[ it's clear just by the timing of his arrival that he seemed to have made some haste to get there. it isn't necessarily a conscious decision on his end either, more struck by the intrinsic desire to get there and see the other man's face as soon as possible. it's a burning desire he didn't exactly expect, and so when the doors automatically draw open, even he's a bit surprised by it.
considering how many years of his own exhaustive life that he's spent waiting, it feels a bit odd to experience the reverse of having someone else waiting for him. though, obviously that amount of time feels like a mere drop in the bucket compared to the "800 years" he's used to toting around.
in spite of it, when he watches the man arrange some books, he seems a bit surprised. the surprise then dissolves, akin to sea foam, to something a bit more subtle and lighthearted. a smile drawn across his lips. ] You don't think there were other ways to get to know me better, "Your Grace"?
[ he says, as he closes some of the distance between them. his voice is airy and playful, but also there's a slight tension in the air, especially as his fingers touch the back of wriothesley's hands as he organizes the texts. ]
That depends. [ he hums, his gaze warming when he sees him. it's easy enough for wriothesley to pick up on the surprise in his eyes; almost too quickly for him to grasp proper. but how fitting it is for a man as mercurial as rafayel. he is akin to shifting sands, hiding secrets within shimmers, but essentially, impossibly himself.
he looks into those twilight-coloured eyes, and thinks they hold the universe, beautiful and fathomless. for a moment, a fragment of memory surfaces, of sunlight witnessed within the water's depths, and he has to pause. it's been happening more and more lately; the bizarre memories of talking fishes and enchanted moonlight, of stark, impossible loss that he feels in his chest even when he wakes.
dreams are a funny thing.
he turns, gaze flickering to that touch. he turns it, gently grasping rafayel's fingers before he can decide to pull away. lovely nails, soft fingertips, and yet the callouses belong to one of a skilled fighter. ]
Are we talking biblically, or is it going to be a treatise on different artistic styles?
[ because renowned artists totally turn up at his home at 2am for the latter. ]
[ when wriothesley's eyes fix on his own, he temporarily finds himself wanting to hold that gaze as long as possible. the man's eyes mirrored the color one sees of the sun behind the shallow depths of water. the way it penetrates the sea, and the color of the sky and water seem to meld into one. while some could mistake it as icy, there's also a considerable warmth to them.
or perhaps, that's simply a projection of how rafayel feels. especially, with the heat of his touch. the fact that wriothesley catches him before he can slip out from his grasp— the constant ebb and flow of him coming too close, and inching away gradually. not unlike a fish in water, actually. he absently hooks his thumb over the duke's hands, delicately feeling the outline of his knuckles. ]
I tend to like a more hands-on approach. [ his eyes brush to their joined hands briefly, before they flicker back up. with his other hand he idly adjusts the collar of his shirt. they seem to trail over the scars on his body, and he almost has to wonder why he had endured so much.
... perhaps, time and time again, or so his suspicions may have indicated to him.
but, that's all they are. loose whispers in the back of his head, and the lingering feeling of familiarity as they're in close proximity like this. ] Does that suit the interest of the Duke? [ ( rafayel voice ) do you want a good, honest boy, or... ]
[ the duke. the way rafayel says it sends a thrill down his spine, and even if he's grown used to others addressing him that way, rafayel makes it sound novel, makes it sound erotic, almost. wriothesley's eyes are alight with amusement, quietly admiring as he leans in close, allowing rafayel to straighten his collar.
he knows those eyes are on the ragged scars that reach deep down underneath his collar, and he revels in the gentleness of that touch. the gorgeous artist's words are loaded, as they often are. occasionally, those words fly over his head, so inexplicably bittersweet, but in this moment, everything is perfect. ]
I'm very interested in your hands-on approach. [ it feels, oddly, like they've done this before. that he's wanted him before, in long-lost days he has no memory of. he's gentle, curious. ]
But I would like to know... you don't usually do things without a reason. Why are you here?
[ it's strange how memories or the course of predestination worked. despite his extended existence in the world, it doesn't become anymore comprehensible to him. the dull sensation of warmth he may have shared with his bride, the intense longing that's been seared into his flames, and moments like these where despite how dissimilar his physical form is, the rhythm of their mutual heartbeats feel one and the same. except, is his rising too quickly?
he feels like it is, and as usual, he does his best to circumvent making this fact too obvious. which means, he turns the attention back to wriothesley, which isn't too hard when he's just a touch away. there's a playful glint in his eyes, as if masking his desire as he tilts his head, just ever so slightly as his hands move a bit lower, finger getting "caught" on the first button, which has it undone in a snap.
he mouths a quiet sort of "oops" as he then looks back up to his last sentence. why was he here, indeed. ] I don't know. Maybe I just thought I should do more house calls. Especially when your gaze seems to be wandering towards other artworks.
"A time with Terry," for example. [ he says as if he were reciting a name of a piece in a gallery. but, there's something a bit more serious to his gaze that suggests, there's far more to it. ] I might have felt if your eyes wandered too far, they'd never come back.
[ the minute shift of an undone button doesn't go unnoticed. he allows it, exposing the brutal scars left behind in a life he'd rather forget. they stretch over his throat, evidence of a rough life. the duke is a murderer made good in many ways, but his roguish charm lingers, shrewdly picking up on all the things he doesn't say.
rafayel's missed him. that, and he can't quite stay away no matter what he says. the man before him is a living mystery, as flowing and mercurial as the seas. a time with terry, he says, the words loaded with meaning that he understands even if his intentions are beyond him. something in his soul stirs, long buried and forgotten.
he thinks of the aching, yawning chasm of loss, and can't remember why. his hand comes to curl around his wrist, then shifting to thread them along rafayel's in a gesture that is familiar. intimate. his other hand comes to gently cup his cheek. ]
[ the action alone mirrors a certain individual of his past. perhaps, the methodology of it is different, but the minute curl of fingers, the emotions that he feels like he can read off of the movements... feel all too familiar. enough where it seems to overtake his perceptions in the moment. whatever petty emotions he may have had to a name wriothesley uses that isn't his own... seems to dissipate akin to sea foam; as if they never existed to begin with.
but, unlike those false tales humans craft about sea creatures and those who lurk within its depths, rafayel knows the reality could be no crueler, and yet his desire to see it through to a different end takes the reins. much like how despite his own way of pushing and pulling seems to stop at this. his resolve found, he leans into the touch, his own hand touching the back of wriothesley's as his cheek presses further into his palm.
he rubs against him, almost as if it natural and involuntary on his part. as if he were simply lulled by everything that wriothesley stood for. ] You need to be careful what you wish for. You might just get it. [ he says, but his voice is almost a pant as he pulls back from the touch to press a kiss on the man's palm. then his wrist.
then, his eyes seem to settle on his lips, and rafayel gets the distinct feeling like he's no longer in control of himself. ]
( rafayel rubs up against him just like that, sparking desire and a low, intense desire that coils in the pit of stomach, as if answering an invisible call. he can't avoid the heat of him, or the way he seeks him out. the kisses on his palm and wrist, while chaste, is intoxicating.
oh, how does something so simple manage to be so sensuous? wriothesley meets his gaze, darkening with a yearning he can't quite put a name to. but he doesn't wait; no, because he's darting forward, grasping rafayel's chin so he can kiss him deeply, fiercely, exploring his mouth and tasting him for himself.
the duke presses up even more firmly against him, registering the promise and threat for what it is, and he smiles. )
I wish for you. ( a low, throaty murmur against his lips. ) And everything that comes with it.
[ it’d be a lie to say that rafayel hasn’t envisioned similar scenarios time and time again. the wispy vision of the silky fabric of a faux fish tail, and even the cold feel of a blade beneath his fingers. touching wriothesley’s skin and tasting the inside of his mouth was both a reminder of the past, as well as a promise for their collective futures. he isn’t sure if the heat itself is more dizzying or all its underlying implications.
while they’re facts rafayel would never allow himself to put into spoken words, they’re burdens he carries, and carries alone. the weight of these memories only made a little lighter by their connection of their lips and body. he finds a soft moan escape from his throat as he leans in, as he struggles to string a response back. the hand that he once laid kisses on, all he does is desperately grip it, let his fingers intimately lace with wriothesley’s for a moment before he moves back to trying to undo each of the man’s buttons. ] You know, fish can’t resist trying to grant the wishes of those closest to them. Especially, if…
[ it’s a request from their bride, the words get cut short as he tilts his head, giving into another heated kiss.
with wriothesley’s chest now exposed, he clumsily, presses his own body back up against them, skin against skin. the sensation of scarred skin leaves his head swimming with infinite thoughts (of desire, revenge, or any number of considerations)— but, in equal reverence, he pulls his lips away, letting them fall back on each scar, as if to display the depth of his devotion. his own fingers tremble for a moment, and he wonders if this mix of fear and want will ever change. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
considering how many years of his own exhaustive life that he's spent waiting, it feels a bit odd to experience the reverse of having someone else waiting for him. though, obviously that amount of time feels like a mere drop in the bucket compared to the "800 years" he's used to toting around.
in spite of it, when he watches the man arrange some books, he seems a bit surprised. the surprise then dissolves, akin to sea foam, to something a bit more subtle and lighthearted. a smile drawn across his lips. ] You don't think there were other ways to get to know me better, "Your Grace"?
[ he says, as he closes some of the distance between them. his voice is airy and playful, but also there's a slight tension in the air, especially as his fingers touch the back of wriothesley's hands as he organizes the texts. ]
no subject
he looks into those twilight-coloured eyes, and thinks they hold the universe, beautiful and fathomless. for a moment, a fragment of memory surfaces, of sunlight witnessed within the water's depths, and he has to pause. it's been happening more and more lately; the bizarre memories of talking fishes and enchanted moonlight, of stark, impossible loss that he feels in his chest even when he wakes.
dreams are a funny thing.
he turns, gaze flickering to that touch. he turns it, gently grasping rafayel's fingers before he can decide to pull away. lovely nails, soft fingertips, and yet the callouses belong to one of a skilled fighter. ]
Are we talking biblically, or is it going to be a treatise on different artistic styles?
[ because renowned artists totally turn up at his home at 2am for the latter. ]
no subject
or perhaps, that's simply a projection of how rafayel feels. especially, with the heat of his touch. the fact that wriothesley catches him before he can slip out from his grasp— the constant ebb and flow of him coming too close, and inching away gradually. not unlike a fish in water, actually. he absently hooks his thumb over the duke's hands, delicately feeling the outline of his knuckles. ]
I tend to like a more hands-on approach. [ his eyes brush to their joined hands briefly, before they flicker back up. with his other hand he idly adjusts the collar of his shirt. they seem to trail over the scars on his body, and he almost has to wonder why he had endured so much.
... perhaps, time and time again, or so his suspicions may have indicated to him.
but, that's all they are. loose whispers in the back of his head, and the lingering feeling of familiarity as they're in close proximity like this. ] Does that suit the interest of the Duke? [ ( rafayel voice ) do you want a good, honest boy, or... ]
no subject
he knows those eyes are on the ragged scars that reach deep down underneath his collar, and he revels in the gentleness of that touch. the gorgeous artist's words are loaded, as they often are. occasionally, those words fly over his head, so inexplicably bittersweet, but in this moment, everything is perfect. ]
I'm very interested in your hands-on approach. [ it feels, oddly, like they've done this before. that he's wanted him before, in long-lost days he has no memory of. he's gentle, curious. ]
But I would like to know... you don't usually do things without a reason. Why are you here?
no subject
he feels like it is, and as usual, he does his best to circumvent making this fact too obvious. which means, he turns the attention back to wriothesley, which isn't too hard when he's just a touch away. there's a playful glint in his eyes, as if masking his desire as he tilts his head, just ever so slightly as his hands move a bit lower, finger getting "caught" on the first button, which has it undone in a snap.
he mouths a quiet sort of "oops" as he then looks back up to his last sentence. why was he here, indeed. ] I don't know. Maybe I just thought I should do more house calls. Especially when your gaze seems to be wandering towards other artworks.
"A time with Terry," for example. [ he says as if he were reciting a name of a piece in a gallery. but, there's something a bit more serious to his gaze that suggests, there's far more to it. ] I might have felt if your eyes wandered too far, they'd never come back.
no subject
rafayel's missed him. that, and he can't quite stay away no matter what he says. the man before him is a living mystery, as flowing and mercurial as the seas. a time with terry, he says, the words loaded with meaning that he understands even if his intentions are beyond him. something in his soul stirs, long buried and forgotten.
he thinks of the aching, yawning chasm of loss, and can't remember why. his hand comes to curl around his wrist, then shifting to thread them along rafayel's in a gesture that is familiar. intimate. his other hand comes to gently cup his cheek. ]
Show me the way back to you.
no subject
but, unlike those false tales humans craft about sea creatures and those who lurk within its depths, rafayel knows the reality could be no crueler, and yet his desire to see it through to a different end takes the reins. much like how despite his own way of pushing and pulling seems to stop at this. his resolve found, he leans into the touch, his own hand touching the back of wriothesley's as his cheek presses further into his palm.
he rubs against him, almost as if it natural and involuntary on his part. as if he were simply lulled by everything that wriothesley stood for. ] You need to be careful what you wish for. You might just get it. [ he says, but his voice is almost a pant as he pulls back from the touch to press a kiss on the man's palm. then his wrist.
then, his eyes seem to settle on his lips, and rafayel gets the distinct feeling like he's no longer in control of himself. ]
no subject
oh, how does something so simple manage to be so sensuous? wriothesley meets his gaze, darkening with a yearning he can't quite put a name to. but he doesn't wait; no, because he's darting forward, grasping rafayel's chin so he can kiss him deeply, fiercely, exploring his mouth and tasting him for himself.
the duke presses up even more firmly against him, registering the promise and threat for what it is, and he smiles. )
I wish for you. ( a low, throaty murmur against his lips. ) And everything that comes with it.
no subject
while they’re facts rafayel would never allow himself to put into spoken words, they’re burdens he carries, and carries alone. the weight of these memories only made a little lighter by their connection of their lips and body. he finds a soft moan escape from his throat as he leans in, as he struggles to string a response back. the hand that he once laid kisses on, all he does is desperately grip it, let his fingers intimately lace with wriothesley’s for a moment before he moves back to trying to undo each of the man’s buttons. ] You know, fish can’t resist trying to grant the wishes of those closest to them. Especially, if…
[ it’s a request from their bride, the words get cut short as he tilts his head, giving into another heated kiss.
with wriothesley’s chest now exposed, he clumsily, presses his own body back up against them, skin against skin. the sensation of scarred skin leaves his head swimming with infinite thoughts (of desire, revenge, or any number of considerations)— but, in equal reverence, he pulls his lips away, letting them fall back on each scar, as if to display the depth of his devotion. his own fingers tremble for a moment, and he wonders if this mix of fear and want will ever change. ]