Work Text:
Click.
“You weren’t lying, uh?”
Rafayel laughs. It’s a low, melodious lilt, a wind chime on a moonlit porch, swaying gently in the breeze — usually contagious, impossible to resist.
Not today.
“You’re really bad at this.”
If looks could kill, there’d be one less smart-mouthed fish in the ocean.
Behind the viewfinder, Rafayel remains unfazed in the wake of your glare.
Amused, even. It’s not often you’re so explicitly out of your depth, struggling so hard to adapt to a new endeavor. He snaps a couple more photos, a snicker blooming on his lips as he checks them out — he doesn’t hide it, of course.
Humor lights his face up like a Christmas tree, painting such a pretty picture, you almost — almost — forget he’s pissing you off as he turns the back of the camera to you, moves closer and taunts, “The least you could do is keeping your eyes open… Give your photographer something to work with, yeah?”
Letting your gaze drop to the display, a new wave of frustration washes over you. The pictures are… Bad. Unequivocally, embarrassingly, hideously bad. If it’s not your eyes blinking the moment the snapshot is captured, then it’s the corner of your mouth curling at an odd angle, your nostrils flaring in a most unflattering way, a strand of hair splitting your pupil in two, making the portrait look more like a mugshot…
It’s depressing, truly, how your whole face is less pleasant to look at than Rafayel’s dainty, flawless thumb as it presses the buttons back and forth, each shot that flashes before your mortified eyes fresh incentive for you to go find a ditch to hide in and never come back out again. If this is what you look for with perfect lighting and a world-renowned artist behind the camera, you don’t dare imagine what kind of a monster-shot you will end up with coming Monday, one take for a picture that’ll hang on the Unicorns’ wall for the next ten years at least.
Maybe it’s not too late to have a dramatic change of career.
You always knew you look awkward in pictures, but damn, is that really what people see when they look at you? Is that what Rafayel sees?
You may not be famous for brimming with self-esteem, but you know the image on the display doesn’t match what you see in the mirror every day.
What is wrong with you?
You grit your teeth to stop the uncomfortable lump raising in your throat, looking away from the source of your misery. You glue your stare to a random spot on the wall behind Rafayel’s head, right above his left ear, focus so intense your vision starts to blur at the edges. Your voice trembles as you force out a low, “This was a mistake.”
“Uh?” At last, you manage to draw the man’s attention away from the camera, his expression adapting to the shift in the atmosphere. Gone is the little upward curl of his lips, the spark of delight and childlike wonder in his eyes. He regards you with a serious look, head tilted to the side, like you’re a picture in one of his art books whose every detail is to be scrutinized and committed to memory. “What’s wrong?”
You don’t even want to know how pathetic you must look, on the brink of tears over something so stupid, so inconsequential, so… Shallow.
So what if you’re not photogenic? You’re a hunter, not a model.
You shouldn’t care.
And yet you find that you do, you care so much, because you asked Rafayel to take time out of his hellish schedule to help you with this and you just can not deliver, can’t live up to the expectations you didn’t even know you had before the camera started clicking, let alone walk out of his studio later with your head held high.
Maybe those pictures are right, maybe the mirror lied to you.
How long before Rafayel sees the truth too? Beauty is his whole life, after all, equal parts his calling and the beacon guiding him forward. How long before he realizes he’s too good for you? That he has been wasting his time, his attention. His love.
You don’t deserve him.
Pathetic indeed.
You clear your throat, reaching for your long lost composure. The last thing you need is to make yourself an even bigger fool and throw a tantrum. You’ll have time for that later, in the safe purgatory of your own home, when you can really dig into all the things you hate about yourself and not make it Rafayel’s problem.
You’re sure there’s a painting somewhere in the room that he’d rather get back to.
You jab a finger at the camera, tongue unsteady, “I look awful. If even you can’t help it, then...”
“Don’t.”
“…I’ll just have to settle for a shitty Hunter’s portrait.”
You look up to find that Rafayel’s face has changed, veered something serious — anger stirs in the depths of his eyes, a quiet, flickering flame that promises to consume you whole, should you be so foolish as to stoke it. He lets the camera dangle from the strap around his neck, one hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from your brow. Fingertips linger on the peak of your cheek, warmth-bringers — it’s a welcome balm for your aching spirit, cool and soothing and gone too soon.
“Don’t ever say that again,” He scolds, a pout twisting his mouth where mere seconds before a smile winked at you, “I would have to take it personally.”
His palm curls around your shoulder and he guides you to the corner of the studio where a plethora of canvases were stacked against the wall-height mirror to make space for your — failed — photoshoot.
Your eyes run south to avoid the hated reflection, but there you are again, smiling in watercolors, dancing under moonlight in vibrant oil, emerging from stormy waves in elegant acrylic, the whole piece brought to life exclusively through shades of blue and yet you swear he has made you look colorful in ways you have never thought possible before.
From the cobalt mixed with the cerulean of the sea to the midnight blue of your hair, all the way through the capri of the sky and the periwinkle of your beautiful dress, you can’t help it but stare, mouth open, as each detail brings forth a picture of effortless perfection that leaves you stunned, scrubbing your self-deprecative thoughts clean.
“Do you like it?”
Rafayel is still behind you, his hand firm on your shoulder as the other reaches for your chin, tilting your head up. You meet his gaze in the mirror, that dreamy, awe-inspiring look that never fails to make your knees weak, and you nod, melting into him. The camera digs into your back but you don’t care, not when his warmth is within your reach. “I do,” You say, a tremor to your voice that you can’t quite explain. You feel like you’re on the verge of tears, but you’re not sad anymore. “It’s… Beautiful.”
He truly is a genius painter, worth every prize and accolade and more.
“You are beautiful.”
His fingers wrap around the length of your hair and tuck it on one side of your neck, lips surging forward to press a wet kiss behind your now exposed ear.
His breath ghosts your skin with the heat of a thousand suns, bright not unlike the flame that dances over his fingertips whenever he’s bored, or lost in thought. Yet he’s perfectly focused now, appraising your reflection like he would a work of art, a light scrunch to his brow as he lets his tender eyes wander all over you.
Your face grows flushed, insecurity clawing at your mind once more, but Rafayel is quick to silence it, lifting his pointer to tap it on your forehead.
“Such a pretty face,” He murmurs, tracing it down the bridge of your nose with practiced slowness. His hand makes a sideway stop on your cheek, pinching it lightly before it slithers further down. “And this mouth…” He continues, rubbing his thumb on your lower lip while the rest of his fingers cradles your jaw.
Leaning forward, camera boring deeper into your ribs, he blows a small kiss on the little mole beneath the corner of your mouth. His eyes never leave yours, they shift something wicked as his knuckles briefly wrap around your throat, giving it a light squeeze before he ends his southward journey on the neck of your shirt, his fingertips cool as they graze your sternum. “My point is…” Voice low and filled with sugar, Rafayel speaks so close to your ear you feel his lips move against the shell, as if he’s kissing you and not the sweet words he whispers, “I couldn’t ask for a better muse.”
He turns you around then, makes sure your eyes can’t elude his serious gaze. Hands glued to your hips, he leans forward, your faces a mere breath apart as he speaks, “If I could pick and choose anything to change about you, I wouldn’t change a single thing. Well, maybe I’d let you take my eyes out for a spin…” He pauses, pretty lips curling up in that know-it-all smile he does so well, “…Just so you could look at yourself and see what I see.”
Maybe, you realize, he is a genius boyfriend too.
Thoughtful, protective, willing to steal the waves out of the ocean if it means that he gets to see you smile. And smile you do, with all your teeth and a much lighter heart, so lost in the way he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on, it takes you a long moment to realize his hands have left you and clutch the camera once again.
Click.
“See? Now that’s my cutie,” He giggles, forever on the frontline when it comes to making fun of you. Yet you can’t find it in yourself to get upset, not when there’s so much love in his eyes, in your chest — filling it up so sweetly, so tenderly. “How could you say you look awful? Maybe photos aren’t your thing, but it has nothing to do with the subject. It’s the attitude that needs work.”
Looking down at the picture he just snapped, you begrudgingly admit he may be onto something. The face on the display is the same that had you so distraught mere minutes ago, so displeased with yourself you put your self-worth on the line — with the round, rosy cheeks and glossy lips, the long hair and that uniform that has become your second skin — but you exude so much joy, it drapes like a golden halo around your features, lighting up your whole being.
You are beautiful, when you get over yourself and your aimless need for perfection. When you let Rafayel in and you let him love you. Just the way you are.
“Do you trust me?”
Before you can say anything, his hands have already moved to your shirt and he’s toying with the top button, slow and deliberate, not unlike the way he has used that same thumb to paint stars before your closed eyes many times before.
A slight flush dusting his cheeks, you swallow back the witty remark bubbling in your throat when you meet his eyes and find an earnestness there that has your knees buckling under you — desire burning for you so steadfast, so absolute, you can’t help it but wonder how come you haven’t turned to ash just yet, combusted inside out.
The way he’s looking at you, like you’re the very oxygen that allows him to breathe, the water that sustains him, his favorite treat to indulge in, the stroke of genius that curls his fingers around the paintbrush and guides his hand on the canvas…
…You’ll have to thank your glitched, lethargic heart for once in your life.
A functioning one would have burst already, succumbed to overdrive, but yours merely plays music in the background for you, a familiar war anthem drumming in your ears as you reach up and stroke his cheek with equal tenderness.
You can never resist those pretty eyes.
“Always.”
Next thing you know the buttons of your shirt are all undone and you have your back pressed against the mirror, paintings scattered about the floor like worthless waste, the red, angry imprint of a kiss sparkling on your collarbone.
Rafayel holds the camera at an odd angle, determined to catch both your side profile and its reflection, his other hand fussing with your collar until the fabric drapes around your neck the exact way he envisioned it.
Click.
“Ah, yes. Now we’re going somewhere,” He murmurs to himself, voice charged with the excitement of an artist who has found the long lost inspiration again. It creates a strange dichotomy with the tent in his pants and the way he wets his lips every time his eyes skirt around your bra. But your boyfriend is nothing if not a seasoned professional, and he doesn’t even seem to have noticed. “Nuh-uh. Eyes forward.”
You do as instructed, the studio, albeit very much to your liking, not nearly as entertaining a sight. You stay put and maintain your pose, near holding your breath as Rafayel snaps a couple more shots. Then your gaze lands on the closed door, sudden panic flooding your body, mixed with an unexpected thrill.
“Thomas?”
“He’s fetching me some blue-rose water.”
Click.
“Look up.”
Hesitantly, you glue your eyes to the high, pristine white ceiling.
“I thought it was discontinued?”
“Yup.”
You remember him throwing a full-fledged tantrum on Moments when that happened, even going as far as to tag the company’s account to ask for, nay, to demand an explanation. You debate whether you should inquire further and risk opening that can of worms again, or let the subject drop and risk Rafayel’s assistant coming back and find you with your tits — almost — out.
Eventually, your anxiety wins the struggle.
“Where is he getting it from, then?”
“He isn’t.” He flashes you a confident smile, letting the camera hang as he grabs your wrist to pin it above your head, adjusting your arm to his preferred angle. “I just wanted him out of our hair. Now hold.”
Click.
Vigilant eyes study the photo next, bouncing in between you and the picture.
The mirror is starting to grow too cold for you to bear much longer and you’re over the photoshoot nonsense — you’d rather drop to your knees and show Rafayel a real masterpiece — but you know there’s no talking him out of it now that he has made it his mission to prove it to you that you have nothing to be scared about having your portrait taken on Monday. And to punish you for daring to call yourself ugly.
He lets out a displeased little huff. “Mh. Something’s missing.”
“Like what?”
Rafayel’s hand cups your jaw, fingers sprawled on your cheek like branches on a cherry-tree — the tip of his little finger tickles your pulse, quickens it, and his index stops short of your bottom lash line.
But it’s his thumb that captures all of your attention as he brushes it over your mouth, tracing the shape before it gives the fullness of your bottom lip a light pinch.
You can’t stop yourself from doing the only thing that comes to mind.
Looking up and into his eyes, you pop it into your mouth.
It may not be what you crave, but it will do for now, will satiate the sudden hunger coiling in your belly and avenge your unease, that unshakeable sense of shame that seeps into your bones when he stares at you like that, like you’re a gift to be unwrapped, yet does nothing about it.
You’ve always been fickle about attention.
You enjoy it and yet you dread it all the same — like people will unmask you if they look too close, look too hard, like they will realize you’re not worth the effort in the end, a stack of flaws hiding in a pretty trench coat.
And Rafayel gives you all of his own and more, it takes him but a glance to figure out what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling, the right thing to say if you need coaxing, the right spot to touch if he wants you to fall apart.
It’s pretty unfair, you think, how for the most part he’s still a mystery to you, alluring but unapproachable, forever bound to the twilight zone, and you’re an open book to him, the one he keeps on his nightstand that he has read a hundred times.
So, when the rare opportunity to catch him off guard manifests in his eyes widening and the hard swallow of his adam’s apple, you take it.
You purse your lips around his thumb and slide your tongue under it, suck it for all that it’s worth as you stare back, wondering what kind of secret might fall out of his pocket if you focus well enough.
As usual, he doesn’t disappoint. He presses back against your tongue, smearing spit all over your lips, his hand now a clamp as it cradles your face almost violently. You let your raised arm fall and bring your hand to his wrist, let your fingertips tease his inner forearm in a slow caress as his thumb continues to fuck your mouth.
You expect the thread to snap any moment now, for the current crescendo to escalate into something more tangible, much more detectable — something that’ll rid you of the need pooling between your legs, unbearably sweet, cool off your ever-warmer skin and dishevel your hair, stain your face the pasty black of your mascara…
Gone is every thought of picture-practice, of poses to master and finding a way to both smile and look professional, possibly without giving yourself a double chin. All that matters is the wild gaze burning into yours, that perfect marriage of purple-pink and blue that you’ve learnt to call the color of your happiness, the good omen knocking faintly on your teeth, twisting your gut in anticipation.
Click.
You startle, coming to an abrupt halt. Eyes widening in surprise, his nail grazes the roof of your mouth as you tilt your head to the side, as if to ask, ‘Seriously?’
“Mh. Perfect,” Is all that Rafayel gives you in return, keeping his thumb firmly lodged in your oral cavity while his other hand fiddles with the camera.
A wicked grin curls his lips as he admires the last shot, a rare one you’ve seen before, albeit always while fully naked, the one he flashes you right before he pushes into—
That lewd, uh?
“Can I keep it?”
He twists his wrist so that the display faces you, the mess he has made of you with just one finger — and not even in the right place — plain for you to see.
There you are, with your pupils blown and your cheeks pulled-in, lips stretched to accommodate his digit, a faint hint of bra-clad cleavage peeking from in between your shirt and Rafayel’s arm and a needy look you didn’t even know you were capable of.
You are… Beautiful, you think, in a sinful type of way.
And that fills your heart in a way words fail to describe.
You free your mouth with a wet pop, kissing his fingertip as you return his smile, his joie de vivre too loud, too bright not to be contagious in moments such as this.
“How about…” You trail off, a small wave of insecurity rushing through you before you shake it away. Just like that — Rafayel isn’t one to shy away from a cheesy joke and you’ve thought it, so you might as well say it. You’ll never tell him, he’s full of himself enough as is, but you’ll always love him for teaching you this kind of freedom. Come what may, the thought of him will always leave you a little breathless. “How about we forget about that stupid portrait and you paint me instead?”
You briefly let your gaze fall to the obvious tension in his pants before you take a small step towards him, confident in a way that felt unimaginable just half an hour ago, and when you look up again, ready to tease him further, he has already moved — the camera lies forgotten on the parquet and his hands are all over you, running up your side to squeeze on a breast, curling around your ass, palming at your neck and shoulders as he pulls your shirt down your arms.
They’re a thing of beauty, those hands, big but slender, strong but delicate as they light up your skin like stars in the night sky, ever-so-talented, wonder-makers.
And yet they can’t hold a candle to his mouth, to the soft plush of his lips as they seize yours, warm and pliable, each kiss they give you like the first because they always leave you breathless, intoxicated, chasing for more — he sucks on your bottom lip before he pries your own mouth open with a gentle nip, his tongue like made of honey, filling it with a sweetness that has your toes curl inside your boots.
And forget about the portrait you do, both of you.
For a long while, as he kneels before you and peels your underwear down your legs with his teeth, presses you against the mirror and moves your hair to the side, glues his lips to the spot behind your neck that always makes you oh so very keen — with the brutal snap of his hips and their final, long-awaited stutter, the warmth it leaves.
For someone who’s said to be capricious, if not downright impossible to work with, a slave to his fancy, you’ve always appreciated the way Rafayel seems to cater to your every need and whim, forever willing to indulge you no matter what you ask of him, sensible like you never would have guessed when you first met him, devoted in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs, sometimes, scares you, because there’s no way such love exists and it’s happening to you.
No, the other shoe will drop someday.
Or maybe it won’t — it’s hard to believe it’s not real as he holds you so tenderly while you bask in the afterglow together, lets you drop all your weight on him as you recline on his chest, lounging between his legs, both your discarded clothes the only protection you have from the biting cold of the floor.
Such moments of peace, of perfect, undisturbed stillness are rare for you, what with your frantic schedules and your pathological need to keep busy, productive, useful — you savor it, let your weary limbs sink deeper into the warm comfort of Rafayel’s body, allow your eyes to shut and for his breath on the crown of your head to lull you, if not to sleep, at least into a state of waking rest, of pristine relaxation.
Until…
Until the studio’s landline starts ringing, its echo like the roar of a famished tiger as it ripples through the air, bouncing between walls and back into your skull.
At (long) last, the call is sent to voicemail.
“…I can’t believe you just wasted two hours of my time making me look for something that’s been discontinued!”
Thomas’ voice slips out of the speakers thoroughly, rightfully incensed, a bite to it that you’ve never witnessed before.
Usually, you’d find the space in your heart to sympathize with him, perhaps even scold your boyfriend for deploying such a childish tactic and chip away at someone’s precious time with his nonsense. Today, however, you simply don’t care.
“Next time you want to invite your girlfriend over? Just. Fucking. Tell. Me. And while we’re on the subject, how about you start painting something other than her? You know, something you’ll actually let me sell—”
The message cuts off abruptly, courtesy of Rafayel’s flame severing the phone wire. He wounds his arms tighter around you, blowing a kiss on the top of your head as his chest shakes behind you with poorly concealed laughter.
Your silly joke pops back into your mind, and you join him, the studio’s air soon filling with the light-hearted, carefree sound of your shared amusement.
Not a bone in your body is scared about Monday anymore, about that portrait everyone will see.
You only care about what’s in Rafayel’s eyes when he looks at you — as it turns out, you’re the shiniest pearl in his Ocean.
`*•.¸,¤°´✿.｡.:**.:｡.✿`°¤,¸.•*´
“Uh, Rafayel?”
“Yeah?”
“You can keep it.”
“We should do it again sometime. So many pictures I didn’t get the chance to take…”