Work Text
BZZ BZZ.
The sharp vibration of your phone shattered the stillness of the night. You groaned, rolling over and squinting at the glaring screen. 2:07 AM. Who in their right mind would text you at this hour?
Rafayel.
Of course.
Rafayel:
EMERGENCY
Rafayel:
Come here ASAP
You stared at the messages, debating whether this was worth losing sleep over. Usually, you’d let him wallow in whatever melodrama he’d conjured, but something about the abruptness of the texts gnawed at you. What if this time it was serious? If something happened and you weren’t there, you’d never forgive yourself. Worst bodyguard in history—Rafayel would happily remind you of that, too.
Groaning, you swung your legs out of bed and pulled on yesterday’s work pants. The rest of your outfit was an eclectic mess: nightgown, a robe thrown over the top, and boots that had seen better days. Not exactly professional, but who cared? The cold wind of the ride to Rafayel’s would wake you up soon enough.
The city streets were eerily quiet, save for the hum of your bike’s engine. By the time you pulled up to his building, you were fully awake and thoroughly annoyed. Helmet off, you hurried to his door, hand hovering near the holster of your gun as you pushed it open.
Inside, chaos greeted you. Paint brushes littered the floor like discarded thoughts. Canvases leaned against walls at odd angles, some painted with serene oceans, others angrily slashed through with bold, frustrated strokes. The air smelled of turpentine and sleepless nights.
“Miss Bodyguard! At last!” Rafayel’s voice boomed from the other room. He appeared moments later, arms precariously full of paint tubes and bottles. “Quick, take these before I ruin another carpet.”
You froze, hand still near your holster. “Is everything okay? What happened here?”
“Nothing works,” he moaned dramatically. “The ocean doesn’t feel inspiring anymore. I haven’t created a masterpiece in weeks. Weeks, I tell you! My reputation is crumbling.”
Your jaw dropped. “You called me here, at two in the morning, because you have
artist’s block
?”
“It’s more than a block,” he said, ignoring your rising tone. “It’s a catastrophe. A tragedy. Where have you been, anyway? I haven’t seen you in
forever.
”
You blinked at him, caught between outrage and disbelief. “I’ve been working. You know, the thing I do to keep everyone in Linkon, including you, alive?”
He waved a paintbrush dismissively. “Alive, sure, but at what cost? My
muse
has abandoned me. Do you realize what’s at stake here?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, a headache already forming. “You dragged me out here, on a work night, because you’re… uninspired?”
Rafayel looked at you, his face the picture of wounded pride. “You make it sound so trivial.”
“It
is
trivial,” you snapped. “Some of us actually need sleep to function, Rafayel. I’m going home.”
You turned to leave, but his voice stopped you. “Wait! Don’t go. Please.” There was a softness in his tone now, one that made you hesitate. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you like this. But I didn’t know what else to do.”
You sighed, turning back to face him. His normally flamboyant demeanor seemed dimmed, his shoulders slumped under the weight of his own expectations.
“Fine,” you muttered, dropping your hand from your holster. “What do you need?”
A grin spread across his face. “A fresh perspective. Maybe a cup of coffee. And… your company, if you don’t mind.”
You rolled your eyes but stepped further into the chaotic room. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“And yet, here you are.” Rafayel’s grin widened as he handed you a tube of paint. “Shall we get started?”
❁
You had hoped the coffee would be enough to satisfy his need for help, but you hadn’t expected him to judge your clothes, then shove you into a closet to pick something out and model it for him. It made you wonder when he’d bought these outfits—and for whom.
Some of the clothes seemed almost theatrical, like expensive costumes. You hesitated, but eventually settled on a chiton. It felt luxurious against your skin, far more so than anything in your own wardrobe. It took some effort to figure out how to wear it properly.
When you finally emerged into the living room, Rafayel was already set up with his canvas brushes at the ready. But as soon as his eyes found you, they didn’t move.
“So, how should I pose?” you asked, trying to keep things light.
He raised an eyebrow. “Out of everything in that closet you picked out a basic tunic. At least you changed out of those boots”
“My boots were a quick grab for this trip, thank you very much. And the tunic seemed comfortable and it’s very soft. I think it’s similar to the grecians—” he cut you off without a care of what you said before you could finish your sentence.
“I think a Lemurian outfit would have looked better on you, especially with your hair like that.” He tilted his head slightly and his stare was beginning to make you feel self conscious.
“What..?” you asked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair out of a ponytail.”
You crossed your arms. “You didn’t answer my question from earlier.”
Rafayel smiled. “I like it. You should leave it down more often. You look better that way.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion creeping up on you, or the fact that he hadn’t even bothered to answer your question, but you couldn’t bring yourself to react to his compliment—or rather, his backhanded one.
“Okay, cutie. You’re going to be centered here. Stand, sit, whatever, but make sure you can hold your pose. I don’t want you moving.”
You were glad that he made it around to your question, but another problem had surfaced. For the next ten minutes, you shifted between poses, constantly realizing they weren’t comfortable. It was only making him more impatient.
“It’s ONE pose! How is that so hard?” he snapped.
“They don’t feel comfortable!” You bit back your frustration, feeling the fatigue. “I’m tired. Can’t you cut me some slack?”
With that, you let yourself collapse onto the couch—one leg stretched out, the other still on the floor, your shoulders uneven, and an arm draped lazily above you. You were practically sprawled out across the cushions.
“There! That’s it. Do not move this time.”
“Good, I wasn’t planning on it," you replied in a low murmur. For the next few minutes, silence settled between you two, save for the faint rustling of the leaves outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards. A cool breeze filtered through the open window, bringing with it the scent of rain-soaked earth. The chill in the air nipped at your skin, but you didn’t flinch. It was almost as if you welcomed it.
“Muse, huh? Did my absence affect you that deeply?” you asked, your tone light but laced with an undercurrent of curiosity.
“Of course not! I just wanted you to agree to be in this painting.” His voice was quick, defensive.
“You could’ve had anyone, at any time of day. Yet you asked for me in the middle of the night.”
“I could," he agreed, his voice softening, "and here I have you.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how your words could be misconstrued. He turned back to his canvas, trying to ignore the subtle tension that seemed to seep into the air. The brush in his hand flicked expertly against the canvas, but his focus kept shifting back to you.
“I’m surprised you want to paint me,” you remarked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you paint a single person before.”
“This isn’t a piece I’ll be selling,” he muttered, distracted.
“So, I’m going to be part of your personal collection... Seems unprofessional, don’t you think?”
Your words hung in the air like an invitation to argue, but he knew better. There was no way to win this conversation. You had him cornered. Sighing, he lowered the brush, defeated, and turned his attention back to the painting, hoping the silence would swallow the discomfort.
But the silence only made things worse. His hand resumed its motion, but his thoughts had wandered. Every few strokes, his gaze flitted up to you—studying you without realizing it. Your face was soft in the dim light, the gentle curve of your cheekbones highlighted by the shadows. The rosy flush of the skin was natural, unforced, as though you belonged in this quiet, intimate moment. He followed the curve of your nose, the delicate arch of your brows, and then—almost unwillingly—his eyes lingered on your lips.
There was something magnetic about them, something that drew him in despite his best efforts to remain professional, to keep his focus on the painting. His brush faltered mid-stroke.
Once he managed to regain his composure, he heard a sharp gasp. His fingers almost slipped from the brush, his grip faltering as his gaze instinctively shot up to you.
“What—oh, uh…” His words trailed off, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.
His face flushed instantly when he realized one of the clips on your garment had popped loose, leaving part of your chest exposed for just a fraction of a second. His breath hitched, and he quickly looked away, trying to maintain his focus.
“Shoot, it’s broken,” you muttered, reaching to adjust the garment but unable to fix it.
He cleared his throat, awkwardly running his fingers along the edge of his easel. “Do you need help?” he asked, though he didn’t know how he could assist without making the situation even more awkward.
“No,” you said with a dismissive wave, though your voice held an edge of frustration. “I’ll just hold it for the rest of the session.”
He frowned, still feeling the flush creeping up his neck. “If that’s how you want to be painted,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “But it’ll look like you’re... removing the garment.”
You smirked, the glint of mischief in your eyes. “You’d love that for your collection, wouldn’t you?”
His heart skipped a beat at the teasing implication. He knew you were joking, but your words lingered in his mind longer than he expected. You were right. A part of him, the part that admired you with a quiet intensity, had always thought of capturing you in ways beyond the canvas. He quickly suppressed the thought, refocusing on the paint in his hand, though the brush now felt a little heavier.
"I suppose the pose is ruined now." you stated matter of factly.
"Don’t be silly," he reassured you, his voice feigning calm and confident. "I can adjust it. I remember exactly what you looked like before."
You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Why do I feel like you're going to paint me as a fish, or—"
"If you had worn the Lemurian garment," he interrupted with a small smile, "it would have been much more striking."
A reluctant laugh left your lips. "I'm sure with your talent, you could turn my portrait into a masterpiece, no matter what I'm wearing."
You met his gaze and he held the contact before he spoke, his tone warm, sincere. "You are a masterpiece."
The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them, the weight of the implication lingering between you two. "You're like precious jewelry."
Your face softened, but a flicker of confusion danced behind your eyes, as though the compliment had left you unsure of how to respond. Rafayel cleared his throat, quickly motioning toward something just beyond your reach.
Your eyes followed him, and you noticed the fabric of the piece slipping from your hands, inching closer to exposing yourself once more. "Thank you," your voice was low, and for a fleeting moment, you saw the blush creeping up his neck and staining his ears. His eyes, though, held something far deeper—something almost raw.
An eyebrow raised on your face, sensing a shift in the air. "I can practically feel your tantalizing stare."
He froze, then stammered, "What— I don’t think I— I don’t know what you're talking about."
You continued, your voice soft, as though trying to coax something from him. "You know, your eyes are everywhere."
He met your gaze briefly. "I have to make sure I catch every detail."
You nodded slowly in understanding. The night air was cool, and it made the fabric of your tunic cling tightly to your form, revealing the sharp outline of your body. With a deliberate movement, you adjusted your position, feeling the cool breeze against your skin that caused your nipples to harden. The tunic lowered slightly as your hand gripped the loose article, leaving little to the imagination. When his eyes flicked up to meet yours again, the tension was unmistakable—a tightness in his pants that he couldn't ignore.
“How is your
personal
collection coming along?”
“… This will be a great addition.”
“Many muses I presume?”
“If you want to think so.”
“Do you call them all a masterpiece?”
“You’re the only one… You’ll forever be the only one.”
Rafayel knew better to keep his mouth shut about you. But in that moment he just wanted to get on his bare knees in that instant and tell you everything. Every raw secret he kept locked away of just how much he’s missed you, how he’s grown impatient from the centuries that stretched in your absence. The impatience that withered into an aching of desperation.
“This is nothing any of the renaissance painters could do,” he added.
“Let me guess, your technique is just out of this world.” You waited to hear him gloat about his talent, but his comment caught you by a startling surprise instead.
“No. Even their skills would be unable to capture your beauty.” You were stunned. Was “I- I think…” He walks up to you to adjust your position but you catch his hand before he has a chance to touch you.
“Don’t touch me.”
“What’s got you snappy? I thought you wanted to look stunning.” The rejection turned his mood around. He hoped for a moment, a connection that he wished would bring back the waves of hidden memories you two shared. It was clear that would not happen.
“I’ve had a long day, and clearly this will be a long night. All I want is to sleep.”
“You’re not going to get it if you keep acting like this. Are all human muses dramatic like you?”
“Well, if I'm the masterpiece you say I am, then why are you trying to get your hands on me.”
"Then allow me to perfect you, to craft a masterpiece," he murmured, his voice low and enticing as he reached for you. But before his fingers could touch you, you pressed your foot against his chest, forcing him back onto the plush carpet. His eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face before desire replaced it, raw and unguarded.
Your heart raced, a thrilling heat coursing through you as you watched him, so utterly at your mercy. A sly smirk tugged at your lips, the power in this moment sending a spark of mischief through your veins. His sharp inhale didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the way his gaze roamed your form, igniting something equally wild and unrestrained within you.
“I think you’re crossing some boundaries, oh great artist. Haven’t you been to a museum, the rope barrier prevents you from touching art.”
“Well I’ve gotten tired of watching. I need to use my senses to create art.” The heel dug harder into his chest and you tilted your head at his words.
“You know I only agreed because you will be watching, not touching.” With that, you lifted your skirt of the chiton agonizingly slow and just high enough for him to have a peak of the undergarment you wore. You heard as he took a sharp breath and met his darkened eyes—their light colors filling with something dark and lustful.
“I suppose you’ll be working with your sight for now, perhaps even your auditory processing.”
He didn’t fight the force on his chest although you knew he could easily overtake you. He
liked
it. It was obvious, the bulge in his pants was perceptible after the scene you just caused.
You bent over slightly and lightly ran circles over your ankle before proceeding higher up your leg to your thigh and then over your center for a mere second. You watched his wanting eyes that urged you to go further, practically begging for you to reveal yourself to him, and you caved to him.Your fingers hooked into the delicate fabric, tearing it effortlessly and leaving just enough to tease. The half-shredded lace slipped down one leg, the soft whisper of it against your skin filling the silence. His eyes followed its descent, dark and hungry, before flicking back up—only to find your hand gliding over your folds, slow and deliberate, a silent invitation laced with wicked intent.
The silence in the room was oppressive. He could practically hear your arousal drip onto his paint spilled floor. You continued with wet fingers and pushed into your entrance. It was a delightful feeling that caused your lip to be caught between your teeth. But you wanted more. Your eyes fluttered shut as you moved your fingers at a steady pace and imagined that they were his. You could imagine the delicious stretch from a hand that possesses such breathtaking talent—oh to get immersed in his painting, it would radiate pleasure.
As you get lost in your imagination, Rafayel gained his inspiration. He could smell the warm slick your fingers had the fortune to dip into—
red
. The luring Lemurian songs couldn’t compete with the melody you sang. He reached down to unbutton his bottoms to feel something,
anything.
He wanted a release, God you were too tempting.
You were so precious and valuable, something he had to treat with gentleness.
Black.
The feeling of wanting to feel through it all. He had to keep holding onto his impulses as his cock throbbed while watching the immersive art you displayed for his enjoyment.
Your fingers worked a rhythm that sent shivers through your body, coaxing something deep and uncontrollable to the surface. Your standing leg trembled, your heel pressing harder against him as pleasure coiled tight inside you. The edge was right there—you could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel. The scent of paint had long since faded, replaced by the sound of his ragged breathing, each labored exhale pulling you deeper into the moment. Your eyes fluttered open, and the sight of him beneath you, watching, wanting, was almost enough to send you over. But you stopped. Not yet. You wanted
him
to be the one to finish you.
“You can touch me…” You expected him to jump on you in an instant, but you were met with a confused glance. You nodded to reassure him of your decision and even then, he didn’t pounce.
Your hungry gaze followed his every move as he placed a hand on the foot that pressed half of your weight against his chest, his grip firm yet reverent. Slowly, he brought your ankle to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss against your skin. His breath fanned over the spot, warm and teasing, before he began his slow ascent—trailing soft, deliberate kisses up your leg, each one igniting a fire that burned hotter with every touch. You could come at his touch, but you had to hold on.
He stopped at your center and teasingly dipped his tongue into your folds. You hadn’t expected him to stop there, you wanted him in you.
“W-why are you..?” The heat of the moment made you dizzy, adding a challenge for you to get a word out.
“I told you… I need to use my senses, I just need a small taste…” He hoisted your leg over his shoulder, and he disappeared under the tunic. You gripped onto his wispy hair to balance yourself as your knees grew weak under you.
A strangled whimper escaped your lips as his tongue flicked relentlessly over your swollen bud, sending electric jolts through your body. Two fingers spread you open, allowing him to devour you with desperate hunger, his warm tongue lapping up every drop of your arousal. Your taste was intoxicating, driving him into a frenzy that left no room for hesitation—only pure, unrestrained need. He groaned against you, the vibrations reverberating through your core, drawing a shudder that left you breathless.
He was insatiable, starved for the sweet and salty essence of you, a craving centuries in the making. Each taste was a reminder of lifetimes spent chasing this moment, of past lives entwined and lost to time. Now, you were his grand feast.
Two fingers plunged deep inside you, curling just right, sending you hurtling toward the edge.
“Fuck, I’m so close…” you gasped, voice raw with pleasure. Your fingers tightened in his silky purple hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan. Fireworks seemed to explode outside the window—or maybe they were behind your eyes—as shockwaves tore through you, leaving nothing but bliss in their wake.
He carefully placed you back on the couch and nuzzled into your neck. His lips left fervent kisses, evidence of his art left behind. For a moment his mouth hovered over your skin and you heard him take what sounded like a deep breath.
“Your smell… It’s intoxicating. Your sweat is like an aphrodisiac.” With your breasts free from the tunic, he grabbed the soft flesh and massaged gently as if your body were a clay he was molding. You arched your back at the pleasurable sensation, a move to urge him to continue.
“More…” He pulled away suddenly and you were left thinking you did something wrong. His visage displayed his own internal conflict.
“Now is not the right time. I promise when it happens, we’ll be together…” His eyes followed his hand that intertwined with yours. “body and soul.”
In the time that you knew Rafayel you wouldn’t have expected him to speak to you with vast adoration and with a glint in his eyes that could only be described as love. Yet his affection did not daunt you, it was eerily familiar—a déjà vu of a dream you can’t pinpoint no matter how much you tried to remember. It was gone in an instant.
“I fall into pieces when I’m with you. I want to handle you cautiously, my jewel.” He situated a feather of kiss on the back of your hand—holding onto the shadow of it.
❁
That night felt like a blur of a dream. Truthfully, you couldn’t decipher it from reality. Perhaps it was a vivid dream triggered by the sugar you consumed before bed.
A few weeks had passed since the dream, yet neither you nor Rafayel had reached out. Silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure how to face him—not after what you had
felt.
The dream had shifted something inside you, leaving you tangled in emotions you couldn’t quite name. Things couldn’t be the same.
You
couldn’t see him the same way.
But then his message appeared on your screen.
Your breath hitched as you scrolled up, eyes scanning the messages that came before. The exact words from your dream stared back at you, unchanged, unwavering.
It wasn’t a dream, was it?
This time around you didn’t know what to expect he would ask of you—it was unnerving. The grand unveil of his canvas was not the first thing that came to your mind. The clashing hues of the colors made you feel strange. Was it lust, selfishness? Were you beginning to feel heated from a single glance? What an odd combination. And the colors were a bold choice on his part. Pink, black and white were the only colors he utilized, the reason why was still a mystery to you.
“What do you think?” His gaze showed strong confidence. He knew he had created a masterpiece. You were sprawled on the pink recamier with the unclipped tunic that leaves the viewer to imagine what it would reveal.
“I’m… Huh. I don’t think this is healthy for our professional relationship. I don't know how I feel about others seeing this.” The red brought forth the oppressed emotions, threatening to spill before him.
“Private collection, remember?” He wrapped his arms from behind you, his fingers testing his boundaries on your bottoms. “Why have you been avoiding me? I
need
my muse.”
His touch was a welcome intrusion, one you had no intention of resisting. If he lingered, overstayed, claimed every inch of you—so be it. You would gladly surrender to the warmth of his hands, the weight of his presence, for as long as he desired, and it was clear to him.
His smile was evident when he spoke. “I have an idea for our next painting.”