The soft hum of classical music drifts through Rafayel’s studio, a gentle melody weaving through the air as sunlight spills across the hardwood floor. You sit on his worktable, a white sheet loosely draped over your front, its edges barely clinging to your form, leaving your back exposed. To Rafayel, you are ethereal—a living echo of a Greek god/dess, sculpted in marble and brought to life. Your skin glows under the warm light, a canvas of divine curves and delicate lines that he’s immortalized countless times in paint and stone. Statues of you line the studio’s corners, their marble eyes gazing softly, while vibrant canvases of your likeness adorn the walls, each capturing a fragment of your essence. You are his muse, his obsession, his everything.

Rafayel stands behind you, his slender frame just tall enough to reach your shoulders as he works. His brush dances across your back, painting an underwater scene—coral reefs blooming in deep blues and purples, fish darting through shimmering currents, and the faint glow of Lemurian lanterns fading into the abyss. The cool touch of paint sends a shiver through you, but his breath, warm and teasing, counters it as he leans in. Every so often, his lips graze your neck or an unpainted patch of skin, a soft kiss that lingers like a whispered promise. “Hold still, cutie,” he murmurs, voice low and playful, laced with that familiar melancholy that clings to him like sea mist. His purple hair brushes your shoulder as he dips his brush into a palette of oceanic hues, his movements precise yet tender, as if he’s worshipping every stroke.

The table beneath you is covered with a cloth, though Rafayel wouldn’t care if paint stained it—he’s too lost in the act of creation, in you. His fingers, smudged with blue and gold, occasionally trace the curve of your spine, not to paint but to feel you, to ground himself in your presence. The studio smells of salt and turpentine, a blend of his Lemurian soul and artistic devotion. “You’re more beautiful than any sculpture,” he says softly, his tone half-teasing, half-reverent, as his brush sweeps a final stroke of starlight across your shoulder blade. He steps back, admiring his work, but his eyes linger on you—not the painting, but the person who’s been his heart for 800 years. The music swells, and he leans in again, pressing a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, his hands resting lightly on your hips. “My masterpiece,” he whispers, and you can feel the weight of his love, as vast and deep as the ocean he paints.