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“You love to learn, don’t you, my beloved?”
“If I am to be painted on like a temple’s mural, I simply would like to know the meaning of said designs, Rafayel.”
The depths of Lemuria are cold tonight, the rays of the Sun Below the Waves filtering in through the arching windows of your bedroom do nothing to heat up the waters around you. And yet—you feel so, so warm, flustered by the young God’s proximity, the heat of his hands and brushes of breath against your skin feeling like the flames he conjures… But if it’s any consolation, Rafayel too, seems just as flustered. The tips of his ears and his cheeks are flushed a brilliant crimson, more red than any Flamulla he’s ever shown you. It seems no amount of stolen moments sleeping under the fake sun, drawn close to his side with your head on his shoulder, could ever prepare the two of you for this intimacy.
The intimacy in question, being a miniature rehearsal of what awaits you in a few moons time—the Sea God’s Ceremony, the image of your lovely Rafayel wreathed in gold and flame and divinity. And you, at his side, at the temple’s altar—as a bride, where once you were nothing but a sacrificial lamb. The thought makes you squirm under his touch.
“Which one would you like to learn about, my heart?” Rafayel murmurs, that final bit much quieter than the rest, as his fingers deftly dip the brush into the paint. (It seems he’s doing anything at all to avoid looking into your eyes, for now.) A shiny blue now coats the bristles of his brush as it returns to your skin. It is careful, just the right amount of pressure, as it glides across your shoulder in a smooth arc. And then, little dollops of paint, in a smaller, gill-like design. It’s beautiful, only possible with a steady hand—you know that all too well, given the arcs you’ve painted on Rafayel are not quite perfect, yet.
Your hand drifts downward, fingers drumming against the dark-blue designs now adorning your waist, just above your hip bones. “These.” You say, hushed, like a secret. “I want to know what these ones are about.” Rafayel follows to his knees, hands skimming up and down your sides as he hums, now eye-level with your exposed stomach. With bated breath, you drum your fingers over the back of his hands as they finally rest on your hips.
( Memories of many a night tangled in his bed sheets come to the forefront, a sacred, makeshift altar. Flesh transmuted into the divine, moans and prayers swallowed into the hungry maw of a God, salvation in the haze of pleasure. Religion in reverse—it is the devotee that is worshipped. )
You’d already asked him about the crimson and sapphire insignias he’d painted onto your back and shoulder blades—and as you painted matching ones upon his skin, asked him about those as well. Something about strength and wisdom, he’d explained, and how the Gods would help ease the burden from your shoulders. The golden dusting across his collarbones sparkle as you look down upon his kneeling figure. Like glittering moonlight on the surface world, they catch the light of Lemuria’s fake sun—like thousands of little twinkling stars upon the porcelain perfection of his being.
“Ah, these ones…” Rafayel kisses the now-dry paint, curved lines and diamonds of blue that he’d so carefully painted minutes ago. Those soft lips of his trail a burning path down the painted lines, skimming dangerously close to the opulent fabric around your waist. The way his gaze flits upwards to meet yours is dangerous, and Gods, he tugs at the fabric with his teeth — “These …” He repeats, almost in a trance, “...are a blessing of fertility.”
…
“Your Highness—”
A choked protest, it dies the moment it rolls off his tongue and your lips connect to the marred skin of his chest. If Rafayel was any louder, you’re certain Amund (who has had nary a night of restful slumber since you’d taken up residence in Rafayel’s tent, and proceeded to make up for aeons of lost time) would throw a grumbling fit in the morning. Rafayel lies beneath you, his gaze burning into your very soul as you pepper loving pecks to the scars scattered on his skin. He can’t hide from you now–not with his mask thrown aside into some corner of the tent and his overly-complicated garb half-done–and when your eyes flicker upwards you can see how red he’s gotten. His cheeks are flushed, the tips of his ears too, and there’s a haze in his eyes that you recognise well.
( Gods are meant to be perfect in every way, sculpted without imperfection by the hands of some higher power. And yet, this god, so far removed from what he is meant to be, is where you find the grace of divinity. Isn’t it only fair to thank your god with the worship he so deserves ?)
“How did you get this one, Ra’el?” You murmur, warm breath fanning against his skin in a way that makes him shudder. Your fingers trace a large scar that stretches from his collarbone to right above where his heart would be. The scar tissue is smooth under your fingertips, a dark silvery-pink line borne from who-knows-what. You hum, offer him a gentle smile as you draw a heart over the end of the scar, right over where his heart should be. “And you better not say it’s from another sandworm—I’ve yet to encounter one in the bestiary Amund gave me.”
“Not a worm,” Rafayel manages, once he’s found his voice again. A calloused hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you lean into it like a too-eager cat. The act is gentle, delicate, as though he wasn’t all rough and rugged edges. ( In another life, perhaps, he was more well-versed in the sweeter, gentler things in life. ) “It was from a noble who thought he could best me.” His hand drops to grip your chin, tilting your head up. The look in his eyes holds a darkness you can’t quite place—a beast lingering just out of sight.. As he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, he murmurs, hushed like a not-quite secret; “He didn’t, of course.”
You hum at that, breath hitching as another kiss falls on the other corner of your lips.. When he pulls his hand away from your chin, you lower your head to the jagged skin of his chest once more; “Of course.” You echo, another kiss pressed to those battle scars, and it earns a blissful hiss from him. Each press of your lips against him is reverent, as though each one sings praises of his triumph. “Only I can do so, yes?”
Silence captures the tent, and you think you see his eyes widen just the slightest in shock. As quickly as it came though, it is replaced by a warm amusement, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "How bold," He says, the little huff laced with a lilt of challenge. The rumbling in his chest is soothing, and you place your hand above his heart to savour that feeling-he is alive and happy and present, with you. "But you would be correct, Your Highness..." Rafayel's hand moves to hold your wrist, a firm touch. He lifts it, pressing a kiss to a palm-and it feels almost like the kiss of a dagger against skin, a scythe to a soul. "Only you can tame a beast like me.”
( Lone stray dog, looking for your home amongst these endless sands, have you found your master once more? Shall you bite the hand that loves you, as your fellow brethren pray for, or lay your life down for a semblance of love once more ? )
And then, a tug. You’re brought flush against him, his burning skin against your own, like hot coals compared to the cold desert air. “Enough about these scars.” Rafayel practically purrs, sounding only pleased by how he has you in his arms now. His voice drops to a whisper, and you can tell something in the air has changed, any semblance of power you thought you had ripped away;
“There are better ways to worship your God, my heart. ”