[ is love fickle and impermanent, when the tides of fate conspire to sweep it aside, time and again? the bride of the sea god passes once, twice, with every turn of the wheel, and in this life, rafayel finds him younger than he's found him before ā a charming teaching assistant with a bright future ahead of him, instead of a warden of a prison within an unforgiving sea.
in this life, wriothesley finds him again and thinks, oh, what beautiful eyes he has. what a beautiful face. what a sharp tongue and temper, and how charming he can be. he thinks he's known him in another life, the taste of his skin like sea salt and smoke, like forbidden fire. but it must be his imagination, because surely this is the first time.
but attraction leaps between them sure and true, from that grip on his wrist to the ways he keeps him after class. wriothesley's folding up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms and giving him a crooked smile. to him, this is simple: it's a chase, and he means to know if professor rafayel tastes as good as he imagines him to be. )
Like what?
( he doesn't look away, gaze steady before he leans back on the expensive couch, stretching his long legs and laying there like he belongs. like he never left. and if he pops a button on his shirt... well... )
This? Gonna paint me like one of your French girls, Professor?
even when itās just in the corner of his peripherals—
rafayel isnāt impervious to the subtle peek of skin. all the more coming from the subject of his long, withstanding affections. perhaps, thatās why he feels it more intensely than most would have. the show of the taut muscle of his forearm, and even the way he opens yet another buttonā¦
his mouth feels dry for a moment, and he licks his lips just to moisten them before he actually begins stringing his thoughts together. per usual, rafayel is quick to try and regain any sort of mental bearings he may have lost in that moment. in a way, itās similar to how he often lost his train of thought in his lectures, except now it had less to do the artistic chaos of his mind when discussing his passionate pursuits, thenā¦ whatever this was.
he feels overly conscious of everything about wriothesley, including the way his chest rises and falls. he isnāt sure if itās because of the overlap of memories, or if itās another type of desire completely. admittedly, he had his anxieties about finding out which one it was. but, who doesnāt fear vulnerability? ]
As you already know, people arenāt normally the subjects of my work. [ this is the exception. no, heās the exception. but, he doesnāt want to suddenly bring focus to this fact. as if masking a clear weakness heās exposed, he continues. ] You should be asking me to paint you like the sea. [ finally, he feels like he can move in closer. his hand moving on wriothesleyās thighā¦
to pull a piece of paper he left from before from out under him. lol. ]
in the spaces between their words, wriothesley can divine a whole host of expressions in those lovely, lovely eyes. so often, rafayel remains a mystery to him, elusive and just out of his grasp. the moment passes quickly, especially when rafayel is so very skilled at gathering himself and putting that mask back on, but that's enough for him.
how strange, wriothesley thinks. sometimes, he gets the impression that rafayel is looking through him, beyond him, to something long-forgotten. even so, he's still, filled with anticipation when he draws closer, closer, and wriothesley wonders if he'll finally touch him the way he's wanted him to since the moment their eyes met across the classroom.
but āā he doesn't. he can't help a soft noise when he tugs the paper from under him, the crinkle of it filling him with surprise and a touch of amused dismay. still, before rafayel can stray too far, he grabs a hold of his wrist. )
[ the words come out before he can even really think them through. as if the answer had always been pre-established, or as if he read it from some lengthy textbook. the only thing that seems to offset them is the almost playful smile that returns to his lips. especially, as his eyes seem to fall towards where wriothesleyās has grabbed him. despite his initial fluster at their proximity, or within the prospect of his feelings being made obvious— thereās none of that remaining on his features.
still holding the paper within his fingers, he lets them flutter out from his grasp and fall back on wriothesleyās lap. ] But, the sea is also unyielding and unpredictable. As well as an object that many view with both devotion and yearning. [ he tilts his head just slightly, a sort of wry confidence to the way he seems to take comfort in the idea that he may have laid out the perfect bait here. ]
But, I think the real question is, what are you planning on doing with that hand?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
in this life, wriothesley finds him again and thinks, oh, what beautiful eyes he has. what a beautiful face. what a sharp tongue and temper, and how charming he can be. he thinks he's known him in another life, the taste of his skin like sea salt and smoke, like forbidden fire. but it must be his imagination, because surely this is the first time.
but attraction leaps between them sure and true, from that grip on his wrist to the ways he keeps him after class. wriothesley's folding up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms and giving him a crooked smile. to him, this is simple: it's a chase, and he means to know if professor rafayel tastes as good as he imagines him to be. )
Like what?
( he doesn't look away, gaze steady before he leans back on the expensive couch, stretching his long legs and laying there like he belongs. like he never left. and if he pops a button on his shirt... well... )
This? Gonna paint me like one of your French girls, Professor?
no subject
even when itās just in the corner of his peripherals—
rafayel isnāt impervious to the subtle peek of skin. all the more coming from the subject of his long, withstanding affections. perhaps, thatās why he feels it more intensely than most would have. the show of the taut muscle of his forearm, and even the way he opens yet another buttonā¦
his mouth feels dry for a moment, and he licks his lips just to moisten them before he actually begins stringing his thoughts together. per usual, rafayel is quick to try and regain any sort of mental bearings he may have lost in that moment. in a way, itās similar to how he often lost his train of thought in his lectures, except now it had less to do the artistic chaos of his mind when discussing his passionate pursuits, thenā¦ whatever this was.
he feels overly conscious of everything about wriothesley, including the way his chest rises and falls. he isnāt sure if itās because of the overlap of memories, or if itās another type of desire completely. admittedly, he had his anxieties about finding out which one it was. but, who doesnāt fear vulnerability? ]
As you already know, people arenāt normally the subjects of my work. [ this is the exception. no, heās the exception. but, he doesnāt want to suddenly bring focus to this fact. as if masking a clear weakness heās exposed, he continues. ] You should be asking me to paint you like the sea. [ finally, he feels like he can move in closer. his hand moving on wriothesleyās thighā¦
to pull a piece of paper he left from before from out under him. lol. ]
no subject
in the spaces between their words, wriothesley can divine a whole host of expressions in those lovely, lovely eyes. so often, rafayel remains a mystery to him, elusive and just out of his grasp. the moment passes quickly, especially when rafayel is so very skilled at gathering himself and putting that mask back on, but that's enough for him.
how strange, wriothesley thinks. sometimes, he gets the impression that rafayel is looking through him, beyond him, to something long-forgotten. even so, he's still, filled with anticipation when he draws closer, closer, and wriothesley wonders if he'll finally touch him the way he's wanted him to since the moment their eyes met across the classroom.
but āā he doesn't. he can't help a soft noise when he tugs the paper from under him, the crinkle of it filling him with surprise and a touch of amused dismay. still, before rafayel can stray too far, he grabs a hold of his wrist. )
Why the sea?
no subject
[ the words come out before he can even really think them through. as if the answer had always been pre-established, or as if he read it from some lengthy textbook. the only thing that seems to offset them is the almost playful smile that returns to his lips. especially, as his eyes seem to fall towards where wriothesleyās has grabbed him. despite his initial fluster at their proximity, or within the prospect of his feelings being made obvious— thereās none of that remaining on his features.
still holding the paper within his fingers, he lets them flutter out from his grasp and fall back on wriothesleyās lap. ] But, the sea is also unyielding and unpredictable. As well as an object that many view with both devotion and yearning. [ he tilts his head just slightly, a sort of wry confidence to the way he seems to take comfort in the idea that he may have laid out the perfect bait here. ]
But, I think the real question is, what are you planning on doing with that hand?