I NEED A HIMBO

this was a request from a kind anon.

summary: reader who really likes horror movies.

xavier | zayne | sylus | caleb

rafayel x reader | fluff

Rafayel watches you from where he's lounging sideways on your couch, head propped on a pillow like some tragic Victorian poet. He looks criminally comfortable for someone sitting through a 1970s horror slasher. The kind with grainy film and uncomfortably long shots of people doing absolutely nothing before something awful happens.

But you, you are in your element.

You're sitting cross-legged with your notebook in your lap. Well, notebook is a strong word. It's more like a fabric-bound monster of its own. A monstrosity of dog-eared pages, scribbled thoughts, bookmarks made of candy wrappers, and a paperclip that's given up on doing anything useful.

You're scribbling furiously with a glittery gel pen as the killer's silhouette appears behind the protagonist on screen.

''You see that?'' you say, eyes gleaming as you pause the movie, so you can better gesture with your pen. ''They used high-contrast techniques to create deep shadows and strong highlights, blurring the line between the physical and the psychological. It's a callback to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari-expressionist influences, full circle. Ugh! So good.''

Rafayel raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

''Cutie,'' he says, voice thick with amused affection, ''only you could make murder sound like a love letter.''

You grin without looking up. ''I don't like the gore, I like the craft. There's intention in every frame. Every light. Every angle. The violence is just…contextual punctuation.''

He hums thoughtfully. ''A semicolon of suffering.''

''Exactly!''

There's a moment of silence as you flip a few more pages, trying to find your breakdown of the film's lighting progression. Rafayel leans over a little, pretending to peer into the book, but mostly just using it as an excuse to get closer.

He taps one corner gently. ''Is that…a pressed flower?''

''Yes. From the Suspiria screening. The remake, not the original.''

''Of course,'' he murmurs, clearly having no idea what that means but delighted all the same.

Then, softly, ''You carry entire universes in this book of yours.''

You blink, caught off guard. ''It's just a notebook.''

He smiles like you've said something heartbreakingly naive. ''It's a testament. To what you love. To how your mind works. And if I may say so,'' he traces the notebook's tattered edge with a fingertip, ''that is its own kind of romance.''

You feel your face heat up.

''I mean, if you really want romance,'' you say, trying to regain footing, ''we could watch Crimson Peak next. The actors have said that it's a very passionate love story, supported and complemented by fantastic elements. And not to forget, it's the first film in the Mystery Horror Genre. ''

He exhales a laugh. ''That might be the most you version of flirting I've ever heard.''

You bump your shoulder against his, smiling. ''You're still here listening.''

''Cutie, I would sit through a thousand jump scares and a dozen cursed VHS tapes just to hear you talk about third-act structure and prosthetic gore.''

''…Even found footage films?''

He shudders. ''Let's not test the strength of my devotion.''

You laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder as you unpause the movie. He adjusts slightly, letting you rest against him while your chunky notebook stays balanced in your lap. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing softly over your fingers as the scene resumes.

Blood erupts on cue, the soundtrack crashing down like a closing curtain.

And Rafayel smiles, because nothing makes him feel more enchanted than seeing you light up in the dark, explaining why fear on film is just another way to understand the human heart.

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