cherimilku

[cherimilku]

My oc!

[cherimilku]

Oh to be held like this by Caleb

[cherimilku]

First time posting my art, kinda nervous >.<

[cherimilku]

Muse Reader x Rafayel (Love and Deepspace). A snippet from a full story

The studio feels more alive at night, the dim lights casting long shadows across the floor. When I arrive, the door is slightly ajar. I slip inside quietly, not wanting to disturb. Rafayel sits before a large canvas, his entire focus absorbed by the canvas before him.

He doesn't turn when I enter, but the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he senses my presence without looking.

"I wasn't sure you'd actually show," he says. "I figured you might be too busy with your thrilling routine of reading alone and contemplating life."

"I said I would, didn't I?" I move further into the room. "Besides, I thought I'd check if you were dramatically brooding over your paintings again."

"Bold of you to assume I ever stop brooding." He shoots back. "It's part of my artistic charm."

"I still don't understand what you see in me," I admit after a moment. "I didn't think you'd actually want to keep painting me."

His gaze flickers toward me and he smirks. "Obviously, I enjoy torturing myself."

I give him a flat look. "Very funny."

He tilts his head, studying me. "You're more than what you see in the mirror. You've got layers, contradictions. My job is to uncover them."

"And I'm supposed to just... let you?"

"No, you're supposed to be difficult about it, like you always are." He sighs dramatically. "It's fine. I like a challenge."

I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat.

"I've been working on something new," he says, stepping away from the easel. "I think you'll like it."

I raise an eyebrow, setting my bag down by the door. "What is it this time?"

He moves aside, revealing a new painting. Not a portrait of me, but something ethereal—a twilight ocean with a lone figure standing on the shore. The figure has no distinct features.

"You've been painting the ocean again," I say, my voice soft. "But this one feels different."

Rafayel looks at me, his eyes tracing the painting's lines before meeting mine. "It's not just the ocean. It's what you said about being yourself. About not knowing who that really is. I've been thinking about that."

His words hang between us. The idea that he sees something in me I can't see myself is both exhilarating and terrifying.

"I didn't know you were listening so closely." I reply, trying to mask my nerves with humor.

He places a hand over his heart. "I am deeply wounded by your lack of faith."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Right. Of course."

He grins. "Now, come sit. I want to show you what else I've been working on."

I follow him, taking my usual seat near the canvas. The ocean's rhythm enters through the open windows as he retrieves another piece. This one isn't a portrait either, but something abstract—colors swirling together in chaos, reds and golds clashing with deep blues.

"What's this one?" I ask, leaning forward.

"The way I imagine you when you let yourself feel," he says, his voice low as he watches me. "It's the energy you contain when you're not afraid of being who you are."

I swallow hard, fighting to keep my composure. "I'm not sure I know how to be that person."

"You don't have to know yet," he says, stepping closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "That's why I'm here. To help you see it."

I'm not certain I'm ready for what he's offering, but the idea that someone might truly see and understand me is irresistible.

"So, what's next?" I ask, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Rafayel grins slyly. "I thought you might help me create something different tonight. I've got an idea."

My curiosity sparks. "What do you mean?"

He gestures to a table cluttered with paints, brushes, and charcoal. "We're making something together. You always watch me create. I want to see what happens when we do it together."

"I have no idea what to make."

"Perfect," he presses a brush into my hand. "That makes two of us."

The idea thrills and terrifies me. Creating rather than just sitting feels like stepping into uncharted territory.

I hesitate before relenting. "Fine. But if it's terrible, it's your fault."

"How dare you doubt our creative genius?"

What follows is chaos.

Rafayel, it turns out, is a terrible teacher.

"No, no, like this." Rafayel's hands settle over mine, guiding the brush with unexpected patience. His chest presses against my back, his breath warm against my ear.

I shiver as his fingers trail down my wrist, adjusting my grip. "I—uh, I think I got it."

"You're holding the brush like it's a weapon."

"Maybe it is a weapon."

He laughs, stepping back. "Alright, Picasso. Do your worst."

I scowl, dipping the brush into a glob of red paint, then smear it across the canvas in a big streak.

Rafayel stares. "That's... a choice."

"It's abstract." I defend.

"It's a crime against art."

I try again, this time with more pressure. The color spreads richer, more certain.

"Better." There's a quiet approval in his voice that warms me more than it should.

I notice a smudge of paint on his jaw, a careless streak from when he'd pushed his hair back earlier. Without thinking, I reach up to wipe it away.

My thumb barely grazes his skin before his hand shoots up, catching my wrist mid-air. We both freeze. His grip isn't tight, but there's an undeniable tension in his fingers.

A beat passes. Then another.

His eyes that are usually so expressive have gone unreadable. "What are you doing?" he asks.

My pulse thunders in my ears. "You... you have paint. On your face."

For one excruciating moment, neither of us moves. Then, abruptly, he releases me and takes a deliberate step back.

"I can get it myself." He says, rubbing at the wrong spot entirely with the back of his hand.

The missed smear stands out a lot. I open my mouth, then close it. Before the silence can stretch further, Rafayel clears his throat and bumps his shoulder against mine with forced casualness. "Not bad for your first time."

I smirk through my lingering embarrassment. "Not bad for your teaching skills."

"I'll have you know I'm an excellent teacher."

"Could've fooled me." I shoot back, relieved to fall back into our familiar manner.

He grins, though his eyes still hold that unreadable feeling from before. "Well, then I guess you'll just have to come back for another lesson."

I hesitate only a moment before nodding. "Guess I will."

As I turn to leave, I catch him once again rubbing at the paint on his jaw, his fingers lingering where mine had almost touched. Full story: The Artist's Muse │ Love and Deepspace Rafayel x Reader (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/389702656-the-artist%27s-muse-%E2%94%82-love-and-deepspace-rafayel-x? (On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65074873/chapters/167341744)

[cherimilku]

Hungover Reader x Rafayel (Love and Deepspace). A snippet from full story.

The first thing I register is warmth. The second is the dull pounding in my skull.

I groan, pressing a hand to my forehead as I shift against the soft sheets beneath me. Soft sheets. That isn't right. My bed isn't this comfortable. And it definitely doesn't smell like—

My breath hitched. The unmistakable scent of him.

My eyes snap open, and I immediately regret it. The room is too bright, my head is too heavy, and worst of all—I'm not in my apartment.

I'm in Rafayel's bed.

Panic curls in my stomach as last night comes back in fragments—Jenna, Tara, the jazz bar, too many drinks and then Rafayel. His hands steadying me. His lips, warm and just slightly parted. The feel of his breath against mine.

Oh, no.

I kissed him.

I sit up too fast, my vision swimming. That is when I notice that someone took off my shoes. Someone tucked me in.

And I have a very good guess who that someone is.

As if on cue, a voice drifts from the other side of the room.

"Well, well. Sleeping Beauty awakens."

I nearly jump out of my skin. Rafayel is leaning against the doorway, his arms are crossed with a coffee mug in hand. His dark eyes are fixed on me, the usual smirk tugging at his lips.

I open my mouth, then immediately shut it because what am I supposed to say? Sorry for throwing myself at you? Thanks for not letting me collapse? Please forget I ever put my lips on yours?

He raises a brow, clearly enjoying my suffering. "You look like you're debating whether to thank me or to start planning your escape."

I scowl, my brain still too sluggish to come up with a proper response. Instead, I throw the nearest object at him,a pillow. He catches it effortlessly, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"I carry you all the way here, give you my bed, and this is the thanks I get?" He tsks. "You're hurting me, you know?"

"Oh shut up," I groan, rubbing my temples. "Why am I here?"

He looks at me like he is considering how much to embarrass me. "Well, you were drunk, you got here god knows how, and you seemed like you were going to collapse next to my door at any moment, so I figured I should probably let you in."

My hands cover my face. "Kill me. Just end it now."

"Tempting," he chuckles. "But watching you suffer through this hangover is much more entertaining."

I peek through my fingers to glare at him, but he just smirks. Infuriating.

Then, as if the most amazing thought just struck him, he leans against the doorframe. "By the way, you never mentioned you get extra affectionate when you're drunk."

I freeze. My heart dropped.

"Oh, you don't remember?" he continues. "And here I thought it was a special moment."

"I hate you." I mutter under my breath.

"Now, that's just hurtful." He places a hand over his heart. "But don't worry, I was a perfect gentleman. You, however..." He trailes off, enjoying the way my eyes widen in horror.

"Oh my god..." I press my palms against my face again. "What did I do?"

"Well, aside from clinging to me like your life depended on it?" He tilts his head, drawing out the suspense.

I am torn between throwing myself out the window and strangling him. "I did not."

"You definitely did." He takes a sip of his coffee. "And let's not forget the part where you-"

"Okay!" I practically shout, shoving the blanket off me and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "We're done talking about this."

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "If you say so."

He leaves the room, wearing a proud smirk on his face. I will not think about the kiss. I will not think about the way he didn't pull away and kissee me again. And I definitely will not think about the look in his eyes now.

Rafayel returns a few minutes later, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of painkillers in the other. He tosses them onto the bed beside me.

"Drink."

I swallow the pills, ignoring the way he is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me like I am the most interesting thing in the room. It is irritating.

I set the glass on his nightstand and exhale slowly. "Okay. I think I can go now."

"Bold of you to assume I'm letting you leave in your current state."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

He arches a brow. "After one sip of water, you think you're good to go?" He tsks. "Not happening, sweetheart."

I groan, flopping back onto the pillows. "This is the worst day of my life."

He chuckles. "You're so dramatic."

I turn my head to glare at him. "I drunkenly kissed you, Rafayel. And now I have to sit here and pretend like that didn't happen, while you-" I gestured at him, flustered. "-just stand there"

His lips twitches, like he is fighting back another smirk. "And what exactly am I doing wrong?"

"It's just Infuriating."

He humms. "Well, that's just my natural charm."

I throw another pillow at him. This time, he let it hit him.

Silence settles between us after that, heavy despite the teasing. I don't know what I want him to say. Maybe some kind of reassurance that I hadn't ruined everything. Maybe just an acknowledgment that he felt something too. Full story: The Artist's Muse │ Love and Deepspace Rafayel x Reader (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/389702656-the-artist%27s-muse-%E2%94%82-love-and-deepspace-rafayel-x? (On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65074873/chapters/167341744)

[cherimilku]

Drunk Reader X Rafayel (Love and Deepspace). A snippet from a full story

The cool night air hits me harder than I expect as I stand at the door of Rafayel's apartment. I'm not sure how much I've had to drink at the gathering, only that it's too much. The alcohol has worked its magic, loosening my grip on my thoughts, and the world around me spins. I can't recall how I've gotten here, but there I am, standing in front of the door, and all I can think about is how badly I want to feel something other than the confusion swirling inside of me.

I press the buzzer before I can stop myself, and the door clicks open almost instantly. Rafayel is there, leaning against the frame, looking at me with surprise. His eyes lock on mine, his face softening when he sees how unsteady I am.

"Someone's had a little too much to drink, huh?" His voice is low, but there's a certain edge to it. Is he surprised? Annoyed?

I blink, fighting to keep my balance. The alcohol makes everything float around me, like I'm watching myself from a distance. I sway against the doorframe. "You texted me."

His eyes rake over my smudged mascara, the wrinkled dress, the way my fingers clutch my purse. "I don't think I told you to come."

Rafayel studies me for a moment, his brow furrowing. I can feel him processing whether this is a good idea or a terrible one, but he steps aside, his hand moving toward the door.

"You should come inside. You're clearly not in any condition to be wandering around."

I hesitate, but only for a moment. I'm not sure if it's the alcohol, the weight of the tension between us, or just the feeling of being completely and utterly lost, but I walk in.

The studio is quiet, but the same scent of paint and old wood greets me, familiar and comforting. My heels click against the hardwood floor as I walk in, unsure of what to do next.

Rafayel doesn't say anything at first. He simply watches me, his eyes tracing over my face, lingering on my slightly flushed cheeks and the way my hands fidget.

His gaze is on me, sharper than before. "How much did you drink?" he asks me with concern.

"Not sure." My answer is vague, and the words feel sticky in my mouth, like I'm not really in control of what I'm saying anymore.

Rafayel's eyes soften. He steps closer, reaching out with one hand, his fingertips gently grazing my cheek.

I look up at him, my breath catching in my throat. Everything is spinning, but I don't care. He's close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin, smell the faint trace of cologne on his clothes, and it's like all the distance between us dissolves in an instant.

"You're not sober."

"I'm sober enough." My fingers fist in his shirt.

He exhales sharply. "Don't. You'll be regretting it tomorrow."

But I don't listen and I don't think. I just move. My lips find his, urgent and unsure, the taste of alcohol on my lips heady.

The kiss is desperate, filled with a rawness that's almost painful. He responds immediately, his hands sliding to my waist, pulling me closer, his lips moving against mine with a fierce intensity that takes my breath away. But just as quickly as it starts, he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, breaths coming in shallow gasps.

"Are you sure that you want this?" His voice is strained, like he's fighting every inch of his body to not kiss me again.

I blink, trying to focus, trying to make sense of what's happening. The words feel distant, slipping away from me, but I nod anyway. I want this, whatever this is. I want him.

"I'm sure." I whisper, my voice a little slurred, but the feeling inside of me is as clear as anything.

But Rafayel hesitates, his grip on me loosening just enough to put a small gap between us. "You don't know what you're saying." He murmurs, his eyes searching mine, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

The doubt in his eyes makes my chest tighten, but I can't let go. The distance between us is unbearable.

"I don't care," I say, my voice firmer now, even as the world around me continues to blur. "I don't care about anything right now. Just... don't stop kissing me."

He hesitates for a moment, his lips still so close to mine, but then his eyes soften, the uncertainty lingering but slowly fading into something darker. His fingers thread through my hair, pulling me toward him again, and this time, there's no hesitation. His kiss is deeper, more urgent, as if he can't stop himself any more than I can.

But even as we kiss, a part of me can't ignore the nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Rafayel isn't sure. Not really. He's just... responding. Responding to the moment, to the need, to the feeling I've pulled out of him.

When we finally pull away, he's breathing heavily, his hands resting on my shoulders as he stares down at me. "This isn't you." He says quietly, looking away.

"Maybe it's who I need to be right now."

Rafayel's expression falters, his eyes searching mine as if he's trying to make sense of it all. And then, he takes a step back, his gaze softening, but there's a hesitation there. "I'm not going to take advantage of you while you're like this."

The words sting more than I expect, but I nod. I understand. Even if I don't want to.

"You're not taking advantage of me." I say softly, trying to steady myself. "I just..." I don't know what I'm saying anymore. But somehow, I've crossed a line. And now, there's no going back.

Rafayel looks at me for a long moment, his expression torn. "You need to rest," he says gently. "We can talk when you're sober."

His arm slides beneath my knees, the other bracing against my back as the world tilts suddenly. With steady, careful steps, his arms firm around me, he crosses the room. My head lolls slightly against his shoulder, my body too heavy with exhaustion to fight the pull of sleep.

When we reach his bedroom, he gently lowers me onto the bed. The sheets meet my skin, the absence of his touch feeling colder than the sheets. But just as I think he'll step away, I feel the bed shift slightly as he kneels beside me.

A soft rustling, then the faintest brush of fingers against my ankle. I barely open my eyes, but I can feel him there. His hands are warm as they wrap around my ankle, sliding my heels off one at a time. The action is slow, almost hesitant, like he's afraid of waking me.

I feel his fingers against my skin as he adjusts the blanket over me, tucking me in with the same care he puts into everything he does.

For a moment, he just sits there, silent. Watching. Thinking. Then, without a word, he rises, grabbing a spare pillow from the bed before making his way toward the couch downstairs. Even in my half-asleep haze, I feel the loss of his presence, the empty space where he's been. And somehow, it makes the room feel colder. Full story: The Artist's Muse │ Love and Deepspace Rafayel x Reader (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/389702656-the-artist%27s-muse-%E2%94%82-love-and-deepspace-rafayel-x? (On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65074873/chapters/167341744)