🌸 - soft moments with rafayel
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The afternoon in Rafayel’s studio is a pool of golden, drowsy light. It catches in the dust motes dancing over canvases and settles on the rumpled sheets of the large daybed where you both lie, skin to skin.
The world beyond these walls feels impossibly distant, muted to a quiet hum. Here, there is only the steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder, the warmth of his body curved around yours, and the profound, simple peace of being bare and unguarded together.
Rafayel’s fingertips are where they almost always are when you’re like this. Moving.
They travel a dedicated, unhurried path along the line of your spine, skate over the dip of your waist, circle the plane of your shoulder blade. His touch is featherlight, a whisper against your skin, as if he’s reading a map written in braille only he can understand.
“Stay still, cutie.” he murmurs, his voice a low, contented rumble against your ear. You feel him reach over the side of the bed, and his fingers return, cool and slick. Washable paint, in a soft, sea-blue.
He begins again, tracing the path his fingers just took, but now leaving a visible trail. It’s not a deliberate picture, but a flowing, abstract line—a curl around your elbow, a wisp along your collarbone, a tiny, intricate spiral on the back of your knee.
“You’re my favorite canvas,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his words. “And so damn beautiful.”
The coolness of the paint makes you shiver, and he notices. His tracing becomes even lighter, more experimental. He draws a single, wobbly line down the side of your ribcage. Your breath hitches.
Aha. A soft chuckle escapes him. He does it again, and this time a giggle bursts from you, your body jerking instinctively.
“Found one,” he announces, delighted.
Now it’s a game. His artist’s dedication turns to playful exploration. He dots little paint daisies along your hip, watching for the twitch. He scribbles a nonsense word on the sole of your foot, and you curl up with a yelp of laughter, trying to wrestle away. But he holds you gently, firmly, his own laughter mingling with yours, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
“Not fair,” you gasp between giggles. “My turn.”
You twist in his arms, managing to roll him onto his back. You reach for the paint, dipping your fingers in the same blue. He watches you, eyes crinkled with amusement, completely surrendering.
You start on his chest, drawing a silly, lopsided fish over his heart. He remains stoic. You trace the lines of his stomach, and his breath catches, but he doesn’t laugh. You’re determined.
Then you brush your painted fingertips along the sensitive skin of his side, just above his waist. A tremor runs through him. You do it again, slower. His composure cracks, and a beautiful, unreserved laugh spills from his lips. He tries to squirm, but you’re on top, pinning him lightly.
“Found yours,” you whisper triumphantly.
The exploration dissolves into a tender, paint-smudged wrestling match, a tangle of limbs and shared laughter. Blue handprints bloom on his back, streaks of it adorn your thighs. The room fills with the sound of your combined happiness, a soundtrack more precious than any silence.
When you’re both breathless and spent, you collapse back into the nest of sheets, facing each other. The golden light has deepened to amber.
You’re a mess of fading blue and warm skin. Rafayel’s eyes are soft as he looks at you, his gaze tracing not the paint, but you beneath it. He leans in, kissing you slowly, a stamp of peace and possession.