, right; you two wanted to get dinner and then spend the rest of the night lounging around, but well, that was an hour ago. the sun was setting when rafayel first pulled you onto his lap and pressed the smallest of kisses to every inch of skin he could reach… but it’s dark now, and those kisses have long since devolved to blooming hickeys when he shifts his focus away from your lips…
“nuh-uh. not anymore.” he quickly quips back and, almost like he was afraid you’d try to slip away from his hold, pulls you closer with the arm he has around your waist. if you were close before, then you melted into one entity now, with his chest flush against yours. you think your racing heartbeats are beating in sync, beneath the flimsy material of your nightgown and his bathrobe.
a desperate whine leaves him as he tries to chase after your lips, only managing to press a peck to the corner of them. (that’s not enough, never enough—) “don’t wanna eat. just want you, please–” and again, he somehow manages to pull you closer, close enough to get what he wants once more. and of course, you happily relent, melting against him as he kisses you again, and again, and again.
...
( and somewhere, in the far off future, amongst the golden sands, nothing has changed. ra’el is foolish to think he ever would. no, he is still weak to those lips that first kissed his aeons ago. what was first an act borne of your desperation and will to live against the drowning waters turned into the fuel to his hunger and a basic, primal need.
“i’m not leaving you yet, your highness.” he murmurs, and it feels something like a promise as he presses a gentler peck to your cheek. it does take all his restraint to give you some respite from his barrage of kisses, however, as he watches you heave for breath. his eyes can’t help but dart all over, as he feels you clutch at the leather of his garb, but they always return to your kiss-bitten lips and hazy eyes.
he smiles, a cheeky thing, a practised swipe of his thumb against your bottom lip. “surely your highness would not call me with the fishtail beacon just for a bedtime story, hm?”
and the hungry, stray dog, found once more by its rightful owner, begins to hoard its meal. )
a/n: inspired by horny posting with my pookie wookies on lndtwt 🫶💕 ty lisa my beloved for this mental image that you've conjured. also, i guess this is the fic to celebrate getting lvl 100 affection with rafayel!
creative notes: rafayel is very much so a dog-like character to me and less cat-like; especially abysswalker! i heard somewhere that stray animals will hoard food and ask for food more (and if you feed a stray animal on the road it will follow you) and rafayel himself does compare himself to a stray animal/animal in need of help in nightly stroll, i think? so uh. that's why i have a lot of dog-like comparisons for him 🫡💕
the world may scream and cheer for "crow", the silver-tongued and charismatic lead rapper of deepsp☆ce, but it is only in your arms, his place of rest, that sylus can just be… sylus.
CW: k-pop idol/group au! fluff, fluff and more fluff! slightly suggestive (because it's sylus); not beta read, small text, all lowercase letters.
there’s nothing quite as attractive as seeing sylus on stage. The l-netizens always comment on his stage presence, flooding his fancams with comments littered with little crows, heart-eyed emojis, red hearts, black ones, and— is that… just a series of typed out barking noises…?
alright, that’s quite enough for the night (although you still shamelessly liked, saved and downloaded that fancam for later viewing—though you’d sooner die than let sylus know about that). the video still plays on a loop as it’s loosely cradled in your hands, though you’re no longer paying attention to it. your head thumps down onto the pillow you’d been cuddling with a groan. damn him, damn that harness, damn his stage presence, damn that stupid gesture and that stupid smirk—!
as you close your eyes, drink in the sound of your speakers blasting with the screams of the crowd and sylus’ echoing voice through the speakers (the audio quality of the video was absolutely busted with how the bass reverberates in that stadium), you can see it: the new concert fancam that the hunters have currently dubbed ‘the sylus fancam.’ how could you not, after replaying the damn thing who knows how many times, and with the audio still playing? the image of sylus (sweat-slicked from the ridiculously difficult choreography of his solo song, bathed in red and blue from the spotlight) flicking away his earpiece, cupping his ear… the crooked smirk on his lips as he clearly hears every hunter in that sold-out stadium scream his name… you feel your face grow hot just thinking about it!
you’re too busy groaning and toiling in your embarrassed, flustered plight that you don’t hear the shower stop running, and the telltale signs of sylus getting dressed. when the bathroom door clicks open, you practically yelp, scrambling to turn that damn phone off, and sheepishly look up at sylus. perhaps it’s simply because he forgot to pack his bathrobe, but he’s in the sweater you picked out for him to sleep in. it softens his sharp edges, making him look like the kind and sweet soul that his features don’t convey. it’s hard not to stare at him for too long when he’s like this: the grit and sharp edge of “crow” ripped away, and sylus left in its place.
(sylus, who burns like a furnace on cold nights, warm and comforting and lulling you to sleep no matter how much tour jetlag gets to you. sylus, who understands the essence of every sonnet and every love song written in human history when he is allowed to be just him in the sanctuary that is your arms. sylus, who can’t sing for the life of him, but perfectly replicates those romantics of old with every track he produces meant for your ears alone.)
he raises an eyebrow at you from the hotel room entranceway, white hair still slightly wet and disheveled as he dries it off with a towel—it’s so soft and fluffy without all the hair gel to style it. “sweetie, you’re blushing.” he says, a lilt of amusement in it, and it takes only a few, long strides for him to cross the short distance between you on the couch. “whatever could be the reason, hm?”
“nothing!” you pout, a little too quick to answer him and clutching your phone tight. a huff leaves you as he ruffles your hair, and he only chuckles.
“could it perhaps…” he hums, a small smirk growing on his lips as he nods his head at your phone, “... be that my dear sweetheart was looking at something… appealing?” the smirk softens to something gentler as he sees you furrow your brows at being found out. “i could hear it from the bathroom. the walls are quite thin.”
“... i was just watching your fancam…” you admit, sighing and scooting over in the couch as he rounds it to settle beside you. when his arm is draped behind you on your shoulders, you practically melt against him and (with a hint of embarrassment) let him see what you’d been watching.
“ah.” sylus chuckles as he watches himself on the screen, red eyes glinting with amusement. even though the concert was a bit of a haze now, he clearly remembers the moment where the music guide in his ear fell away to the sheer noise of the crowd the moment he took the earpiece off. he honestly didn’t know what possessed him to do such a thing… but if it made you (and the crowd) all flustered, he wouldn’t question it. “i must say… their screams for me were… delectable.” with a final glance at the screen, your phone is clicked off and tossed to the other end of the couch.
“but… as sweet as their screams are…” he quickly adds, when he sees you huff and cross your arms. his arm gently draws you into his lap until you’re practically flush together. the tip of his nose brushes against yours, and god he smells like the cologne he knows you like. his hand finds its way to your cheek, thumb brushing against your lower lip. sylus speaks in a hushed murmur, next, though it rumbles like thunder through your entire being. “... they are nothing compared to how sweet my name sounds on your lips, sweetie.”
in another mood, those words may have made you splutter and grow warmer for entirely different reasons. but right now—with sylus looking down at you with the softest red eyes, the smallest smile upon his lips, and his heartbeat thrumming wildly against your hand and through the thick fabric of his sweater—all you can hope to do is grin up at him, and kiss the pad of his thumb. a giggle leaves you then, and his name comes tumbling out too, “sylus…”
“yeah, like that.” he chuckles (though it’s more like an amused huff). sylus plants a kiss to the tip of your nose, and then to the corner of your lips—it is a holy, reverent trail. “sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
a/n: idol au fun!!!! i have nothing to say other than ... sylus... large... looks larger in harness fit... heart eyes... also that i wanted to explore a softer sylus bc infold needs to show us more soft mr. crow man!
your poor, overworked, singer-songwriter boyfriend has not been having a good time with comeback season. thankfully, he has you, his muse, to kickstart his creative processes—sadly, that means he's going to write yet another love song about you in his group's newest album.
CW: k-pop idol/group au! fluff, fluff and more fluff! mentions of xavier, zayne, sylus, and caleb ; not beta read, small text, all lowercase letters.
“and this—” a kiss to the jaw. “—is part of—” another kiss, a shiver jolting down your spine at the feel of his lips against your pulse point. “—your creative process?”
it’s almost embarrassing how small your voice is now, loud in the silence of rafayel’s little studio. your hands clench and unclench around rafayel’s white shirt as he peppers kisses up and down your neck, not a single sliver of your exposed skin remaining unkissed. (after all, he’d say, he must drown in every part of you.)
“hey, every artist needs their muse.” rafayel shrugs, his hands at your waist grabbing at the warm flesh there, a teasing yet grounding touch. “i just need to be appreciating said muse to get the lyrics flowing in my head.”
before you can say much else, he nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck, and he practically melts into you as he breathes in your comforting, familiar scent. like fresh laundry, citrus, honey; he recognises it as the new perfume he bought for you just a few months ago (oh, god bless royalties and good album sales… he gets to spoil his little darling). a happy little sigh leaves him as he nuzzles against you again, shifting to let your bodies melt together in a happy little pile on his office chair—you’re just what he needs after a stressful day of brainstorming new lyrics and melodies with zayne and sylus, banging his head against the wall designing concept art for the new album’s cover, and being dragged around the dance studio (half-dead and limbless) by caleb and xavier.
“yeah, i know…” you sigh, and move your hands upward, fingers curling in his soft purple hair. luckily enough, he hasn’t had to dye his hair yet, what with linkon’s netizens finding his hair to be a particularly lovable part of his charm. (they’d be right; also up there are his big, beautiful eyes, and his impressive vocal range.) there’s a beat of silence, and then you speak up again, pressing a kiss to his hair just as he presses one in kind to your throat; “are the lyrics popping up in your head…?”
“hmm.” rafayel hums, almost like he’s thinking about it. “no.” he says, simple as that, and chuckles when you groan in exasperation. “all the ones i can think of wouldn’t fit the theme. and sy would actually kill me for making us sing another ballad that was clearly inspired by you.”
(they’ve released two albums and five eps, rounding up to about 50 songs in their discography… a good chunk of the love songs rafayel got his hands on in the production process felt like individual love letters written and sung just for you. It’s starting to reach a point where some of the smarter hunters—as their fandom is called—have deduced that at least one of the boys is in a relationship.)
“really?” you raise an eyebrow at him, hand moving to pinch his cheek, “well… if it’s anything like your usual songs about me… I can agree that it doesn’t match the theme.” you pull back a little—which elicits a whine from rafayel—to look at his current getup, which he’d been too lazy to change out of after the photobook photoshoot: a crisp white shirt, black pants, and leather chest harnesses. his hands, idly rubbing up and down your sides, were adorned in black leather gloves. all in all, an attractive outfit that’s trying to encapsulate a “bad boy”, mafia vibe. “i'll have to side with sy on this one.”
“even mafiosos can sing about how they’d love their darling in every universe, y’know.” rafayel hums, leaning back to rest his head properly on the chair, eyes trained on your face. his hands continue their idle smoothing down your sides, touch gentle and warm through the layers of fabric separating your skin. those beautiful indigo-pink eyes hold that heartbreaking softness in them, and it makes you want to gently run your thumbs under the dark circles under his eyes. (you never noticed, not until caleb pointed it out, but he only ever looks at you this way.)
rafayel’s next words are soft, without the characteristic teasing and filled with something akin to reverence: “what’s the harm in another song?” he whispers, leaning up to press a kiss to your cheek, "it’s just another universe to profess my love to you in, my darling muse.”
a/n: ... i saw rafayel in a harness, blacked out, and thirty minutes later this was ready on my word document. uhm. so those cards huh... (i have. enough pulls to secure you. but please come home early rafayel). reupload bc I FORGOT HOW TO TUMBLR??? and forgot tags 😭
(no matter how much time passes, zayne's voice remains unchanging with you — low, pleasing to the ear, and always heartbreakingly gentle.) ; to kick off the follower event ! for c, 🐈⬛️🎬, my beloved cat lady, who has always fed my delusions : ZAYNE + 💌 13. "they have never raised their voice around you, always talks softly.”
cw: small text + all lowercase + not beta read ; fluff fluff fluff ; slight angst at the very end ; may be slightly ooc (it's my first time writing for zayne) ; caleb makes a very brief appearance ; slight foreseer!zayne spoilers
I.
you and ZAYNE are ten.
he's been your best friend for as long as you can remember, always at your side. he gives you candies whenever you feel lightheaded, and fishes out a bandaid from his bag whenever you fall and scrape off the skin of your knee on concrete, and walks you home in the evenings whenever caleb had after-school basketball club. when grandma gives you pocket money to buy new crayons, or a new drawing book, she leaves just enough extra to buy those candies he loves so much from the roadside stall; and when zayne's mother gives him money intended for school materials, he can't help but spend it on the popsicles you said you liked.
zayne is your dearest best friend, just as you are his. he's never said it, but you know; you know it because he sits on the table nearest to yours, and doesn't care when your other classmates tease him for holding your hand during recess, and follows in your little footsteps as you drag him through the school's playground.
("i'm gonna be a hunter when i'm older!" you grin, limbs tangled in the bars of the climbing dome-tower. your hands smell slightly of metal, there's paint peeling off the bars and sticking to your skin, and you are young and fearless.
zayne stares up at you, from where he sits in the eye of the tower, eyes peeling away from the book he's reading: the snow queen. "why?" he asks, voice as soft as always. you're upside down on the top of the dome when you look back to answer him, and a young zayne doesn't know if his heart is beating so fast because he's scared you'll fall, or because of something else.
"because," the sound of your hand against the metal bar as you swing around reverberates in the cage, in your chest, and in zayne's mind. you hoist yourself out of the grid spaces, sitting on the bars now, "i want to take care of everyone!")
zayne is your sweetest friend. he knows when you're tired and hungry, even when you insist you're aren't, and proceeds to hand you a little sweet. he knows when the sun gets far too bright and the day far too hot, and places his little hands over your forehead to cool you down, evol swirling at his fingertips. he muffles the sound of the school bell with his palms over your ears, just as he does when your classmates get too rowdy, or when caleb yells for you from across the room.
("don't be so loud." he says, voice even and face as calm as ever, and you watch him gently whack caleb on the shoulder. "it's not nice." zayne does not say that it's because your ears are more sensitive than most.)
(the years pass, and not much changes between the two of you from the days of your childhood, besides the cavity fillings and growth spurts and skills with your evols. zayne still offers you those little candies, still dreams odd dreams, and still talks in the softest voice he can muster when he speaks to you. but eventually, zayne moves away, and your family in bloomshore district becomes you, caleb, and grandma once again.)
…
II.
ZAYNE is a sweet, gentle lover.
as sweet as the macarons and cakes and pastries he lets you buy, and the extra ones he buys to leave on your wanting plate. as gentle as the way he says your name, or the way he calls you darling, or my love, or the less common my snowflake when he spots you plodding over to the kitchen in the early morning. he’s already dressed as smart as always, with hands stained with the juice of the fruit he skillfully cuts. unbreaking strands of crimson apple skin twine around his fingers—neat, perfect, and then finally cut away by a decisive flick of the knife.
“good morning, my love.” zayne looks up from the peeled apple. his voice is a soft, low hum in your ears—it always is, always has been for as long as you could remember. “eat up. you need your energy for today.”
( not like today is anything different, or anything special… but he just wants you hale and healthy everyday. )
lucky mornings go like this, when zayne does not have to rush to akso: he gently slides the plate of breakfast he’d prepared over in front of you (always with a bowl of cut up fruit). then, he takes his own plate, and sits beside you at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing against each other’s as he settles on the barstool. the early morning sunlight bathes his apartment in rose-gold hues, slowly warming you from the chill of the night.
“did you sleep well?” zayne asks—as he always does, monitoring your health in these small ways too—and his voice mixes with the faraway sound of linkon city rousing from slumber. telltale sounds of traffic buzzes in the streets of the concrete and beton jungle below. birdsong flits through the air, church sparrows flying past the window. conversation too, bounces from topic to topic—today’s duties, an invitation for lunch at a cafe near akso, predicted times that you two will return home.
it’s a string of little murmurs, on these mornings with zayne. and this thread of domesticity ends at the doorway, with a final soft, “i love you. take care of yourself today,” as he presses a lingering kiss to your lips and another peck to your forehead. then, the click of the door closing as he pulls away.
( it’s the hardest part of his day. the easiest is the return — an always a too-warm embrace that seeps into his very bones, a peppering of kisses to your cheeks, and a sweet “i missed you, my snowflake. how was your day?” )
…
III.
who are you?
the FORESEER does not feel. he cannot afford to. he is not allowed to. the foreseer is as cold as the ice that he is both ruler and slave to, unrelenting, unforgiving. merciless. a tool for astra—a cruel god, crafting an even crueler tool. a hand meant to be made, tormented, and dealt.
and yet, when he sees you, a poor thief masquerading as an envoy... well, he cannot, for whatever reason, find it in himself to be a weapon. not when he sees visions of lives he has and hasn’t lived flicker into view like distorted deja vu, all centering around this false messenger he has ensnared in ice.
“you forget yourself, testing the limits of my benevolence.”
and even though the words are harsh (oh, and a small part of his inner self recoils at his words), the foreseer's voice is a gentle murmur. soft yet stern, a hint of confounding warmth in his cold tone; second nature.
( “don’t cry.” zayne says, at the end of it all. the jasmine flowers bloom, a gentle, silent symphony. )
cross posted on ao3 -- read it here!
creative notes: the iron dome in the playground represents the tower of thorns (?) in foreseer myth! zayne sits at the bottom (foreseer is always trapped) and reads h. c. anderson's "the snow queen" (which i think is quite fitting for astra-foreseer-mc), while mc/you is actively trying to escape the tower/defy fate.
a/n: went on hiatus for a bit due to uni work, but am back! will be working on the requests i got 🫶💕 i hope everyone enjoyed the new update for l&ds!!! i personally love sylus already, so he might make an appearance on my page eventually.... anyway, thank you as always for reading my stuff!!! i've never been this invested in an otome's lore until l&ds, so i'm just!!! i want to write more for them!!!
— IF YOU'RE THE SACRED SCRIPT, I AM THE HIEROPHANT.
( if you're the holy church, i'm gonna worship . ) ; the old, dusty tomes that amund gives you state that the lemurian gods are perfect, flawless beings. not a single scar or freckle adorns their skin, no emotion creases their hallowed faces.
cw: fluff !!! ; established relationship ! ; abysswalker!rafayel <3 + brief mentions of god of the sea rafayel; slight spoilers for rafayel's sea of golden sand and forgotten sea (?) myths + siren's song anecdote; i am the self-proclaimed ceo of lemuria world building (lemuria lore headcanons!) 💪 ; not beta-read !!!
" THE GODS ART PERFECT BEINGS — FLAWLESS IN FORM AND IN ESSENCE ; THEIR SKIN IS UNMARRED, NAY SCAR OR FRECKLE ADORNS THOSE DIVINE. NAY LINE OF EMOTION MARKS THEIR HALLOWED, PRISTINE VISAGE. "
"RAFAYEL?" you ask, your voice so loud in the quiet dark of night. a hum, a shift in the arms that hold you. "i heard that the gods are perfect."
“they are supposed to be, yes.” rafayel murmurs, hands gently carding through the strands of your hair. the desert is quiet tonight, not a single howl of wind, or a curious fennec fox or gerbil, race across the expanse of sand. the only sounds in your ears are the mingled breaths and synchronised heartbeats of you and your dear abysswalker, tangled beneath the sheets in your shared tent.
his blue-pink eyes stare, searching your gaze. the dark circles beneath them are prominent in the shadows cast by the silvery moonlight. you watch as he takes in a deep breath, and then exhales: "... what books did amund give you today, my love?"
"you know very well that all amund gives me are books and scrolls about lemuria," you huff, thinking of the stack of dusty old books the old man had shoved into your hands at noon, "which would not bother me, if he did not sneer so condescendingly while he gave them to me."
"alright, alright." he sighs, there will be things to discuss with amund in the morning, if the slight exasperation in his tone is anything to go off of. and then, he asks, voice gentle: "what did you learn about the gods, my heart?"
" OUR GOD OF THE TIDES HATH BEEN TAINTED. HIS SKIN HATH BECOMETH SPECKLED. HIS HEART HATH BEEN SURRENDERED. NAY LONGER PERFECT IS HE, WHO IS'T HATH, IN LOVESICK FOLLY, GIVEN BOTH LIFE & DOMAIN. "
"they say you are no longer perfect." you murmur, brushing your lips against his jawline, "using their definition, perhaps they are right. you have scars, and little beauty marks."
"the scars are inevitable. you should know it yourself, my heart." he sighs, solemn, "but they dissolve with us during each seamoon ceremony — i am not reborn with the scars of my past."
"and the beauty marks?"
he hesitates, a bit. there's a far-away look in his eyes that you've grown used to seeing. "they persist and accumulate." rafayel states eventually, as if it's fact, "new ones appear, but i never lose them."
"you never lose them?" you echo, and he nods.
leaning into him, you inspect his face as best as you can in the moonlight. your lips graze his cheek, right above where one lies below his eye. another lies at the tip of his nose, and you repeat the action, rafayel's breath hitching beneath your touch. another sits at the bridge of his nose, and you feel his eyelashes flutter against your skin as you continue.
"there is something about them, in the books." you start, a hand coming up to cup his cheek. rafayel leans into the warmth of your touch (after all, you think, grimly, a stray dog will take all the food it is offered, afraid to go hungry again), and you continue with a smile against his skin, "they say that they represent where your lover loved to kiss you, in your past lives."
rafayel hums, holds you ever closer in his arms, considers the thought. when he falls silent, you know he is aeons away; somewhere below the waves, somewhere thirty thousand years away—you patiently wait for his return, like the shore that welcomes a weary sailor home. a gentle kiss is pressed to right above where his heart should be, and another in the middle of his collarbone. it's instinct, second nature, as natural as the way waves lap at the shoreline and leave seafoam in their wake.
"perhaps there is some truth in that." he finally says, returned to your side from his reverie. he presses a kiss to your temple, a gentle smile against your skin, "after all, it seems you still do as you used to, even now. determined to uphold tradition, are you?"
( & aeons ago, beneath the waves, lies the first mark; the first bearer of sin in eden. a young god of the sea laughs, a rumble in his chest, as his beloved kisses right above where his heart should be. every touch is reverent, like tending to an altar. it is no wonder, then, that he entrusted his heart to such a devout worshipper — after all, it will be in loving hands. )
a/n : hi hi hi i think lnd needs to CALM DOWN with all the rafayel banners or i'm gonna intervene. quite rushed and not as deep symbolism woooo as the last one because i was in a haze.... abysswalker my beloved is as odd to write as usual but i think it's not too ooc... also this is just a little manifesting/tribute thing for my god of the sea rafa myth pulls today i want him to come home !!! i'm so so excited for the myth story !!!! good luck to anyone pulling! may the god of the sea give us his heart without us needing to open our wallets 🫧💕 if you sent in a request recently for the follower event, thank you! it'll still be a bit until i can answer them, but it shall be done !!! <3 will be crossposted to my ao3 if you prefer the fic being in actual capitalisation and in normal text!
update: i had to drag him home with 130 pulls ,,,, i also spedran the myth,,, guh buh,,, whadahell,,, someone please talk to me about them,,,,
hiya! the blog recently hit a number that's bigger than i would ever expect for this silly little tumblr blog i started because i liked a 2D, white-haired, double-degree having psychiatrist way back in 2020 ! all i have to say is thank you for all the love !!! it's more than i deserve or ever expected, and i hope i'll be able to continue writing things that can bring you all comfort or bring you all emotional distraught (in a good way, ofc) !!!
so, to celebrate the milestone and to thank you all, i've decided to finally actually write things based on your asks / open up requests ! —̳͟͞͞♡ ૮ ○ﻌ ○ ა
please read the blog rules + characters i write for) & the details of the event listed under the cut before sending a request in !
send in your requests . . . !
-; for asks that are not based on the prompt lists (or even those using them), please be as detailed as possible if you have something in mind! i want to write things that you will enjoy, and the littlest bit of inspiration helps me immensely!
-; these can be anything you have in mind, or prompts that you'd like to see me play with from these pretty cool prompt lists: settings (🎡), affectionate things (💌), hurt/comfort (🩹).
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I'VE GOT THE STRANGEST FEELING / THIS ISN'T OUR FIRST TIME AROUND.
rules . . . !
-; the obvious: don't steal/claim my work as your own/feed it into ai. don't transform it into other forms of media (such as a bound book (although my work is too short for that, thankfully), video, etc.) without my knowledge either, if not for personal use!
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-; please understand that i am currently a university student on a pretty demanding course content-wise, so answering your asks/requests might take a while!
"in lemurian," rafayel starts, thumb tracing seemingly aimless lines along the back of your palm, "another word for love is derived from the word give."
cw: spoiler for chapter 8-9 of rafayel's "sea of golden sands" myth & "fragrant dream" tender moments ; fluff !!! ; very slight angst ; lemuria lore headcanons ; mentions of god of the sea! + abysswalker! rafayel ; the sea god's bride (spoilers: past life mc/reader) is mentioned so it can be implied that the reader is fem aligned (but the fic itself is written with a gn!reader in mind !)
when RAFAYEL had invited you to a museum exhibition, brandishing two tickets that read “TALES FROM THE DEEP SEA: LEMURIA” between his fingers, you had admittedly worried for him; how unsettling must it be, seeing the ruins of your home displayed in a glass case?
... but for now, rafayel seems fine, with your hand in his, as the two of you stare into a display case. a deteriorated marble stele lies inside, yet even in its current state, you can't help but think that there is something beautiful about it. rafayel zeroed in on the slab the moment the two of you walked into this section of the exhibit, and (before you could look at the other shiny items in the display cabinets) he'd dragged you up and towards it. his free hand comes up to gently graze against the glass, indigo-pink eyes holding that familiar far-away gaze. with no hope of reading the engravings on your own, your gaze instead shifts to the museum label:
THE DIVINE BALLAD
Marble marriage stele
Reportedly excavated at an unknown island located near Lemuria's ruins
As observed in many civilisations around the world, the Lemurians too, recorded joyous ceremonies by means of writing on stone. The inscription upon this stele details the marriage of the Lemurian God of the Sea and his human bride in the form of a ballad, perhaps sung during the celebration of this marriage. Although too eroded to be fully transcribed and translated, what we know of the Lemurian language alludes to a great and sweet love between the divine couple.
lemurian is practically a dead language, so you're not too surprised with being met with nothing. you can't help the sigh that leaves you; "there's no translation..."
“with the way they handled it, there's not much left to read.” rafayel clicks his tongue, huffs. his frustration is warranted, given how many of the artifacts you've seen so far have suffered more damage due to past excavation and transportation processes (as admitted by the museum staff.) "... and what little they could get would be translated wrong."
“mind telling me what it says?”
“like the label says, it's a marriage stele.” his eyes look to the museum plaque, to the slab, and then meet your own. the frustration in his eyes melt away the longer you hold his gaze; "i can tell you all about it later, but for now..." he draws you nearer, hand never letting go of yours, and points at a specific set of faded characters along the engravings.
"in lemurian," rafayel starts, thumb tracing seemingly aimless lines along the back of your palm. "there is a word for love that is derived from the word give. they're not wrong when they call it a 'great and sweet love' or whatever, but it's more than that." you notice the slight pout forming on his lips and seeping into his tone, think it's terribly endearing. "there's no real way to translate it properly, i think, although some languages do get pretty close.”
you hum, consider his words, what little rafayel has told you about this sea god, and look back at the plaque, "i guess the best way to describe it is ... he loved her so profoundly he was willing to give her everything?"
rafayel is a tad quieter, then: "yeah, something like that."
( is it any wonder that the god of the sea gave everything that he ever was —his heart, his domain— to his beloved, when all he has ever known was that to love and to give could be said in the same breath? his elders could judge him, damn him to the abyssal rift for what he'd done to them and their divine ocean, but they had doomed him first by teaching him that love and devotion were one and the same. )
you stare at the characters, trace the loops and hard edges of the letters with your eyes, before breaking the silence that had settled between you two: "can you teach me one day?"
"what, lemurian?" he looks up at you, eyebrow raised. you nod, and he's prompted to continue, "wouldn't it be more useful to learn, i don't know, anything else? a language that'd be more useful when we travel, maybe?"
"you know how to speak enough languages for the both of us." you smile, take both his hands in yours, cheeks growing warm from the words that begin to slip from your lips, "... i just think i'd understand you better if i learnt it."
( you know it's what he resorts to when the words won't come any other way. he whispers and mutters to himself, hushed words against your skin that you don't understand—all you know is that his tone is reverent, filled with love and a longing fulfilled. perhaps only an old language can hold the centuries worth of waiting he has endured. )
rafayel stills, blinks, looks at you like you've told him something incredibly profound. there's a beat, and suddenly he's chuckling, his hand leaving your grasp to gently cup your cheek as you have his many times before; "god, you're adorable." he leans in to press butterfly kisses along your temple, "yeah, sure, i'll teach you. we can start tomorrow if you want."
you can't help the way you beam up at him then (that toothy grin always gets his heart rushing, a million and more words for 'cute' flooding his mind at the sight), and your own hand comes up on top of his. "i'm looking forward to it."
"of course." rafayel grins, starting to lead the both of you away to the next display. "we can start with what's on this slate." and you let him lead you, your hand in his, his thumb draws the same lines onto your skin. ( you learn, later, that it's how you write that word—a love that is the same as to give—with a rafayel that chuckles at your flustered form. )
( and perhaps, in the far off future, you remember the words he teaches you. feel them on the tip of your tongue, in the back of your mind, in a time long lost. the latin "desire" cannot compare to the lemurian "devotion." you place his dagger to your chest: i want to give—i love you. he replies, dooms himself: i give you life—i love you too. )
a/n : happy birthday to rafa, my cutest little fish 💕!!! i've devoted many of my mortal possessions & a lot of my brain power to u <\3 this fic is a lil rough but i just. brainrotted too close to the sun.
for creative notes: obviously there is no actual lemurian script written in the game (only voiced in "journey seeker" and in the tome of the sea god in chapter 8 of rafayel's myth) but i was thinking about how in indonesian translations of the bible, the word for god's love is translated to "mengasihi," which can mean "give" and when used in a sentence it'd be like aku mengasihimu or "i give to you" ... and and just thinking about how every time rafayel has shown his love it is by giving or devoting something to you rather than "taking/desiring" something from you (love in english can be derived from / has the same roots in the latin word for "desire"); how you love him so much at the end of the myth that you are willing to give him the heart, but he loves you far too much too, and gives you life at the cost of his own — agape love. cries. sobs.
( i need you here with me / but we're out in the open. ) ; romantic headcanons for abysswalker!rafayel ♡ more under the cut!
CW: spoilers for rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth + general abysswalker rafayel lore ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; mentions of blood, injury, and self-harm (rafayel plucks off his scales) : might feel a little ooc because it is abysswalker and not main story rafayel ; quite the word dump (bc i rattle my cage for him)
— as the morning light of the desert creeps into the dim of a tent, two bodies lay tangled in the warmth of each other. RAFAYEL sleeps light and wakes early—hours before the sun peeks over the golden dunes—and although the habit irks him, it does offer him a wonderful sight as compensation: the sight of you, bathed in the soft, rose-gold light of morning, hair a mess, marks littering your skin from where the sheets pressed up against you.
overcome with a love that warms him like molten gold, the young god cannot help but litter your face in butterfly kisses. two to the apples of your cheeks, one on the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips, the middle of your temple. when you shift in your sleep, groan at his ministrations, rafayel can only chuckle, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he thinks he can hear amund yell for his presence. he couldn't care less.
— RAFAYEL sees himself as the sword at the hilt of your belt, the dagger in your hands that you should use as you see fit, the steady hand guiding your own, drawing your bowstring. he is your ever faithful shadow, always at your side, a watchful gaze always on you. it is only natural for one to protect the keeper of their heart... which is why you and the medical kit from the nurse's tent have gotten well acquainted with each other.
"one of these days, you're going to listen to me." you sigh, gently peeling aside the torn leather of his garb. rafayel does not wince; you don't think you've ever seen him do so, not when he ripped that arrow from his shoulder, or when he stumbles back to your tent with a bloody gash on his chest, or when he's brandishing new bruises on his knuckles. the royal guards seem intent on tracking you down, crossing all of philos's 30,000 zetameters of sand to lock you up in your gilded cage again.
rafayel seems equally intent to ensure that doesn't happen, even if it means throwing himself into their line of fire.
"if i listen to you," the lemurian starts, violet gaze trained on the gentle workings of your fingers, "they'll take you from me again, back to the palace." his breath hitches the slightest—at the thought of you leaving him again, or at the too-harsh tug of the bandage, you're not sure.
— some nights, RAFAYEL is awoken by dreams—horrible, lifelike nightmares. it's sudden, a jolt that has him taking in rapid breaths, a tremor in his hands. "a nightmare", he tells you, when you stir awake and ask him what's wrong in a groggy voice that makes his heart ache, "just a nightmare, sweetheart. nothing to worry about." he waits until he hears your breathing slow once more, pressing kisses to your temple all the while, before slinking out of the tent and into the cold desert air. he'll return to your side before the sun rises, but for now, with still-stuttering breaths, he just needs some time to clear his head.
in his nightmares, a butterfly flaps its wings just the wrong way and rafayel is landed in a world where he is as cold-blooded as amund wished he was. he is back in the ruins of the isle of songs, your hand guiding his own (white-knuckled, dagger brandished) to the place where your heart thrums beneath. and unlike himself, rafayel takes the chance: takes back what is his, what was never yours to keep. the god of the sea was a foolish, lovesick man. he would not make the same mistake.
the dagger sinks into your flesh, the ease of it wrong. your blood flows onto his palms, gets into all the creases of his gloves, spills onto the barren earth and dyes the returning sea red. it is so, so warm against his skin, warms the fire in him that threatened to fizzle out. (he has always been a selfish man, he knows. it is only right that he is no better than bloodthristy philos.) the look dream-you gives him, before he awakes from this cruel world, sears itself into the back of his eyelids. he can see it still, when he looks at the dark of the night sky: reverent, loving. (how could you not, when he has freed you yet again?)
— often, you ask RAFAYEL to tell you tales of the ocean; more specifically, its creatures! what were those rays he spoke of, or the sharks, or those star-shaped things? do the lemurians actually eat them? your lover finds your boundless curiousity incredibly endearing, chuckling whenever your eyes seem to light up at the mention of some new deep-sea fish.
"this is a whale shark." rafayel says, and you watch as the scale in his hands transforms into a small purple apparition. it's as long as his pointer finger, heteroceral tail flicking as it swims in the flame currents, light purple spots patterning its black back. "they are gentle things, despite their size. they only ever eat plankton. i used to have one as a pet, long ago."
"how cute!" you laugh, waggling your finger in front of the shark and watching it follow. "did you have other pets?" and at that, he procures another silver scale, places it into your palms and covers it with his own. a barreleye manifests, and you grin when it's luminous purple eyes stare up at you.
(rafayel ignores the sting in his arm, pinpricks of blood soaking his garb from where he'd plucked some scales off. the wonder in your eyes is more than worth it.)
— helping the LEMURIANS with their daily chores within the camp comes like second nature to you. there is always so much to do: collect jars upon jars of water from the nearby oasis, prepare food, feed the camels, record the state of the camp's supplies... all the while, you feel RAFAYEL'S eyes on your form, your ever cautious vassal. with a little smile, you pretend you don't notice his lavender gaze, if only to spare him from the flushed ears.
it's surprisingly simple, making that lemurian cake: tapioca flour, camel's milk, a healthy dash of sugar, and citrus rind... when the sweet old woman you've spent the afternoon baking with feeds you a slice, you think you've simply ascended. back then, rafayel had fed you one that was cold and a little stale—probably as it was a part of his rations for long journeys. perhaps he'd like one that was far fresher, and baked with love?
... which is how rafayel found himself with a wicker basket full of cake shoved into his hands, and an awaiting you in front of him. "you've been training a while, haven't you?" you smile, taking one of the soft slices and bringing it up to his lips; "try it for me, please!"
and as obedient as ever, rafayel takes a bite, sweetness and citrus on his tongue. "it's good," he hums, kisses your fingertips, "tell me when you're making it next time, love. i'd love to help."
— the LEMURIANS, you remember, were masters of the arts: singing, painting, poetry... so it's no surprise, then, that they celebrate their craft almost every night: children crowd around a charming poet, hooked on every word of their newest bedtime story—his newest fable, that is (something about a fish and a bird, who wished to visit a bakery); the musicians have already begun their newest improvised song, a lively version of an old elegy, it seems; the bonfire in the centre burns high into the night sky like it was trying to reach the stars itself, and when the lemurians dance around it their shadows are long against the sands. you don't know how, but you're eventually dragged into the dance yourself. the glee is infectious, and you find yourself instinctively looking for your beloved.
RAFAYEL doesn't indulge in dancing often, as fun as it may be. he knows the steps, his feet still tapping to the rhythm of the tambourines even as he nonchalantly leans against the tent pole in the distance. it is second nature, now, but his eyes always find you, even in the crowd of people—you, laughing and twirling around without a care in the world. it makes his heart race, a smile creeping onto his own features. he watches you dance with his people, linking arms and being spun around; for a moment he wonders if he should join just to be your one and only dance partner.
... he doesn't notice when you've escaped his gaze, but before he knows it, you've snuck up on him and wrapped a shawl around his neck, dragging him towards the crowd; "dance with me, rafa!"
and how can he refuse a shared moment that transcends lifetimes—across shimmering oceans, and marble floor ballrooms, and golden sands? rafayel's stumbling forward into you until his arms take their rightful place around your form. his hands find the small of your back and yours hold onto his shoulders, shawl long abandoned on his neck. this is second nature, galaxies colliding, two souls becoming one.
— after all of the night's festivities are said and done—the musicians pack up their flutes, lyres, and tambourines; the children cover up their yawns with still-red palms from clapping to tonight's tunes; the remaining food is safely packed away for tomorrow—it's just you, RAFAYEL, and the dwindling embers of the fire he'd just stomped out. "i do believe even your highness is not exempt from curfew," he hums, takes your hand in his, and presses his lips to the knuckles.
and in the silence of your tent, coveted in the silver hues of moonlight, rafayel sits you down before him, your back leaning against his chest. his arms wrap around your frame, his chin resting on the crook of your neck. this is your ritual, on too-cold nights: rafayel lights a flickering flame in his palms, the black and violet embers cold as ever. you both stare into this dying fire—you both know what is to come.
sometimes, when the ugly concoction of guilt and sorrow prick at your very soul, your hand reaches up to entwine with his own, just as they did to guide his dagger to your heart. "i won't." rafayel says, and you know what he means. "i will never hurt you." he doesn't complete the sentence, the words dying on his tongue, but you know the rest (there is no other end to this story): i would rather die.
a/n : i need abysswalker carnally it's not even funny anymore 🤩 these were. not supposed to be this long (they are like little fics in themselves omg). but i love this rafa so much i think he deserves it. thank you for the love on the previous rafa content <3 it makes me so happy seeing people who also love this lil guy. the dancing with rafa hc is very much so inspired by "through heaven's eyes" from the prince of egypt! <3333
AO3 || Rafayel x Reader || Hurt/Comf || 1, 238 words
a/n: uhh i finished the myths for rafa and thought this thing up and its has referenced death of reader but youre not acc dead i promise its all the set up hurt/comf/rafa feeling so many Things for you
Oh God what he would give to stop seeing that colour on you.
To the God of the Sea, this is the happiest day of his life.
And when he kisses her, he devotes the entire ocean to his beloved.
It couldn’t have been better if he willed it. The sight of you standing in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as you playfully scold him to not try dropping you into the crystalline azure beneath your feet. He can barely hear it with the blood rushing through his ears, the angelic notes of your voice brushing against him like seaweed against his fingertips.
To surrender his heart to you is a happy thing, he thinks. It wouldn’t change things, not at all. You’ve held his heart in your hands since the day he met you. Your fingers brushed against the surface of his being, shallow ripples drawing the attention of an ever curious younger him. The only thing he knows with confidence from that moment forward was how to love you.
It’s why he’s deluding himself that your voice in his ear isn’t slowly getting weaker, tears staining the side of his throat simply just tears of joy. You were happy, weren’t you? You told him as much constantly, reminding him that he is – no, was – your saviour. It’s why he pretends your normally secure grip on him is loosening, fingers trembling against his shoulders in a way he knows isn’t pleasure.
The hot release of your body coats his fingers, lithe hands unable to turn wrists in the way that you need him to. Instead, he holds you tightly, muttering affectionate words into your ear.
“You’re doing so good for me.”
“Just hang on, just a little longer.”
“That’s it, just like that.”
They burn his throat coming up, butterflies in his stomach pounding incessantly against skin and bone – maybe they’re scales now, he can’t tell.
You gasp in response, a pathetic sounding whimper ringing out and making his stomach drop.
“Rafayel, please,” you plead, stuttering breaths pushing insistently against the column of his throat.
His hand is sticky, blood already beginning to dry in the arid temperatures of the desert. The blade penetrates your body, just shy of the heart you’ve returned to him.
He feels your hand come up to cup his cheek, a reassuring smile still on your face.
“I meant it when I said it Rafayel. My heart is yours. From this life to the next.”
Your body is cold to the touch. He can’t explain why. You were just fine earlier, smiling brightly at him as you tried to convince him to rest. Sunlight streams in through the windows and he thought the rays supposed to keep you warm.
He can’t understand why this is happening to him again, not here, not now.
Scarlet pools underneath your body, Rafayel’s eyes unable to see anything else. His breath catches in his chest, bile rising up in his throat and tainting his breath.
His arms go under your body, recoiling at how warm it is there. He feels your heat slowly dissipating, streaks of read marking his hands and your face. He wills himself not to lose focus, picking you up to try and get you some help. He feels the thudding of his heart pounding heavily against his chest, trying in vain not to throw up at the feeling in his stomach.
He can hear your voice calling to him. His name always sounds so pretty on your tongue and it’s all he can think about before he hears the loud thud of your body hitting the ground.
“Rafayel! What are you doing?!”
Your perplexed expression looks up at him from the ground. He watches you massage the side of your body that hit the ground, grimacing a little.
“Why are your hands so cold? And why didn’t you respond after I started hitting you?!”
“I…I was washing paintbrushes,” he replies numbly, faintly remembering getting up to try and organise some of his supplies.
“The water heater’s been acting up so all the water in the house is ice cold. I forgot.”
Vibrant hues of red and orange dye his room from the setting sun, painting your face and body in them. It takes his eyes a while to readjust to the vibrancy, shaky fingers wanting to reach out and hold you but he can’t be sure this is reality. He looks to his hands, clenching them into fists to try and restore some feeling into the stiff joints.
“Poor thing,” you coo, picking up on the change in his demeanour as you reach out to take his hands and try to warm them up in yours.
“You must be freezing. It’s like there was no blood running to your hands at all.”
You were horribly wrong. There was blood – far too much of it.
Silence envelopes the two of you, something Rafayel was beginning to forget when he found you again. You choose not to let it bother you too much, seeing the somber expression on his face. You’re not sure what to make of it, biting your lip as you try to find the right words to say to him.
“Do you…want to talk about it?” you try after a moment.
“About what?”
Rafayel’s long since turned his attention to an abandoned canvas in front of him. You come up behind him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He stiffens in your hold for half a second before relaxing, exhaling deeply.
“You’re not normally that spaced out. Do you remember anything?”
He turns to face you for a brief second before looking back to the canvas. You can’t tell if his refusal to answer is because he’s genuinely forgotten or because he’s choosing not to answer you. You decide it’s the former and help him out.
“You were absolutely exhausted so I told you to go take a nap. Then I got tired so I laid down with you. I guess you woke up before I did and went back to your painting. Next thing I know you woke me up with a death grip around my body and proceeded to ignore me until I threw myself out of your arms and onto the floor.”
He remains silent and you find it a little foreboding. Rafayel’s chatty nature was something that endeared him to you. You know it’s a representation of his affection to you and the fact that he’s quiet always means he’s thinking about things. Despite the overly dramatic and whiney personality that Rafayel had you understood well that it was a cover for something he wasn’t yet comfortable enough telling you.
You bury your face in his neck, breathing in the smell of salt and paint mixed in with something unmistakably him. He leans into your touch, showing you that he heard you.
“Is that so?” he says after a bit, suddenly standing up and taking your hand in his.
You find yourself being taken back to his bed, quietly pushed against the sheets and pulled into his arms. You don’t miss the way his hand comes up to rest against your chest, Rafayel’s breath tickling your hair as he takes a deep breath.
“Did you have a nightmare or something?” you try again, ignoring the slight gnawing in your stomach of concern for him.
“Just thought about something I wish I could forget,” he mumbles, mind tiredly counting out the beating of your heart.
hiii, can I still request a drabble? if yes, I want to ask for prompt 1, vocabulary list: stay with rafayel. bcs I think this boy is definitely a tsundere, will do and say literally anything but the truth that he wants you to stay with him. clingy rafayel is just so cute! thank you, I love your writings by the way ✨
send me one + a character and i'll write u a drabble
summary: 5 times rafayel asks you to stay + 1 time you do instead
a/n: it's just cuteness u__u
001.
“Stay.”
You are both children, and the summer sea is lapping at your feet. Sand squeezes between your toes and shells glitter like diamonds scattered across your stretch of secret beach. Rafayel’s pinky is hooked through yours. You laugh a laugh that sounds like heartbreak, even though Rafayel is too young to know what heartbreak means —
He wonders, later, if creatures of the sea are both with heartbreak in their bones — because what is heartbreak if not the sea? With the way it sings to an endless sky, the way it cups the world in its palm, the way it loves so helplessly — the beach, the seafarers, the rain — only for its loves to sink into its depths and never rise again.
“I can’t — you know I can’t!” you’re still laughing, digging your toes into the sand, as if this were all just a game.
Rafayel huffs, “I don’t! I don’t know!” and he knows he’s being petulant, being childish. But he figures he still is a child, by the measure of the sea, so he should be allowed at least this.
“I’ll be back tomorrow!” you say, you promise, so carelessly, as humans are wont to do.
Rafayel bites his lips, and a part of him knows that you won’t be. Still, he forces a smile, a sigh, and nods.
“Okay then… I’ll see you tomorrow.”
002.
“Stay…” he’s drunk. He can taste it in the weight of the humid air on his tongue. It’s late — the summer moon hanging huge and turgid on the horizon. Even the tide is lazy as it sloshes against the long stretch of shore just outside his window, weighed down by the summertime dreams of long lost loves, the shrapnel bits of broken promises.
You sigh as you look down at him, your eyes bright in the dim lighting of his giant studio.
“I really should be getting back…” you glance at the large clock on the wall, but your eyes flicker back towards him and Rafayel seizes on the chance, pushing himself up and tugging at your sleeve.
“You told me you’d come back and now… you’re leaving again…” he knows he sounds like a petulant child but he feels like a petulant child, the half-bottle of champagne dulling his senses and muffling his usually razor sharp wit.
“I —” a frown creases your forehead as you crouch down beside him, looking over his face, “I said I’d… come back?”
Rafayel sighs again, letting his eyes fall shut, “You don’t even remember…”
He feels the cool of your palm against his cheek and fights down the urge to moan and lean in closer, to press you to him.
“You must really be drunk, huh…” your voice is soft and helpless, but he can hear the hint of your resigned laughter. A moment later, he feels the couch dip as you sit back down, tugging his head into your lap as you run an absent hand through his disheveled hair.
He shakes his head, “Not drunk…”
“Shh… just sleep, okay?” you murmur, pressing your hand to his forehead and smoothing out the tiny frown threatening to crease his brows.
“Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, even though he doesn’t really want to know the answer.
Your laughter is soft, and maybe even a little sad as you caress his cheek.
“Maybe.”
003.
“Stay… still.” Rafayel has both your wrists pinned above your head, his eyes narrowed as he looks down at you. You tug at this grip, cheeks flushed as you glare up at him.
“Stop! It’s fine —!”
“It is not fine,” he bites out as he reaches down to tug up your shirt. You squirm beneath him, your skin burning hot as his eyes skate down the length of your torso to catch on your lower abdomen, where you can feel the wound you’d gotten during your latest mission splitting open, oozing a steady stream of warm blood onto your freshly laundered sheets.
“This — you —” his eyes are wide as he looks up at you before his gaze is drawn back down. A look of horror seeps into his face as he lets go of your wrists.
“I’m — it’s okay — I’m okay…” you say, wincing as you push yourself into a half-sitting position, him still half-hovering over you with an expression caught between anger, terror, and confusion. You sigh, looking down at the large, rather ungainly gash on your lower abdomen.
It’d hurt like hell, sure, but now, it’s mostly faded to a dull throbbing and the occasional zing of pain that shoots up your spine. Vaguely, you wonder how many stitches it’ll have to be this time.
“Y-you’re…” Rafayel sounds distraught, and even though he glares at you again, you can hear the tremor in his voice.
“I just need some sleep… and tomorrow, I’ll go get it checked out.”
Rafayel slumps sideways onto the bed next to you, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“I’ll come with you.”
“If you want,” you lay back against your pillow, shifting gingerly so as not to agitate the wound even more.
“Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Yeah, in the bathroom — but —”
You can only sigh as Rafayel makes his way to the bathroom and comes back a moment later with the first aid kit and a determined frown.
“Now really — stay still.
004.
“Stay close…” Rafayel’s voice is sweet and warm by your ear.
You bite down a rack of shivers a second before he pulls away, laughing at something someone is saying. The bright lights of the exhibition are a bit overwhelming but you’d promised to show up, and so you had.
The dress you’re wearing is a bit tight, but you hitch a smile to your face as a wealthy art collector smarms at Rafayel, waxing poetic about canvases and colors and the sea. You watch with a muted amusement as Rafayel charms the man into a purchase, and then, as soon as he’s got the signed check, sends the babbling socialite on his way before turning back towards you with a soft shudder.
“I think that’s enough networking for one night.”
You blink, blustering as he tugs you off to one side, grabbing two more glasses of champagne as he goes.
“Wh — but — what about the other buyers?”
Rafayel rolls his eyes, “I really only need to make one or two big sales a year, and then the rest —” he flaps his wrist with a painful, marked nonchalance, “that’s all just for clout, anyway.”
You heave a deep sigh, swallowing down a laugh as Rafayel sips at his drink.
“Shouldn’t you at least try to appease some of the other attendees?” you ask, looking around at the various glitterati of Linkon society.
“Nope!” Rafayel sounds too pleased as he grins at you, reaching out to clink his glass against yours, “I don’t really care what most of them think, anyway.”
“Most? So… you do care what some of them think?” you probe, curious now as to who’s opinion Rafayel might put above his own.
Instead, he leans in, pressing in so close that you feel his hot breath against the lobe of your ear, feel the weight of his words ricocheting down your spine —
“No… just the one.” He pulls back and your heart stutters in your chest.
“And… who might that be?” you ask, your voice breathy and thready and just a tiny bit jealous.
Rafayel’s smirk pulls wide, “Oh… a certain Hunter with a mean streak and a weird obsession with claw-machine plushies.
005.
“Stay with me… please…” his voice is hoarse with want, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallow the midnight magic of his eyes.
“Rafayel, you’re burning up!” you press your palm to his forehead and frown, your other hand wrapped around his wrist, his pulse fluttering beneath your grip.
“D-don’t worry — it’s just — it happens ever year —”
“Still! We should go see a doctor —!”
“No! No — no doctors…” his voice is harsh and he pulls you back towards him with such force that the wind is knocked clean from your lungs as you sprawl against his chest, held there by the weight of his arms and the aftershocks of surprise still coursing through you. Vaguely, you note that he’s much stronger than he’s ever let on — less vaguely, you note that his thumbs as pressing into the bare skin of your side as he bites his lips and looks anywhere but at your face.
“Rafayel? Are… are you okay?”
“It’s — I’m fine —” he lets out another ragged breath and you know implicitly that he’s lying.
“You’re not fine — I’m going to grab some ice — o-oh!” you topple backwards as he pulls you back, strong arms encircling your middle as you try too get up and make for the kitchen.
“R-Rafayel?”
He lets out a long breath as he hooks his chin over your shoulder; in your periphery, you can see the dark blush blooming across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, can feel the heat seeping through his thin shirt and yours to your skin. You can smell slightly salty sweetness of his skin as he holds you to him, his eyes closed, lashes almost damnably long in the moonlight as he tugs you back and slumps against the couch.
“I don’t need anything else but you… so… can you just… stay?”
His voice is soft, almost pleading.
You swallow; you nod; you sink into his embrace, wondering briefly if you’d felt something similar to this before. Or perhaps you’d made a promise like this, once upon a time. But the moon is soft and low and heavy on the horizon, and the sea outside is sweet as it shushes against the long stretch of beach, the water casting a myriad of dancing starlight scattering across Rafayel’s studio ceiling.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, leaning back into his embrace.
“Good…” he says, nosing into the soft spot between your neck and shoulders; you shudder as his lips brush against the sensitive skin there, “good,” he says once again before leaning down to press a longing kiss to your shoulder.
006.
“Stay…” you peer blearily up at him through the haze of sleep, all your limbs feeling both heavy and weightless all at once. The events of the night prior flashes behind your eyes and you flush hot at the memory.
Rafayel lets out a soft chuckle, “Oh how the tables have turned.”
“Hm?” you make an uncomprehending noise, frowning slightly as he leans in to press a soft kiss to the back of your hand, still sitting up, the soft white sheets pooling around his middle, the morning sun casting him in a halo of silver and gold.
“Nothing. I’m just gonna go grab some breakfast — I’ll be right back.”
Still, you pout, digging your fingers into his wrist as you shake your head and whine.
“Don’t… don’t leave.”
Rafayel lets out a soft sigh, laughing as he leans back down to kiss your bare shoulder.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen… I won’t go any further than that — I promise, okay?”
You loosen your grip ever so slightly, “Can your promises be trusted?”
He tuts, gently tugging his arm free, “Of course they can — I found you again, didn’t I?”
You hum, burying your face back into the soft linen cover of the pillow as Rafayel gets up to prep breakfast.
He returns less than ten minutes later with a silver tray and a helpless smile as he looks down at your slumbering form, before he leans down to press his lips to yours, curling his fingers into the baby hairs at the nape of your neck and shimmying back under the blankets with you.
He loops his arms around you and smiles to himself as you burrow deeper into his chest, mumbling incoherently.
“Stupid girl… as if I could ever, ever leave you again.”
✦ 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ;; rafayel x gn!reader
✦ 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾 ;; fluff, pure fluff and brainrots, not fully coherent thoughts
✦ 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ;; 0.7k
✦ 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖻𝖾'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 ;; obsessed and thinking about husband rafayel 24/7 - so a little filler drabble while i finish up the zayne oneshot and before i go to bed. enjoy my seashells <3 (currently can't add my yellows - i'll edit the format tomorrow)
⟢ husband! rafayel who makes sure there's always a place for you to sit or lay down on when you're in the room watching him paint
⟢ husband! rafayel who smears paint on your cheeks while you're sleeping, only to feel bad and paint a small sunset or ocean or sunrise or the sky or anything, really, across your cheeks
⟢ husband! rafayel who will trace miscellaneous shapes on your collarbones and shoulders - connecting every freckle and mole
⟢ husband! rafayel who looks at your stretch marks and kisses them gently, tracing every curve and smiling up at you, stopping to only tell you how much they look like stardust
⟢ husband! rafayel who would cave when you give him puppy eyes and a pout - he's weak for you, he knows
⟢ husband! rafayel who once reserved a whole restaurant because he remembered you saying you don't like eating in front of a lot of people, just so you would be comfy on your date night
⟢ husband! rafayel who would collect seashells everyday as he walks on the beach with you, telling you stories about his adventures when he was a little kid in lemurian waters; placing them in a tiny jar that he gives to you - and his grin is so blinding and hug so warm and kiss so tender when he sees it on your desk and in your bag.
⟢ husband! rafayel who thinks you look exceptionally pretty in pearls, but he thinks you're ethereal when you're in his bed, curled up around him, bed hair and sour breath and all
⟢ husband! rafayel who grew fond of cats because of how much you love them - who fell in love with the way you looked and loved cats, and could never think of cats as harmful ever again (especially when you look at them like how you look at him)
⟢ husband! rafayel who buys you dresses upon dresses, if only to see you wear them and spin around like the disney princess you deserved to be but couldn't affort to be
⟢ husband! rafayel introducing you to little fishies during a swim in the ocean, calling you his wife and watching with awe as the fishes boop your nose and circle you two, guiding you both through the waters to the prettiest coral reef ever
⟢ husband! rafayel who lets you see his silvery scars from fighting for his kingdom, letting you trace them even though he flinches from the memories - only soothed by your fingertips and gentle kisses to his skin, your calloused thumbs wiping away falling tears
⟢ husband! rafayel dedicating a whole exhibit with every painting of everything you've ever loved and liked, with the centerpiece as both of you dancing at the banquet, with the words "for my ocean" as its caption
⟢ husband! rafayel who has never thought of having kids until he took one look at you with your nephew, and decided he wanted some then and there
⟢ husband! rafayel who brings you trinkets and tidbits from wherever he travels to, be it in Linkon or overseas, because every little thing reminds him of you (he'd rather live with your memory and you by his side than have to lose you again)
⟢ husband! rafayel that would not let you go anywhere without him - he knows you can defend yourself, but he wants to be able to see you and touch you just in case; he likes protecting you (if only to make up for all the time that he wasn't there to protect you - could you blame him? he wanted you to forget, he was sure you would)
⟢ husband! rafayel that would cook for you when you return home from work, shit-faced and weak, wobbly, exhausted legs - who would feed you and hold you close as your words slurred, a fond smile on his face as he squished your cheeks, watching you fall asleep, your features so beautifully calm and peaceful
⟢ husband! rafayel who never wants to see you cry, but would sit there on the bathroom floor at 5am, wiping your tears away when memories of you both together centuries ago flooded your mind, his heart aching as he watched you cry over not remembering him when it really was his fault
⟢ husband! rafayel who would hold your hair back when you didn't like the way it felt, tying it up into a bun and decorating it with little seashell clips so you felt pretty
⟢ husband! rafayel who would see his child hold a paintbrush, painting a very wonky looking apple and sing with glee - who would frame the apple painting and title it "[child's name]'s first painting"
⟢ husband! rafayel who would tell his child how wonderful of a mother you are, spinning the baby around before he tucks the baby onto his hips, holding her close
⟢ husband! rafayel who would rest his forehead against yours at least 5 times a day, loving the peace and love that radiates from you, seeping into him and soothing his bones, a quick kiss on your lips sealed the deal
⟢ husband! rafayel who always tells you that he's glad to finally be yours, to kiss you and hold you close
⟢ husband! rafayel who looks at you like you hung the moon and stars when you tell him you love him
⟢ husband! rafayel who is just so happy you come home to him everyday
♡. head empty only husband rafayel.
♡₊˚ 🪼・ copyright @scribeofnight all rights reserved ;; do not copy, steal, plagarize, reword or repost to other platforms without proper permission || all credits to original owners and creators of the characters from the media + pictures that are not my own.
( you're getting older without me and i'm getting scared ) ; in which rafayel still hopes that there's a life where this works — where you do not crush his bleeding heart in your hands, & he still loves you despite, despite, despite.
cw: not beta read; spoilers for abysswalker rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth, "fragrant dreams" card, "siren's song" anecdote, & main story ch. 7; angst ; some fluff ; mentions of blood, injury & death ; theories + headcanons about mc & rafayel's past lives ; kinda pretentious rafayel lore analysis ( can't help it, i just love him a lot! )
"RAFAYEL, do you think we're lovers in every universe?"
in the stillness of the night, as he mindlessly draws designs on your skin with his thumb, rafayel lies through his teeth: "yeah. i'm sure we are."
it's all he can manage. how do you tell your lover—your dear, sweet muse, whose presence makes the sea of your heart ebb and swell—that you've wondered the same thing lifetimes ago, and know the answer with bittersweet certainty? you continue talking about an article you read, in the morning—something about "consciousness energy fluctuations" and "that feeling of deja vu" and "soulmates."
and rafayel wonders, humming along to your rambling, if that's what you two are: soulmates.
"i wonder what we're like." you sigh, burrowing your head into the warmth of his chest. surely you can hear the rapid thrumming of his heart—he can't help it, the organ so helplessly weak in your presence. "you're the most creative man i know; got any ideas?"
"i think," rafayel starts, runs his fingers through your hair, "there's a life where i'm a merman, you're the human i've fallen deeply in love with, and the barrier between the waves and the shoreline is all that's stopping us."
rafayel remembers being younger, lifetimes ago. he remembers swimming upstream, through a little river that becomes a smaller creek, settling by your quaint home. he remembers playing you a song on his flute, an elegy for lemuria that became your song. he still remembers your head peeking out from the window and the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen staring down at him. you were like sunflecks dancing upon the water's surface—dazzling—and he, denizen of the deep dark sea, couldn't help but fall in love. he gave you his heart, his blood, his voice.
"hmm... reminds me of an old fairy tale." you press a kiss to the beauty mark on his chest, your lips curving into a smile against his skin. right above where his heart is, where the proof of your pact would shine bright. "do you think you'd have gotten a pair of legs and we'd live happily ever after on land?"
"of course i would've." rafayel smiles.
(he does not think about the way his voice grew hoarse as he sung lemuria's elegy. he does not think about the dagger he'd clutched so tightly in his hidden hand, as you approached him on the shore. he does not think about the hug, the warmth of your body making his resolve flutter. the warm blood on his hands, in the water, seeping from the heart he once loved and now carved out and cradled. he does not think about returning to a ruined lemuria, everything he's ever loved ripped away from him in a night.)
"then i like that one. what about another? knowing how we quarrel, do you think we were royalty hailing from opposing kingdoms?"
"hmm, close. i'd say that i'm an assassin, sneaking into your lovely highness's bedroom window."
"hah! i can see that." his heart flutters when he hears you giggle. rafayel wishes he could trap that beautiful sound inside a conch shell, it almost seemed possible, the way it felt like molten gold—sunlight. "i'd leave the windows open just so you'd have an easier time coming in."
"glad to know you'd still fall for my charms." he finds it in himself to smile, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "even if it might not be the brightest idea, dummy."
"hmph, but if we still loved each other then, you wouldn't kill me." your hand reaches upwards to cup his cheek, a thumb aimlessly stroking comforting lines across his skin. his breath hitches at how naturally it comes to you. "you'd fall for my charms too."
(why wouldn't it? you've done it so many times before, as you—dear highness of philos—gingerly removed his mask. he, who was destined to carve out your heart; and he, who could not bear to do so, who fell apart in the warmth of your hold. any hatred he'd held in his heart for the humans that desecrated his home —beautiful, sacred lemuria— dissolved with each ripple of the lake you both had danced across on that silent night. how could he ever hurt his beloved, who in another life he'd devoted entire oceans to?)
"yeah." he breathes out, almost a chuckle. "yeah, i guess i would, your highness."
"rafa?" you murmur, words slurred with the call of sleep, ushered in by him running a hand through your hair. "i really hope that we're soulmates even if it's in the silliest lives you could ever think up. do you?"
(and he hopes for more, a case study in greed. he hopes for the most blissful lives with you—where he's the receding sea and you are the sands of the shore, or you are an anemone polyp and he is the rock you've decided to settle upon, or he is the deepsea fish that looks longingly upon the warmth of the sunflecks that dance upon the water. he hopes there's a life where this whole thing works: where you do not crush his bleeding heart in your hands, & he still loves you despite, despite, despite.)
and rafayel smiles, presses the umpteenth kiss tonight to your forehead, watches you draw closer into his hold. and then he whispers his little wish against your skin, as soft as a siren singing lullabies to a sailor:
"yeah. i hope so too."
a/n: on this lovely valentine's day i offer the rafa stans: angst 🤩 the ending was a bit rushed because i... was no longer in an angsty mood. this fic is very much so a product of a time where i knew less of rafa's lore (see: did not finish the myth) so there may be some lore inaccuracies ... please do listen to berenstein by the band camino!!! l&ds' plot feels like an amalgamation of some of my favourite songs (berenstein, heartbeat by bts, isohel by EDEN)... and it's just such a good plot so far. please send me rafa lore stuff/general thoughts bc i'd love to try and play around with some of them (i have an idea for his birthday fic already) ,,, i'd love and appreciate you immensely ♡
-> a/n: first time writing for my lil fishie :’)) pls be nice 2 me xx
Rafayel wants to paint you.
A portrait of his beloved as seen through his Lemurian eyes, something for him to keep and gaze upon on those days when you’re not there in the flesh. Though why you wouldn’t be by his side, he’ll never know, but still - just in case. He’ll never say it aloud but he does yearn for you so terribly when you’re away.
“Sit right… there. Perfect. Now whatever you do, don’t move an inch.”
You huff in annoyance as you hold the simple pose he’s put you in. You’re just glad it’s nothing weird or complex. “Couldn’t you have just used a photo?”
Scoffing, he looks at you from over the top of his easel with a look of mild disgust at the notion. “As if. The colours in photographs aren’t always true to life and I want this to be lifelike.”
“I thought portraits weren’t your thing?” you ask him curiously.
He smirks as he swirls his brush in fresh paint. “That doesn’t mean I can’t paint one, baby.”
There’s a sense of serenity that settles over the two of you as he works. A hushed breeze flutters through the open windows, bringing with it the faint scent of the ocean. His brush swooshes against the canvas with every stroke, and he hums and mumbles to himself as he tilts his head thoughtfully, casting glances at you every so often.
When Rafayel paints, it’s like he turns into a different person. He grows quieter, more pensieve, retreating to a place within himself where his hands are guided by an unknown force, beyond his own conscious thought. Once, he explained it to you and all you could do was blink at him dumbfounded, concluding that it was just one of those ‘artist quirks’. But it’s always interesting to watch him work, an artform in and of itself. His steady, practised hands, the way his wrist flicks with a flourish of the tool in hand, long fingers curled around it elegantly.
Day bleeds into dusk, the hours stretching past you as the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon. Your legs and backside ache from being sat in the same way for such a long period of time and you’re about to open your mouth to complain to your boyfriend but he steps away from his easel and cocks his head to the side in scrutiny of his work. A look of frustration crosses his features as his eyes flick between the canvas and your face.
“... Are you done?” you ask and he nods imperceptibly, his attention split between the painting and your voice.
“Yeah.”
“Can I see it?”
“Hmm. No.”
“Why not?”
Frowning, he folds his arms over his chest. “Because I don’t like it.”
Rising from your seat, you groan quietly as you stretch out your limbs and walk over to him to peer at his creation. To you, it’s faultless, like looking in a mirror. You tell him as much, not quite sure what the problem is. He sighs and runs a hand through his lavender hair, a pout forming on his lips. “It doesn’t look anything like you!”
“Are we looking at the same painting?” you giggle, amused by his little tantrum.
“Apparently not! Come here.” Gently, he tugs you by the bicep to stand beside the painting. “The differences are so obvious!”
To Rafayel, they are. The curves of your cheeks aren’t as endearing, the way your bright smile reaches your sparkling eyes isn’t as captivating, the slope of your nose and the texture of your soft, soft lips are all wrong on the canvas.
And the colours? The ones that are flecked throughout your irises, the ones that thread through your hair and dapple your skin, the shades on the canvas are far removed from reality. It’s nowhere near close enough and it does you no justice. Splodges and strokes of paint cannot hope to carry the life and vibrancy in you.
The sun dips lower, pouring burnished light through the tall windows in his studio, and you squint as a beam of it falls over your eyes. Rafayel looks at you again and the brush in his hand clatters to the floor, a soft, barely audible gasp leaving his lips.
You’re soaked in lavender and roses, burnt oranges and fire and he has never seen anything quite so ethereal. And it’s then that it dawns on him. This is impossible, a truly fruitless endeavour. It’s impossible to capture love within the confines of paint and canvas and pencil when there are times where he can’t even explain the thumping in his heart. How could he pour all of his love into this one piece when there’s oceans upon oceans of it, so deep and undiscovered that he can’t describe it, even with all the colours of the world at his disposal.
Frustration gives way to surrender, and he offers you a handsome, half smile, reaching out to tuck a lock of your hair behind your ear. “Never mind,” he says softly, paint-smudged fingertips whispering over the line of your jaw. “I don’t need a painting. I have you. Right before my very eyes.”
