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Wholehearted
Apparently today I woke and chose pain.
Rafayel x F MC fanfic. Angst. Hurt, no comfort (I lied, there is a little comfort at the end, should you desire it.) Spoilers for myth and possibly other Rafayel content. Short (660 words).
This is what I wrote instead of finishing the Abysswalker x MC nfsw fluffy fic I am over 3k words into.
“Amund! No! What have you done?!”
Rafayel ran to catch his lovely bride as she fell, but too late. Much too late. The wicked dagger jutted from her chest, just where he'd indicated a fatal blow could be struck when they had flirted and teased as he'd trained her so many months ago. Now the jest had turned to brutal reality.
“It was her request, Your Quintessence,” Amund insisted, sounding satisfied, perhaps even smug.
Rafayel felt sick as the blood seeped around the wound and stained her dress. The dagger was ironically preserving her life, stemming the flow, but he knew it couldn't be for long. She was dying, and he could do nothing to prevent it.
He pressed his forehead to her, tears coming in choking gasps, turning to pearls before they hit the sand. Her eyes fluttered open to look at him, barely clinging to consciousness.
“Why?” He sobbed, brokenly. “You told me not to give up. You told me there was still hope.”
“You were running out of time,” she whispered, fingers shaking as they lightly traced his cheek. “If I waited, it could be too late.”
It was true, and he knew it. His fire had grown dimmer and dimmer by the day. But he never thought…
“It was supposed to be me,” he cried, hugging her gently, feeling her warmth bleeding away. “I don't want it back. My heart belongs to you. Please, please, don't leave me.”
“I love you,” she whispered. Then the light of her eyes dimmed, her hand fell, and she was gone.
“No! No, don't go! Please, don't go!” But his screams fell on deaf ears.
Power surged from her body in a flash of light, before rushing into his own chest. He could feel a vitality he hadn't felt in millenia surging through his veins.
Winds whipped across the sands, and with a great rumble, waters sprung up in mighty fountains. Distantly, he could hear a roar of jubilation as his people realized what was happening.
The God of the Sea was whole. The oceans were returning to Philos. No more would the Lemurians watch helpless as humans plundered their treasures.
The waters soon swallowed Rafayel and his lifeless bride. She looked ethereal as she floated in the blue, red fanning out in a deep stain around her.
“What a liar.” He whispered, fingers caressing her cool cheek.
For the first time in well over 30,000 years, Rafayel was whole, his flame reborn.
He had never felt more empty, more cold.
There would be no next life to get it right. The heart that had brought her back to him time and again had been returned, just as the prophecy demanded. There would be no more waiting for her. No more looking into lovely eyes that saw him as a stranger. Not even death would be a respite for him, for the seas would bring him mercilessly back, life after life, devoid of the only one who made it worth living.
In one swift move, the God of the Sea had regained his heart…and lost it forever.
***
“Rafayel!”
He woke with a gasp, eyes burning, cheeks stained. He looked around wildly, trying to understand what was happening. His skin felt clammy and sticky, his chest heaving for air.
“Rafayel! I’m here. You're safe.”
That gentle voice, that beloved voice, and her soft hand against his cheek, stroking over the tear tracks. He pulled her forcefully into his arms, burying his head in her neck and inhaling deeply. Warm. Whole. Alive.
“I’m here, love,” she cooed, running her fingers soothingly through his hair. “I’m here. You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.”
He placed his hand against her chest, and but for a gasp of surprise, she didn't protest, cradling his hand against her. He felt the thrumming of his heart in her chest. He released a shaky breath.
Surely, she was right. Surely, it was just a dream.
— SWIM WITH ME / I THINK I CAN SEE THE BEACH;
( i need you here with me / but we're out in the open. ) ; romantic headcanons for abysswalker!rafayel ♡ more under the cut!
CW: spoilers for rafayel's "sea of golden sand" myth + general abysswalker rafayel lore ; fluff ; angst ; hurt/comfort ; mentions of blood, injury, and self-harm (rafayel plucks off his scales) : might feel a little ooc because it is abysswalker and not main story rafayel ; quite the word dump (bc i rattle my cage for him)
— as the morning light of the desert creeps into the dim of a tent, two bodies lay tangled in the warmth of each other. RAFAYEL sleeps light and wakes early—hours before the sun peeks over the golden dunes—and although the habit irks him, it does offer him a wonderful sight as compensation: the sight of you, bathed in the soft, rose-gold light of morning, hair a mess, marks littering your skin from where the sheets pressed up against you.
overcome with a love that warms him like molten gold, the young god cannot help but litter your face in butterfly kisses. two to the apples of your cheeks, one on the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips, the middle of your temple. when you shift in your sleep, groan at his ministrations, rafayel can only chuckle, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. he thinks he can hear amund yell for his presence. he couldn't care less.
— RAFAYEL sees himself as the sword at the hilt of your belt, the dagger in your hands that you should use as you see fit, the steady hand guiding your own, drawing your bowstring. he is your ever faithful shadow, always at your side, a watchful gaze always on you. it is only natural for one to protect the keeper of their heart... which is why you and the medical kit from the nurse's tent have gotten well acquainted with each other.
"one of these days, you're going to listen to me." you sigh, gently peeling aside the torn leather of his garb. rafayel does not wince; you don't think you've ever seen him do so, not when he ripped that arrow from his shoulder, or when he stumbles back to your tent with a bloody gash on his chest, or when he's brandishing new bruises on his knuckles. the royal guards seem intent on tracking you down, crossing all of philos's 30,000 zetameters of sand to lock you up in your gilded cage again.
rafayel seems equally intent to ensure that doesn't happen, even if it means throwing himself into their line of fire.
"if i listen to you," the lemurian starts, violet gaze trained on the gentle workings of your fingers, "they'll take you from me again, back to the palace." his breath hitches the slightest—at the thought of you leaving him again, or at the too-harsh tug of the bandage, you're not sure.
— some nights, RAFAYEL is awoken by dreams—horrible, lifelike nightmares. it's sudden, a jolt that has him taking in rapid breaths, a tremor in his hands. "a nightmare", he tells you, when you stir awake and ask him what's wrong in a groggy voice that makes his heart ache, "just a nightmare, sweetheart. nothing to worry about." he waits until he hears your breathing slow once more, pressing kisses to your temple all the while, before slinking out of the tent and into the cold desert air. he'll return to your side before the sun rises, but for now, with still-stuttering breaths, he just needs some time to clear his head.
in his nightmares, a butterfly flaps its wings just the wrong way and rafayel is landed in a world where he is as cold-blooded as amund wished he was. he is back in the ruins of the isle of songs, your hand guiding his own (white-knuckled, dagger brandished) to the place where your heart thrums beneath. and unlike himself, rafayel takes the chance: takes back what is his, what was never yours to keep. the god of the sea was a foolish, lovesick man. he would not make the same mistake.
the dagger sinks into your flesh, the ease of it wrong. your blood flows onto his palms, gets into all the creases of his gloves, spills onto the barren earth and dyes the returning sea red. it is so, so warm against his skin, warms the fire in him that threatened to fizzle out. (he has always been a selfish man, he knows. it is only right that he is no better than bloodthristy philos.) the look dream-you gives him, before he awakes from this cruel world, sears itself into the back of his eyelids. he can see it still, when he looks at the dark of the night sky: reverent, loving. (how could you not, when he has freed you yet again?)
— often, you ask RAFAYEL to tell you tales of the ocean; more specifically, its creatures! what were those rays he spoke of, or the sharks, or those star-shaped things? do the lemurians actually eat them? your lover finds your boundless curiousity incredibly endearing, chuckling whenever your eyes seem to light up at the mention of some new deep-sea fish.
"this is a whale shark." rafayel says, and you watch as the scale in his hands transforms into a small purple apparition. it's as long as his pointer finger, heteroceral tail flicking as it swims in the flame currents, light purple spots patterning its black back. "they are gentle things, despite their size. they only ever eat plankton. i used to have one as a pet, long ago."
"how cute!" you laugh, waggling your finger in front of the shark and watching it follow. "did you have other pets?" and at that, he procures another silver scale, places it into your palms and covers it with his own. a barreleye manifests, and you grin when it's luminous purple eyes stare up at you.
(rafayel ignores the sting in his arm, pinpricks of blood soaking his garb from where he'd plucked some scales off. the wonder in your eyes is more than worth it.)
— helping the LEMURIANS with their daily chores within the camp comes like second nature to you. there is always so much to do: collect jars upon jars of water from the nearby oasis, prepare food, feed the camels, record the state of the camp's supplies... all the while, you feel RAFAYEL'S eyes on your form, your ever cautious vassal. with a little smile, you pretend you don't notice his lavender gaze, if only to spare him from the flushed ears.
it's surprisingly simple, making that lemurian cake: tapioca flour, camel's milk, a healthy dash of sugar, and citrus rind... when the sweet old woman you've spent the afternoon baking with feeds you a slice, you think you've simply ascended. back then, rafayel had fed you one that was cold and a little stale—probably as it was a part of his rations for long journeys. perhaps he'd like one that was far fresher, and baked with love?
... which is how rafayel found himself with a wicker basket full of cake shoved into his hands, and an awaiting you in front of him. "you've been training a while, haven't you?" you smile, taking one of the soft slices and bringing it up to his lips; "try it for me, please!"
and as obedient as ever, rafayel takes a bite, sweetness and citrus on his tongue. "it's good," he hums, kisses your fingertips, "tell me when you're making it next time, love. i'd love to help."
— the LEMURIANS, you remember, were masters of the arts: singing, painting, poetry... so it's no surprise, then, that they celebrate their craft almost every night: children crowd around a charming poet, hooked on every word of their newest bedtime story—his newest fable, that is (something about a fish and a bird, who wished to visit a bakery); the musicians have already begun their newest improvised song, a lively version of an old elegy, it seems; the bonfire in the centre burns high into the night sky like it was trying to reach the stars itself, and when the lemurians dance around it their shadows are long against the sands. you don't know how, but you're eventually dragged into the dance yourself. the glee is infectious, and you find yourself instinctively looking for your beloved.
RAFAYEL doesn't indulge in dancing often, as fun as it may be. he knows the steps, his feet still tapping to the rhythm of the tambourines even as he nonchalantly leans against the tent pole in the distance. it is second nature, now, but his eyes always find you, even in the crowd of people—you, laughing and twirling around without a care in the world. it makes his heart race, a smile creeping onto his own features. he watches you dance with his people, linking arms and being spun around; for a moment he wonders if he should join just to be your one and only dance partner.
... he doesn't notice when you've escaped his gaze, but before he knows it, you've snuck up on him and wrapped a shawl around his neck, dragging him towards the crowd; "dance with me, rafa!"
and how can he refuse a shared moment that transcends lifetimes—across shimmering oceans, and marble floor ballrooms, and golden sands? rafayel's stumbling forward into you until his arms take their rightful place around your form. his hands find small of your back and yours hold onto his shoulders, shawl long abandoned on his neck. this is second nature, galaxies colliding, two souls becoming one.
— after all of the night's festivities are said and done—the musicians pack up their flutes, lyres, and tambourines; the children cover up their yawns with still-red palms from clapping to tonight's tunes; the remaining food is safely packed away for tomorrow—it's just you, RAFAYEL, and the dwindling embers of the fire he'd just stomped out. "i do believe even your highness is not exempt from curfew," he hums, takes your hand in his, and presses his lips to the knuckles.
and in the silence of your tent, coveted in the silver hues of moonlight, rafayel sits you down before him, your back leaning against his chest. his arms wrap around your frame, his chin resting on the crook of your neck. this is your ritual, on too-cold nights: rafayel lights a flickering flame in his palms, the black and violet embers cold as ever. you both stare into this dying fire—you both know what is to come.
sometimes, when the ugly concoction of guilt and sorrow prick at your very soul, your hand reaches up to entwine with his own, just as they did to guide his dagger to your heart. "i won't." rafayel says, and you know what he means. "i will never hurt you." he doesn't complete the sentence, the words dying on his tongue, but you know the rest (there is no other end to this story): i would rather die.
a/n : i need abysswalker carnally it's not even funny anymore 🤩 these were. not supposed to be this long (they are like little fics in themselves omg). but i love this rafa so much i think he deserves it. thank you for the love on the previous rafa content <3 it makes me so happy seeing people who also love this lil guy. the dancing with rafa hc is very much so inspired by "through heaven's eyes" from the prince of egypt! <3333
Tw: SH implied. Stay safe <3
Ao3 link
There is a scar on Tim's neck. Shiny, but pale with age, faded, but not quite. A delicate line in a bastardised mirror of a choker.
There is a scar on Tim's neck, as his hands hover gently over the column over his throat, Bernard's eyes carefully seeking permission, before fingertips lightly graze that thin, harsh scar.
Tim's breath stutters, and in response, Bernard's hands pull back. Tim reaches pit and squeezes once, gently. 'Its OK.' Bernard understands, and returns, his fingers featherlight as he lovingly grazes Tim's scars, before leaning in to kiss him. "Beautiful." Sapphire eyes close gently in response, before opening to look back into soft caramel.
Tim does not love all his scars, just as he does not hate them. Some scars tell the tale of how he survived, of the people he saved. But others- others hurt, more than just phantom pain.
The rippled edges of a scar from too-harsh training, the scar from a knife skillfully slipped between his armour when he turned to speak to Damian, the cuts on his thighs from when Dick took his last safety net, his last stability, the scar on his neck from a brother who would kill to paint his name on the wall.
But when Bernard touches these scars, sp gentle and caring, so loving and accepting, they hurt just a little less.
"Do you forgive them?" Tim looks into deep caramel eyes, full of love and a soft openness. "Not fully. Forgive maybe, but not forget." Bernard nods. "Good." And they move on, gentle kisses and soft touches, as they each tell the stories behind the marks hidden behind clothes and makeup. Some, they will not tell. Others, they will. And they hold each other as they do, gentle and caring, careful of boundaries, physical and metaphorical alike.
There is a scar on Robin's neck, harsh and cold, shiny but faded, red yet pale, stark against an elegant throat in the harsh light of the emergency vehicles.
There is a scar on Robin's neck, and Bernard's hands gently glide against it, it's owner taking in a simultaneously gentle yet harsh breath. "You know, my boyfriend has a scar here." Bernard meets the white eyes of a domino, as he smiles softly. "I love him alot." And Bernard steps away, allowing Tim to come to him.
And he does, steps almost elegant and then stumbling, before he falls into his boyfriend's arms. "Bear..." Bernard smiles gently into Tim's hair. "Hello, love."
*sigh*
what if Bernard likes having long hair because his parents would force him into the perfect boy roll and cut his hair super short no matter how much he protested
almost like a punishment
what if he dresses like he does because he never got to wear anything other than what his parents picked for him so he is finally getting to experiment with his clothes
what if he’s so affectionate because he never got that as a child his mother was never one for hugs and she’d only comfort a young Bernard by putting her hand in his hair or on his shoulder so he wants to get as much affection as he can squeeze out from Tim
Tim is of course happy to oblige
he knows how shitty Bernard’s parent are
he knows how Bernard walked into school with a buzz cut and a bitter and angry look on his face after he was caught holding hands with a boy on the football team by his mother when she went to pick him up
maybe that’s why he tried to get a car so young
because he didn’t want to risk ever getting caught again
Give me timbern angst that's not just dying ot getting kidnapped OR GOING TO THERAPY!!!! TIMBERN IS A GOOD COUPLE! THAT DOESNT MEAN THEYRE PERFECT!!! Give me timbern angst that's not the same situation 800 times, Tim not understanding boundaries because of the way he was raised blah blah blah ITS OLD!!! GIVE ME BERNARD CENTRIC TIMBERN ANGST!!!