#trying my hand at some prose or smth. idk. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

1864reruns · 3 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤyour poet, your painㅤ౨ৎㅤ4.7k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©1864RERUNS

synopsis. being mean to rafayel comes with cruel consequences, he makes sure to get you back always. (to my love, 5☆ rafayel card: your fragrance)

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, rafayel's characterisation being ?, does this count as a scent kink??? smth to do with smell... my rafayel babes get it, dirty talk, fingering, guided masturbation, orgasm denial, will he actually fuck?, answer is no, rafayel makes you finish what he started, not proof–read, petname: baby

from vyon. awkward.... so very awkward; first ever nsfw piece ever, be nice :3 i swear i've actually ingested a healthy amount of nsfw stuff but writing it has always been a different story and trust me, i've tried... but writing 'cock' in any sort of serious manner makes me giggle a little but rafayel has made this so serious for me, he's still a little silly at the end though. mmmgffff the want i have for him is carved into my bones and his name stirs an appetite in my teeth.

this was whipped up so quickly for no reason but it's definitely a style that i feel that took up its own life. it's so different from my usual prose and idk how i feel about it so take of that what you will. also!!!!!!!!! my requests for l&ds are open :3

do not repost / copy / translate.

Oh, he must think you're an idiot— your eyebrows furrowed, rolling your hand around the tie you've managed to wrap around his wrist; a little force and you've got him falling backwards onto his couch with a groan, pressing your knee between his thighs to keep him down. Rafayel winces, his head ducking down and his elbows withdrawn into his stomach. "You're being so rough," he complained, his eyes turning to look up through long lashes, "don't you know it's best to treat artists with care?"

Your lips tugged into a frown, unamused as your body hovered over his form, head tilted. "Come on, you can take a little rough handling, Rafayel." He's unmoving for a second, merely moving his eyes back down as his fingers laced together beside his head. The display makes you feel bad, like you were bullying a child or maybe a puppy; a sigh passes through your lips and you let go of one end of the tie. The material slips off his wrists, falling down his arms and catching in the bend of his elbow before you're pulling it back and Rafayel's moving his hands down to inspect his wrists.

Making a face at his sulk, you folded the tie up and brought your knee down as you watched him carefully massage his wrists with his fingers. Rafayel blows a soft breath on his left wrist, glancing up at you for a second like you'd wronged his family. "We both know it'd take a lot more than that to put an artist like you out of commission." You dryly retort, trying to shake off some of the sudden guilt that's beginning to stick to you.

The curtains of Rafayel's room are pulled close, the light soaked up by the swollen fabric, pooling at his wooden floor from the ceiling. Hues draped in red oozed onto his face, bubbles of shadows washing over every hurt feature as Rafayel rubbed circles over his wrist, stopping at intervals to blow a warm breath onto the skin. You shift awkwardly, eyebrows furrowed. "Rafayel," you try again, "put the tie on and let's go to the exhibition. Thomas is waiting."

"Help me," he demands, lips still stuck in that aggrieved pout as his hands fall into his lap. Rafayel's finger wrapped around his wrist as he straightened up, his shoulders falling as his eyes moved to the tie you held in your hand. "My hands are sore so intricate work like tying a tie will be tough."

Exasperation settled on your face as you studied him, eyes flickering from details of his expression, the suit you'd managed to encourage him to change into, his posture against the couch, what you think is the reddened skin of his wrists— which is probably from his endless massaging anyways, you didn't even tighten it that hard. A hissing intake of breath passes through your teeth, eyebrows falling as you begrudgingly draped the tie around his neck.

Fixing the length of the two ends under the collar of his white dress shirt, you allowed his weakened hands to fall onto your waist. You leaned forward to straighten out the back of his collar for a second, bumping his hand off your hip; you miss Rafayel's face scrunching up, seriousness tainting his feature as his head turns after your hand to chase that subtle scent again. Unaware of his predicament, you brushed the collar out and tucked the tie underneath the folded fabric before you're bringing your hand back.

Rafayel's fingers catch your wrist as it passes his face, bringing it back to him as he presses his nose into your flesh. "Rafayel?" You asked, attempting to pull your wrist from his gentle grip.

He groaned, tightening his hold almost immediately and tugging your hand further back. Rafayel's eyes closed, his head ducking down and his other hand going to pull at the neck of his shirt. A sort of troubled hum sounds deep from his throat, "this," he started, hesitantly, "it's familiar."

"My skin?" You laughed, amused at his words and his behavior. His nose tickled your palm, the tip tracing the many lines that could foretell your fate; a fluid movement you've seen made by dancers runs its course through Rafayel's head as he turned to trail his nose over your wrist. Something settled in your spine, shivering its way up and shouting danger through crevices of your brain as your eyes fell over the curve of his eyelids, closed over his eyes. You could only imagine what emotion could possibly be hidden behind the sensitive layer of skin, you feared the stutter that'd arise if he'd open his eyes to drown you in that tantalising coral sea. "Rafay—"

His eyebrows furrowed, head flinching away from the sound of your face. "The scent." He corrected, easily pulling you closer, your knees hit against the side of the couch as your front falls forward. "It's," he muttered, trailing off slightly as he fixed his other arm around you to settle you on one of his thighs. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was in one of the back offices, a sample." You scrambled out. You make a feeble attempt to pull any part of yourself away from him. Exhibition, Thomas, perfume, get Rafayel there— you remembered. The stretch of memory all fall apart when you feel the digging of Rafayel's fangs on the meaty palm under your thumb, he pulled away gently when you hissed, only leaving the tips of his canines on the skin and dragging his teeth across.

Rafayel's eyes leveled on you, the usual light colours of his iris unsaturated under the shadows of his lashes. "I don't like it," he moved himself forward after a second, bringing a hand to your chin to tilt your head to the side. He gives your neck the same attentiveness, each inhale leaves your neck cold; the threat of him sinking his teeth into your neck remains cruelly true, his lips brushed against your collarbone. "I hate it, are you trying to trick me?"

The confusion that Rafayel comes with, a roughening whiplash, you've accepted it as a part of his demeanour. Troubled artists, who really knows about the crazy lot? But. Rafayel moved even closer, as if trying to bury his nose into the cells of your body that the molecules of perfume stubbornly clung onto; his lips tugged down into a frown and eyebrows following the curve down; lashes tickled your skin and you squirm. You repeated his name again, it's a shredded truth of the matter, how Rafayel falls from between saliva soaked tastebuds, hungry teeth, wet lips like a plead, a beg.

"It won't happen," Rafayel mumbled, going off onto his own tangent. His eyes meet yours, mirroring a speckle of the delirium held at your waterline and his head tilted— confusion settled between the furrow of his brows, skin scrunched together.

Your hand makes the next move, the back of your fingers pressing against his neck as your index finger bent upwards to catch on his jaw. "Rafayel." The artist's head follows your hand, trailing after the lingering shed of perfume; you pinch the rim of his ears, massaging the cartilage until you're down to the lobe. "Ra'yel," your eyes flickered down to his face for a beat, curious of his expression. It's distant from you, features locked in a beat that seemed to be out of grasp— his eyes are hazy and unfocused, cheeks heated as you run the pad of your thumb over the line of his angular cheekbone.

Rafayel blinks slowly, his lips parted and you watched a hue of red light catch between his two front teeth, dripping down into his bottom lip menacingly as he leaned forward. A hand you haven't been paying attention to moved up from behind you, grabbing your collar and pulling it the side so he could sink his teeth into your collarbone. You squeezed your eyes shut, a hiss coming from between your teeth. "Smells so strong," he muttered against your skin, he scrunched his nose up and huffing slightly.

Each word he makes sounds as though he's squeezing it out of his throat, soaked in some unfortunate degree of effort.

The same hand slivered its attention downwards, fingers dancing over the fabric of your shirt, stabilises for a second; it becomes stern in its existence as it rubbed over the stitching of your shirt, which you both know isn't enough until his pinky dips under the hem of your shirt and the rest of his hand follows. Between the soft groaning, sucking sounds near your ear and the feeling of his nails lighting new paths for demons on your skin, you're not to sure what to focus on. Your mind stays on one thing. "Rafayel."

"I know, don't nag," he mumbled, his lips pressed just behind the lobe of your ear. "You're not so good at defending yourself, huh?" His teeth catch on the lobe at the same time his fingers knead down on the meat of your hips, he tugs on your ear and manages to worm his pinky past the waistband of both your trousers and underwear.

"Why would I try defending myself against this?" You strained out, a hum vibrating through your ribs, following the curve and paths of the bones and passed to your fingertips. Rafayel trailed the lowered hand to your front, fiddling messily with the button of your bottoms; his lips leave your skin in a flicker of annoyance after a few seconds, tugging out into that wronged pout. You shook your head, amused smile on your face as he refocuses his attention on the button.

"It seems as though your defence is up though."

You sighed, taking it upon yourself to unbutton your pants. "No, I think you're just weak."

"That's an unfair observation," he groaned. There was something charming about his troubled artist demeanour— how in these moments, desperation flooded his veins; you've seen it tainted in the curve of his back a few times, as he's mixing pigments, trying to figure out composition. A hand brushes through your hair, softly tilting your head backwards. "Are you really thinking of other things right now?" Hurt eyes meet yours, his chin tucking close to his neck as he curled his fingers in your hair. Neatly clipped nails glided across your scalp, splitting a line down to the nape of your neck, the movement warrants a shiver. You see it now. As he takes it upon himself to redirect your wandering attention, how Rafayel wants you clinging to every ministration, to make feeble attempts to swallow his words as he spits them.

His hands settled under your thigh, slipping over your ass with a gentle squeeze as he urged you to your knees. Settling your arms onto his shoulders, your legs part to settle beside his thighs as he pushed down the waistband of your pants. He pauses for a second, a sliver of your underwear showing as he glanced up. A flicker of amusement in his eyes, his head tilted in an almost trying way. "Didn't you say," he starts slow. "Nevermind," amusement and pleasure blurred on his face.

"Huh?"

Rafayel shook his head, continuing on like he hadn't said anything; he leaned forward and catches the lace hugging your stomach with his teeth, pulls his head back and lets it go. It snaps back against your skin and he chases to press a kiss over it. The material of your trousers makes it awkward to take off in the position you're in, you slide back to plant your feet onto the floor, kicking off your shoes and the pants not a beat later. Rafayel leaned forward, pressing a few kisses over the front of your panties. "Smells better here," he kept an arm wrapped around your thighs as he tilted his head up.

Your face heated up, eyes widening as you struggled to push his head back from you. "Don't just say that—!" You struggle to find a common ground between the sheer embarrassment and throbbing need that burns through layers of skin at Rafayel's lips through the thin fabric. His nose pressed up against the elastic as your lips dipped into a subtle pout— what a bad habit he's got, playing with his food; it's nothing foreign to you but this soft tenderness has you staggered, breathless.

Rafayel merely settled you down onto his lap, shifting himself forward a little to lean back and spreaded his legs so yours followed. Your bare thighs brushed against the smooth leather of the couch, you gave a small shudder and Rafayel plants a firm hand on the side of your thigh, his fingers pressing into the flesh and kneading. He leaned in, his lips landing tenderly on yours. Everything that was your voice died on the dried friction of his lips against yours, new nerves light up through your skin; his teeth nip at your bottom lip, pulling back a little before he's surging forward again, his tongue directing.

Your stomach dipped with a gasp, hands falling on Rafayel's shoulders for some sense of stability; your fingers dug up from the nape of his neck to his roots, catching darkened strands in curves and tilting his head back as you shifted to your knees to dip your head further down. You take one of Rafayel's groan as your own, passing it through your system as oxygen and tugging for more.

His hands pressed against the curve of your side, pulling back from the kiss. "I'm not going anywhere," he offered, his voice soft and indulgent. You narrowed your eyes at him, but that's it. Eager fingers unfurl, patting down strands of messy hair that stuck out defiantly until they settled back onto his shoulders; you leaned back down onto his lap— the spreading of his legs forcing you to be practically hovering. Rafayel leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. In the lighting of his bedroom, his hair isn't purple at all— a few shades too dark to discern the pretty hue it shines under the sun; his hair sticks between your forehead and stabs onto your eyelid, making you wince. "Better." He moved his chin forward, tilting his head as he goes to press another kiss against your lips.

Rafayel's unwavering desire to control the timing and pace of your intimate moments is anything but annoying in the second; his fingers are warm, calloused across odd scars on your body and textured flesh. A flicker of unfamiliarity settles in your mouth, Rafayel's tongue, calm and slow; he's unusually methodical— like you had all the time in the world. "Wait—" You pushed yourself off of him, the realisation dawning on you. "You sneaky bastard, we need to—"

Rafayel blinks at you as your body practically stuttered back against him and a helpless whine passes through softened lips, "need to?" He repeated calmly, waiting for you to clarify like he hadn't just ran his nail right over your clit. You furrowed your eyebrows, forehead leaning on his shoulder; Rafayel noted the troubled expression on your face and pressed the pad of his middle finger over your darkened underwear, dragging a line down the slit. "You know you work for me right, baby?" He hummed, his other hand wrapping around your side to slide the joint of his fingers over the curved bone of your back. "There's no need to listen to what other men want you do to."

Your fingers scrambled for something to hold onto, falling back onto the couch just until he's repeating the movement with two fingers, adding a new motion to the beat as he rubbed circles over your sensitive clit. Then your hands returned to his shoulders, fingers falling to catch his sleeve as your teeth caught onto your lip. A flickering of annoyance comes drowned with pleasure, his words echo in your mind, blossoming a whole new phrase: there's no need for it when you're mine. The reminder's wholy unnecessary, you've known that for a while. Every crevice you've kept hidden from prying eyes had spurned some deluded hour of sudden inspiration; the colour of your eyes sparkling wet with tears when you're on your knees, he's spent hours trying to replicate with coral and seashells; the signature of his work pressed into the ribs that hide beneath your breast; the stability of your entire being hammered out with keys made to stretch the canvas. It's all there, stained with his fingerprints.

Your thighs make a sudden jump to snap close when Rafayel circled his fingers back down, his thumb pushing the wet fabric aside and inspecting his work. He makes a dissatisfied hum, keeping your legs open with his legs; the fabric of his slacks run warm against your bare thighs. No sense of guilt or shame traceable in his strokes, Rafayel pushed down on your cunt with his middle finger; you wondered if he worked on his paintings in the same way, without the smallest sense of hesitation? In the same way that Rafayel saw his paintings as something he didn't truly own, he saw you, undeniably, as his. Why wouldn't you be? Every detail, every crack, crevice, flaw, perfection that was sculpted together was his to be claimed— you snapping your hips closer to his fingers was all the evidence.

The delicious, burning, stretch that comes with him pressing two fingers into your cunt is welcomed with a high–pitched whine.

"You're unusually quiet," Rafayel commented, curling his hand to press the butt of his palm up so you could grind your clit against his hand. "How was work, any more of my paintings nearly kill you?"

"Are you seriously—" He pushes the remaining length of his fingers in, your words break apart into a whimper as your head leaned back. Rafayel's free hand is idle around your waist, helping you keep yourself balanced. "Don't make— fuck," you breathed out, "small talk, Rafayel."

"Yeah cause you're already talking enough for both of us." He pointed out with a hum. His fingers keep at you steadily, sometimes pausing when his digits were settled nicely into your walls so you could roll your clit against his palm.

You feel his fingers spread out inside you slightly, "haven't even said anything." You raised your hips, meeting his thrusts as you turned to settle your forehead against Rafayel's shoulder.

"Your cunt." Rafayel corrected himself after hearing you, "you're so wet." He allowed for a moment of silence, beneath the sound of heavy panting, fabric and material rubbing against each other, you do hear the wet sound of him sinking his fingers into you. "It's been drowning out the sound of your phone ringing for a while, you think Thomas is going to come?"

Any chance of you offering back a coherent reply dies, awakening a strangled cry from the depths as Rafayel fastened his pace. You straightened in his lap, throwing your arms around him to fist the back of his cotton jacket into your hands, "Ra'yel, so good—" You hear distantly like it wasn't your own voice as his thumb snapped awake to precisely rub against your clit.

A pool collects in the curve of Rafayel's hand— a scent he's much more familiar with, a consistency that has his senses dulling as his tongue swiped across his lips. Rafayel's eyes flickered to you, hanging from him like seaweed wrapped around his body before it turned to your phone, left haphazardly in the pocket of your pants on the floor. Your moans turn a degree higher, octave after octave; he sees summer in how you called out some messy variation of his name. "'M gonna cum, gonn—" You squeezed your arms around him.

He tucked his face into your shoulder, a fleeting kiss on your collarbone as he brings his fingers out. Your pre–cum clings to his fingers as he moved back, begging him to come back as you whined and a sob nearly falls from your lips as he denies you of that high. "No, no, Rafayel, please." You're frantic, pushing yourself back from his chest and chasing his fingers with your hips. "Please, was so close."

"Sorry, baby," he gives you what looks like an apologetic look through your blurry eyes, his clean hand falls onto your cheek to wipe away a stray tear. "My wrist still really hurts from what you did."

Your face falls, grieved. You hold his hand against your cheek, keeping it there as you turned your face to press a kiss onto his wrist. "No, 'm sorry," you urged. "Please, Rafayel, need you so bad."

A beat of nothing and a lifetime settled with the space built between you two, your hips uselessly rutting against air. The feel of lukewarm slick that he drags against your thigh, as if trying to massage it in, so close to where you really need him. So, so close to where your cunt has been restored to be his. Nothing is audible but the sound of your pleaing, trying to coax him back to where you needed him.

After a moment, his eyes flickered back to you, the tainted hues all swimming together as they looked on in amusement. "D'you mind showing me?" His eyebrows raised up, his eyes bordering cruel and his lips twitching upwards into a subtle smile. You meet his suggestion with a frown, shaking your head as your mouth opened to reject the idea and work on another pathetic beg. "Just try it," he pressed, giving your cheek a gentle stroke. "Take care of yourself for a moment, baby."

A breath bursts from you, it's all oxygen you need gone and your lungs fill with the useless waste product as his wet hand tangled with yours. Your thigh burns cold where he parts with it but the heat from his palm against yours spreads flames down to soothe the loss; he taps his finger against the back on your hand and then turns it to press a kiss against the back. Then he unlaces your fingers, your own juices create a web between your two palms, momentarily connecting your life lines before the threads snaps and he's gently holding the back of your hand.

Each of Rafayel's finger is bent over yours as he guides you down the path he took to shatter you. It makes you cringe to feel his wet fingers against yours, your fingers twitched as he brings you down right down to the source; the same substance sticking to the tips of your fingers as he helps you start. "You like it when I brush just under your clit, here." Rafayel offhandedly offers as he pulls your hand up, your finger pressed against slick skin. He watches your face as you reached the point he was speaking of and satisfaction blossoms on his face when your mouth falls open, choking on a breath.

Your thigh twitches from the simple touch, your head rolling over to your own shoulder for some support. His grip loosens a little, his fingers trailling up your arm. "You can take it from here right baby?" The tease behind his voice isn't meant to be ignored as he leaned back, head tilted down to keep his eyes on your shaky hand. "I pushed my wrist too far with that."

Your hand feels out of place for some reason, pierced through as it hung between your thighs. Sensing hesitation, Rafayel lands his hand on your knee, his thumb brushing over the skin and you can see his long middle finger just in the corner of your eyes. You pushed a finger into yourself, face scrunching up at the change in length and girth. "S'not enough," another finger pushed in and still, still the length is missing. Your knee is squeezed, urging you to continue.

You try to make up the lacking aspects of your own fingers compared to Rafayel's with some focus onto your clit but Rafayel swats your other hand away, holding it at your hip. "No, keep going like this for me." There's no other choice in the matter, your lip catches between teeth, falling whenever a gasp or moan wanted to pass through. It's agony, it's the unrelenting ache in your back, it's the jacket caught onto your doorknob, it's your toe to a corner; burning pain that shocks you to a degree of anger, annoyance. You work through it regardless— the world doesn't stop despite how it feels like it stutters.

Rafayel is a mere few inches away from you, his hands are on you but he wasn't touching you in the way you wanted; the world is still turning. With you struggling to work yourself up to the point that Rafayel got you to before, his hands rubbing up and down your thigh, and his soft praises in your ear— the world is, cruelly, still in its orbit. "I can't do this," you breathed out, pushing your fingers in, your knuckles sit flush against your entrance. "Rafayel," a mere mumble has him sucking in a sharp breath; the next sentence shatters the anatomy of his being and he feels foreign to land and sea. "I can't do this without you."

It falls from your lips with a whimper, multiple breath catches in Rafayel's throat, your eyebrows are furrowed and lips slightly parted as you panted slowly, wetting your dried lips and pressing them close to swallow some saliva. "Ra'yel, please don't make me finish without you." You knew just how to catch him, how enticing your words were to smell from upstream.

Without missing another beat, he has his hand cupped over yours near your entrance and pushes another finger in between yours. The satisfied moan you pass through your lips is then swallowed as Rafayel brings you into a open mouth kiss, threatening to swallow each and every breath you take as to not waste anything that was any bit of you. It takes him a few moments to adjust to having an obstruction in his way but he manages to set a pace like before and you follow, chanting his name stupidly. "I'm right here," Rafayel groaned back, "sorry I made you wait."

"S'okay," the syllables are tainted with saliva and some slur, any words that weren't 'Rafayel' uncomfortable to sit on tongue even for a moment before they passed on.

You snapped forward, a cry breaking through you as he used the butt of his palm to work your palm onto your clit. "You can't make me wait either," he muttered, leaning his head down to kiss your neck. "You're close, keep squeezing me and I'll lose my finger."

When it comes to you, he's never wrong. The air thickens, a mixture of panting, squelching, kissing messily bouncing around Rafayel's room; his finger takes a different course from your fingers, suddenly curling and his nail lightly scratches against your silk walls. You curled onto yourself, fingers pulling out of your entrance that Rafayel plugged up with another digit; he shushes your cries, working it through your high with his thrusts slow.

Your head leans on his shoulder, chest falling and rising as Rafayel used his feet to pick up your trousers on the floor so he could wipe his fingers. You watched this with judgement but couldn't find it in yourself to say anything as your eyes fluttered shut.

"Are you tired?" Slightly sticky hands massaged your hips, Rafayel's voice a slow humming that allows the tension to shed from you. You give him a nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"Will you clean me up?" You're not sure if you're pushing your luck at this point. Nothing is said for a moment but then he's fixing his arms underneath your ass as he hoists you up.

"I'm tired," he speaks, that comforting aspect of his voice from before gone as he moved to his bathroom. "And you really did hurt my wrists, what if you forced me to over–exert them and now they're sprained?" You furrowed your eyebrows, you should have just thrown him over your shoulder instead of trying to tie his hands up. "How will you take responsibility if my hands are ruined?"

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