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syluses · 7 days ago

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MY LAST DUCHESS

𓍯𓂃 older! rafayel x reader

SUMMARY: when a longtime friend of your father sees the rocky start to your art career, he does what he can to help it along. there is an unnamed price, you’ll learn.

✦ CONTENT: 9.1k words. older! (mid 30’s) rafayel x younger! (21y) fem reader, dubcon, nsfw/smut, manipulation, obsessive/yandere behaviors, naive mc, power imbalance, non-evol au (wouldn’t be me if i didnt write non-evol) but the element of past lives/soulmates remains, noncon touching/groping, ‘shushu’ used as an honorific (chinese address for older men such as an uncle or family friend), mentor / student dynamic, generally dark content, nonlinear timeline

✦ SIDENOTE: older raf is inspired by this wonderful nonnie! ✨ soooo ngl this one bit a chunk outta me :,) kinda hate this kinda love it. rafayel’s characterization is sooo tricky esp after months of not writing him! but i hope u enjoy friends 💗 for the sake of immersion, pls picture our fishie as above! 😮‍💨

An hour left. Give or take.

And the crowd is already thinning.

How many actually acknowledged you again? Was it… four? Or- Or three-?

Altogether, you’ve counted dozens that have come through the door, filtering in and out over the span of the two-ish hours you’ve had your station set up. There’s been a few people that have drifted by and- maybe just out of pity, that’s a very likely possibility at this point- thrown your artwork a cursory glance.

But no recognition’s been given beyond that, and nobody has cared enough to stop and really look.

To call it hurtful is an understatement.

It’s a blow to your pride, yes. But you’ve only been preparing to show your art for ages, and the painting you’ve designated as your magnum opus- the big one in the center, a depiction of an ocean at dawn with blood in lieu of water- could’ve very well carved off years of your lifespan, it was so onerous.

You’ve framed this thing. Made it into a masterpiece— or what you were eventually able to convince yourself was, anyway, only after months of hemming and hawing and contemplating if all the time you spent on it was actually meaningful-

And it is. It is meaningful.

It meant something to your heart. Even if all the insecurities floating within your brain, the thoughts that said it’s stupid or ugly or nobody could possibly understand the intention in which you swept that brush across the canvas, have their foothold somewhere in you— at the very core of your person: that’s where this creation exists most.

It’s special to you.

You couldn’t pinpoint where the inspiration came from if it meant saving your life. It blew in out of the blue and for whatever reason, you listened to it.

And how compelling that little spark was… Urging you to paint for sometimes days on end before scrapping the piece entirely and starting anew. But despite all the wasted efforts, the product was something you could finally say you resonated with.

You’re not one of the greats, you find yourself bitterly thinking as day darkens to night outside the building, dusky hues seeping into the floor-to-ceiling windows by the front. You’re just an idiot with the brush and canvas your father bought for your twenty-first birthday. Before then, on your eighth, it was chalk and an easel. You were just as passionate then, too.

But clearly, your ability to appreciate art doesn’t conflate with your ability to create it, regardless of for how long you’ve enjoyed it as a medium.

The longer you stand here, the longer you make a fool of yourself.

With a soft sigh, now ten minutes before the gallery is over, you hang your head and prepare to begin packing everything up.

…It’s fine.

It really, really is.

Balling your fists so tight your fingertips go white, you will yourself to pretend it doesn’t feel like a slap to the face as tears well in your eyes, your little spread of art blurring before you.

You’re so lost in your own mental efforts to compose yourself that you don’t notice the figure that glides down the walkway, past the other extravagant works of suddenly quiet attendees, and stops behind you.

“Cutie?”

A rather concerned voice pulls you from your thoughts. You whip around, quickly blinking away the looming tears, and pause.

Rafayel, one of your father’s friends- and Linkon’s most talented painter without question- greets you with a sort of bemused look.

Yet it’s not directed towards you, no- it’s directed to the portion of the wall in front of you under your name.

Suddenly aware of your slight slouch in the presence of a man that is both a celebrity in your city and a prominent, respectable friend of your dad’s, you pull back your shoulders and plaster on a smile.

“O-Oh, Mister Rafayel-“ before you can punch out a proper greeting, or even hope to steady the slight warble in your tone, his eyes widen and he murmurs something beneath his breath. Along the lines of disbelief.

“Did you make these?”

Admittedly, you don’t see an extreme amount of your uncommon shushu, but still, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so…

Stunned.

Feeling all but embarrassed after the whole gallery has made a fool of you unknowingly- you hasten to shake your head and prepare a fervent denial. You’re not so sure you want to be associated with what’s behind you anymore, not after being made to feel like the one outlier to this creative, special event- the one that doesn’t belong.

“I- uh, well, I was just testing out some new brushes and-“

Finally, Rafayel spares you a glance, fast but sharp as he interrupts you. (Not that you’d ever dare to call him rude for it or anything…)

“The ones your father got you for your birthday?”

You blink slowly. “Yeah…”

It’s true you held a small celebration for your twenty-first, with only your closest relatives and friends as guests, but you suppose his hearing of it through the grapevine isn’t an impossibility... He’s a buddy of your dad’s, after all, and they’ve always gotten along well during the occasional get-together.

His lips, plump and pink, part to let out a short breath, and then he’s back to gaping at that main painting, eyes as wide as china plates as he pays you no further attention.

His hand, a warm weight on your shoulder, remains there like he’s forgotten to move it, and as you begin to feel slightly uncomfortable, you remind yourself of his absent-minded personality.

Clearing your throat softly, you offer a polite smile (one he doesn’t even notice) and overlook the innocent but persisting touch.

Your cheeks are warm: along with your skipping heart, you ignore that, too.

It’s more than reasonable to be a little nervous, a little girlish, when stood beside someone like him- all the glimpses you caught of him throughout your childhood be damned.

You’re just a plain, homespun thing in comparison.

“It’s… uh, really nothing special, so…” Your attempts to distract him from your stupid illustrations are carried with a trembling voice, and you don’t think he’s listening to them anyway, so- still ignoring his hand on your shoulder- you try a new angle at small talk.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Thankfully, he actually gives a response to that- nonchalant as it is.

He hums, only kind of focused on whatever you just said, “Yeah. Me and Thomas were driving by. I remembered you’d be showing your art this evening and told him to pull over.”

“O-Oh,” you say with the appropriate amount of shock.

You knew he ran in the same circles as your father, yes, but you didn’t realize he’d be privy to your participation of this art gallery or actually remember your birthday; and tonight is baffling you in several regards.

What he’s doing here, why he wanted to see your side of the exhibit and why he even valued the information that you’d be doing it is, to say the least, a surprise.

Well, you suppose quietly as he eventually turns over to look at you again, a bit more composed this time, your shushu has always been nice. A little eccentric, yes…

But nonetheless nice.

Maybe this is just part of what he does. Perhaps this is… normal for him.

To attend art galleries for the simple purpose that he felt like it in the moment; yet, to hardly give the participant he’s apparently there for any consideration beyond a hand placed on their shoulder—

and you don’t take that hand off your shoulder, heavy as it begins to feel—

Gawking at some amateur’s painting like it’s the runner-up to Van Gogh or Picasso and not the work of some bungling young newbie.

All of this is just his thing.

It’s on brand for him.

…And you guess- as you distantly recall those vivid conversations he shared with your parent years ago and his inclination to cartoonishly tune his manager out and procrastinate on his deadlines- that the shoe fits.

He’s incredibly talented (and everybody and their mom knows it- how important he is), but that doesn’t mean he can’t be bizarre at times.

To be clear- when he gives you his full, undivided attention, suddenly staring at you like you hung the damn moon in the sky, and you balk accordingly-

That is very, very bizarre.

A small lump forms in your throat. You swallow it down. His hand, still perched on you, gives a little, harmless squeeze as if to emphasize whatever amazement he’s feeling inside, and you don’t do anything but stand there and stare back at him, agog.

“It’s incredible,” he finally breathes.

“W-What-?” You stammer owlishly, “What’s incredible?”

“Your art you created, silly girl,” he adds, looking a bit dizzy as he lets out a soft laugh, marbled eyes softening at you. Light from the golden-white fixtures overhead catch on his pupils and make them shine. They seem to ripple and inflate the longer he holds unbroken contact with you.

“It’s…” his indigo-red gaze scours your face for something.

“Perfect.”

You’d be lying if you said this whole interaction isn’t just a touch unnerving. Not a lot, but a little. But then again…

As you remind yourself of his natural, exaggerated persona, your dad’s longtime friendship with him, and his critical acclaim in Linkon, you feel a bit comforted by those things.

Besides, up until now, in those uncommon brushes you had with him, he was never anything but civil and friendly- so there’s no reason to let your own leftover unease from the past couple hours sully your image of him just because he won’t get his stupid pretty hand off your shoulder is acting a little touchy.

You know the guy. Not too well, but you know him. He’d say the exact same for you.

You bow, “Oh, thank you, S-Shushu,“ and as five minutes remain on the clock until you’re meant to wrap it all up and go home- pretend you’ve not felt this close to throwing up since that bad hangover you had the morning after your first drink- Mister Rafayel gives you the most charming, easy smile and finally withdraws his hand from you.

He uses it to lift your own and kiss the knuckles of it. The epitome of a gentleman.

“What’s with the formalities?” He tilts his head. “Just Rafayel is fine with me, cutie.”

You’ve always been something close to just distantly involved with one another, but after tonight, you can’t help but wonder if his opinion of you has changed. Because when he asks if your painting’s for sale and how much it costs, he follows it up with a request to see what else you have in your collection- as enthusiastic as you’ve possibly ever seen him- and you reluctantly agree to have him over at the house on Friday.

For the first time, he will not be visiting for your father.

✦

He does have a discussion with him, though, over the table.

You’re shy, feeling just a little bit like a bug under a microscope as two sets of eyes trail over you, evaluating you on occasion.

One does so more than the other. You cant count the amount of times your Shushu- or, Rafayel, he says to call him- looks for a little too long before refocusing on the other man.

Although to be fair, you try not to pay much mind to it, instead occupying yourself with your plate as you pretend to find their conversation only half-interesting.

The last thing you want to seem is rude during Mister Rafayel’s visit. But they’re speaking about you, the art he’s suddenly so interested in, like you’re not even there, and despite feeling left out, you can’t deny the excitement.

I mean, any young, fledgling artist would be positively thrilled at the idea of being mentored by Linkon’s greatest. This isn’t something to scoff at here.

What he’s proposing to your father now is personal, one-on-one lessons over the length of a few months. A ticket to success, by the sounds of it. Your parent listens in, nodding every so often, and he seems as interested in propelling his daughter’s passion forward as much as he does wary.

Three months is… a long time, after all. And to be sharing them under the same roof with someone who is more or less a stranger to you—?

Whether he’s your dad’s longtime friend or not, that doesn’t make him any less of a man.

That fact isn’t lost on either of them.

It’s not until the very end that your father finally pulls you out of the little reverie you’ve deliberately sank yourself into in an attempt made against boredom, calling your name rather cheerily.

You lower your fork, perking up, yet you simultaneously try to remain civil and sophisticated as a concoction of nerves and excitement dances in your chest.

Just about every single one of your dreams and aspirations hinges on the conclusion they’ve made.

“So?” He goes, putting down his drink with a soft clink.

You haven’t touched yours. Your twenty-first birthday brought lots of fun crafty gifts, but also the realization that liquor does not like you- and you do not like it.

You startle slightly, promptly raising your shoulders under his gaze. “Y-Yes?”

Your father blinks at you, shares a momentary, just marginally amused smirk with his pal, and then proposes, “Do you want to start pursuing art under your Shushu’s tutelage?”

The lights shine brightly overhead and Rafayel’s expectant, patient look towards you is perfectly lit.

Awaiting your answer- your mouth flopping open like a fish- he takes a slow drag of his flute of wine before the ends of his lips quirk up at you. His hair is like purple satin, and even despite being well into his thirties now, his appearance is an overall pretty, almost delicate thing. His eyes twinkle with golden threads as highlights, his stare dazzling.

It reminds you of a tranquil, starlit pond up until the moment you zero in on the reddish hue below the pupil- and any comparison you can draw to something peaceful is broken.

He’s… pretty, yes— But something about those colors- that scarlet splash amidst otherwise serene pools of blue- reminds you of blood in the water.

His behavior was nothing but pleasant when you’d shown him your scattered collection upstairs in the attic you use for crafting.

An hour later, he’s still just as friendly.

Nice.

Reaching over the table, he nudges your glass closer with a finger.

You hasten to throw him a reassuring smile and, deciding tonight is special, pick it up to drink at once.

Before you do, you timidly peer above the rim, “if Mister Rafayel would be okay with that,” you say, trading between their gazes, “then I’d like that a lot, yes.”

Glancing to your lips as you tilt your head back to take a long, although trickling sip of your wine, your guest smiles to both you and your father.

It’s a real thing.

In the moment, you make the quiet realization that everything else, every other mild or delighted expression made from him before now, has looked very much the opposite.

“Wonderful.”

✦

The first month you spend under him is…

Interesting.

But that much makes sense, you suppose. It fits the shoe that is his whimsical persona.

It’s a whirlwind life that he lives.

For days on end, he’ll drag you from exhibit to exhibit- leaving you little time to rest or so much as jot down notes as he raves on and on about an exquisite piece on display at one of his friend’s private collections, flitting between the busts and statues.

You’ve shared more meals with him and his manager, Thomas (the poor, poor guy; he has a backbone, though, you’ll give him that) than you can count- and though you didn’t grow up anywhere near lower class, it’s still a humbling experience whenever Rafayel has to teach you how to eat a certain dish because you’ve never even seen it before.

His lifestyle is lavish and, if you’re being honest, a tiny amount hedonistic… With a side of superficial.

When the pesky camera or two isn’t tailing him, he’ll loop his arm around your waist in public, sticking closer than what might seem inappropriate to those unaware of your strictly professional tie, and you’ll quietly wonder if this is how he’s always been.

A bit two-faced, you mean.

Other days, it’s a chore to even get him out of the bathtub and motivate him to check your work at the living room’s easel.

Sluggish— And then awake. Back-talking some other poor party-goer as soon as they waltz off to the drink bar- but just as quickly, spinning around to take your arm in his and whisper about just how gorgeous you look in that new dress he bought for you, saying in cliche manner that you’re the star of whatever show you attend.

Capricious as a cat, the guy. But he’s always been good to you, your shushu, and despite all the to-ing and fro-ing he does- and his ever revolving door of moods- he’s taught you invaluable lessons thus far.

As an up and coming artist, you wouldn’t trade what you’ve learned for the world.

Make no mistake- what you want to do, what you want to become, might as well mean that much to you.

Sometimes you have to pinch yourself to know you’re not dreaming. It’s all so glamorous and exciting (albeit, it comes with the tasks, the learning curve) as to be unreal.

You’re on a metaphorical ship sailing to artistic eminence and Rafayel, the best possible mentor your father could’ve ever bought for you, is pioneering it.

So yes, maybe he can be a bit… Eccentric sometimes—

With the piercing glances thrown across the studio room, the needless touches to the small of your back or shoulder that linger, the weird breathy tone he takes on with you sometimes and then the sudden distance he applies between you whenever a lens flashes- as if he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—

Sure, his behavior is just a touch creepy (although, for obvious reasons- the main one hinging on your veritable career- you’d never say that aloud), but there’s a reason why he’s Linkon’s number one, undisputed painter and a contender for the country’s overall best. You have an inkling that each of his quirks, some endearing, some confusing, and others irritating, have contributed to that shining reputation.

Peels of laughter echo from the front door- and then, Rafayel, with a mild, friendly smile a touch too mannered to be real, turns around to join you at the car.

A sleek, black thing: as expensive as his wristwatch and as spotless as his get-up for the night, a creme-colored button-up and slacks with polished shoes.

His collar hangs loose as a stylistic choice, and with the balmy breeze blowing in, you think he’s wise for that.

In the too-short dress he all but coerced you into wearing before you left, your thighs on display like an opus at one of those art museums he’s taken you to, you still find yourself sweating. Feeling too hot.

Maybe he’s partly to blame for that.

He helps you into the passenger side without your asking, releasing your hand once you’re in- but not before giving it a squeeze and a fleeting kiss. When you shyly thank him, offering a laugh so patently nervous it’s as if you forgot how to, he sends you a wink that- despite your considerable age gap and the grounds on which you know him- your animal brain can’t quite overlook.

An inner part of you, as a base instinct, perhaps, trembles.

He’s just being playful. That strange fluttering of your gut is a clear sign of your giving into his flirty persona, which is… admittedly, not to your delight- the last thing you want is to be one of the preening women he butters up at the gatherings- but hey, the point is—

That flip of your belly isn’t a sign of discomfort.

It’s just you being excited and secretly kind of crushing on your amazing shushu. Right?

That’s what one of your cousins said at a get-together the other night, at least, and you think her suggestion is as good as any. The epithet ‘naive’ has been given to you by more than one relative throughout your childhood, and maybe they were right to call you that.

But you really don’t think Rafayel— a minor celebrity to the world and quite possibly the best that Linkon’s ever produced (alongside that heart surgeon making headway in the papers)- a trusted, longtime friend of your father— has any weird intent with you. Seriously.

It’s just…

Well, it’s just how he is.

On the drive home, midway through your vivid retelling of unexpectedly bumping into the nice lady who used to babysit you, Rafayel’s hand finds your thigh and stays there.

Oh, to God you pray he doesn’t hear the delicious little gasp you let out in turn- but you know, what with his sitting a foot away, that there’s no way he doesn’t.

The breathy, soft chuckle he responds with solidifies your quiet fear.

But he doesn’t mean it in any weird way, he- he doesn’t.

It’s not possible. You’re a silly, sometimes embarrassing newbie, not the worst of your craft but a definite ways off from being even remotely considered as one of the greats; on top of that, you’re the rather clumsy daughter of one of his good friends- overall, a very bland girl despite the abundance of opportunities her cushy upbringing offered her, and—

Did you already mention the age difference?

Yeah, no. He’s way too mature for all that.

For you.

His curious, quirky, sometimes even petulant personality nudged to the side- Rafayel is a grown man, well into his adulthood, and he wouldn’t suddenly throw his whole luxurious life to the side just because- because what?

Because he woke up one day and decided he wanted to risk it all for some young pussy?

Come on. Be real here.

Not that you want to throw yourself under the bus, but you’re not particularly special, and he’s way too good for you. Moreover, he might act a little funny on occasion what with the way he stares at you- sometimes like you’re the long lost love of his life; at others, like you’ve done something terribly wrong to him in a past one- but the guy has morals.

Geez. Get it together, you tell yourself in an instant, briefly shutting your eyes as if the darkness behind them can bring you clarity, before opening them back up again, redirecting your focus to the bustling city around you as the lights smear behind the window.

Pretty, to say the least.

Pretty and a good distraction from the hand that creeps just a little higher up your thigh, slender fingers curling in almost possessively.

Swallowing down the kernel of unease that sits in your throat, you cover up the sudden loss of your train of thought with a dry cough and resume your story.

A good chunk of you has lost the enthusiasm over it, though. You become aware of how stupid you must look- babbling to your poor mentor whom you’ve quietly shoved all these accusations onto in your head- and feel overwhelmingly small.

Your voice shrinks along with your confidence.

With the last of it, you risk a look down to your lap, and your breath catches when you realize just how fucking scandalous it looks. Your shushu’s hand disappearing up the glitzy skirt of this whorish dress he bought for you- all for the sole reason that you might look good in it as he tugs you alongside him throughout the evening.

As his palm, warm and broad, rides just a smidgen higher, it’s like he’s not even aware of what he’s unknowingly doing. How this could make you feel or how badly this could bounce back on the face of his career and prestige if anybody else so much as caught a glimpse of it.

…Conveniently, though, they never do, do they?

No,.. he always releases you right beforehand or swiftly loses interest in your side-profile whenever the paparazzi swings by; in particular, however, it’s your ever the pest father that weasels his way in between more often than not, forcing your shushu to be on his utmost best behavior—

A shaky breath in, and then out.

This past month of learning under him has been great, really, it has. It’s just…

You just…

Wish he’d get his fucking hand off you

You just wish he was a little less eccentric and a tiny bit more aware of his frivolous, unthinking behavior.

That’s all…

The wind whips outside the window.

Willing yourself to focus on the sound of it, you close your eyes again and think of homeward.

How four turns ago, if Rafayel had just taken a left instead of a right, he would’ve steered you both on track for your father’s estate and his open arms rather than Mo Art Studio, the inexplicably distant place you’ll be staying at for the next couple months.

Beside you, a voice, Rafayel’s, murmurs something- your name, you realize- and your gaze snaps over to him accordingly. His own is expectant as he risks a quick look in your direction, otherwise focused on the road ahead.

He chuckles lowly, amused by this or that. “Lost in thought, cutie?”

Perhaps you’ve learned more than artistically advertised from your teacher, because when you plaster on a tight smile and laugh, it’s mimicking his reception to the nosy press. Maybe you’ll be good at the whole publicity thing.

“S-Sorry, what?”

“I said that dirty old bald guy was staring at you the whole time. It was almost like he couldn’t take his eyes off! …Were you not listening to your shushu?” he pouts. And that much is to be expected from him.

The undeniable streak of jealousy in his seemingly unbothered tone, however, a detail that, for all your naivety, you can’t quite overlook, isn’t.

“No, I-“ you settle for a sigh, fidgeting with your purse as you pull it closer, discreetly trying to angle your hips away from his hand; anything to distract you from it in the meantime.

“I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anybody. I was looking at the sculptures.”

He hums, apparently placated by your answer. You catch a flash of his smile- rather smug, mind you- from the corner of your periphery before he responds with a soft, breathy chuckle.

“Spoken like a true artist,” he comments, lighthearted as ever. But right as you start to forget the warmth of his hand on your leg, harmless but niggling, it coasts higher up, his long, attentuated fingers curling into the plush of your inner thigh- brushing the seat of your panties.

Your heart, galloping in your chest at race horse speeds, sinks to your stomach.

This time, you don’t gasp. But in your frantic efforts to keep from doing so and maintain a straight face, you definitely forget to breathe.

It takes every fiber of your being not to shiver and throw a confused, hurt look his way.

Rafayel’s tone lowers, then, dipping into territory you would consider as absolutely possessive- although you inwardly fight tooth and nail to understand why.

“Why don’t we stay at the Studio tomorrow?” He broaches. “After the night I had watching all those creeps sniff around you, I feel like we should take a break from all the events for a bit, yeah? As a newbie artist,” he spares a brief look over to you just to wink, “You’ve definitely explored outside of your comfort zone enough.”

He gives your upper thigh a squeeze you can’t pretend to be anything but hungry. “It’ll just be me and you, cutie.”

✦

A little funny.

Going your whole life, some odd 35 years, being acutely aware that something is missing in the bigger picture, but not knowing quite what—

And then some girl’s picture, some ocean full of blood, with its scarlet, lapping tide made with amateur strokes at best and a clearly limited palette, comes along, and it confirms that niggling feeling in the most bizarre way possible.

She comes like a lightleak into his life. Out of the blue like a meteor hurled from the sky; but the joke in it all is that she’s been under his nose for the past decade.

Just… the timing was all wrong.

All those years go by, yielding no result, it’s hard not to think you’re starting to go a little crazy… Besides, Rafayel knows the artists of olden times (Van Gogh, Picasso, Munch, the list goes on), all the greats, were a little mentally unstable, too, so maybe those delusions he’d been having—

That cold, unforgiving blade. Her hair between his fingers, slipping like quicksilver. A shapeless but soft face with blue lips- his name on them like a prayer. Luxurious silks and flaming, sweet incense with a beautiful sunset as a backdrop to their evening chats—

Were all pretty par for the course.

Convincing, but ultimately meaningless. A product of his own, very vivid imagination. Maybe the lack of being understood had something to do with it, too.

And then lo and behold… spitting in the face of his dismissal, he has some dream of her days out from her twenty-something-th birthday, successfully planting the seed of suspicion in him- and then he happens upon her gallery just a while after, hitting the gold he wasn’t even fully sure existed.

Yeah. A little funny sounds about right.

The cherry on top is the fact that she doesn’t remember what he’s beginning to.

The origins of that blood-red sea she thinks to be merely fantastical; the dagger at dusk and the underhanded, downright cruel method she used to go about delivering that fate to herself and him.

If the universe is having a laugh at Rafayel- God, he wants it to stop already.

Because he’s trying to be patient with her, he is.

It takes time to adjust, after all, especially to something so world-altering. He’s become acquainted with those visions of his apparent past life to an uncomfortable degree- so he gets it, he does: the initial sense of uncertainty and doubt. And maybe this much is one-sided- but what it feels like to be stabbed by the knife of pure betrayal, the endless fear of being abandoned again that crushes him from all sides—

It’s safe to say that Rafayel tried denying it at first, too.

That he resisted.

But regardless of the slight grudge he’s developed for her over a number of very valid reasons, he’s nothing if not a good lover. The memories of his past life directly prove that.

They also prove that she is meant to stay by his side- be his perfect bride, fulfilling her duty to love and remain loyal to him- forever and always. And vice versa.

But this is all a process, of course, he knows that. Even if it feels like whenever he sees her his soul might jump out from his mortal skin or he might press too hard too fast and scare her away and end up all alone again.

Pining for her. Yearning for her. Praying for her. Painting and hurting and searching because it’s all he can possibly do without her.

Within due time, if the vow he made to himself means anything, Rafayel will make her remember him, too.

…In the meantime, though, Rafayel knows by now that the world will stop at nothing to tear them apart and drive a wedge in between them. Inevitably, it’ll make its wretched attempt on the blood of their covenant using some person or thing, and…

And Rafayel is so, so terrified that it might succeed.

But it’s okay.

He’s got an idea or two on how to keep her safe.

For good, this time.

✦

Loud squelches ring between your bodies. His hands underneath your back, pressing you into an arch for him, and his tongue laving attentively along your neck make you feel like you’re floating.

Adrift over the ocean. Like a message in a bottle- waiting to be opened. Violated.

…And when you close your eyes, you even think you can see the water.

As gory as a wound. Taking you in like an offering.

Rafayel moans in your ear, “My bride.”

‘Bride’ is perhaps the single most intriguing name he could’ve given you. But if his desire is to prove you’re more than just a quick fuck to him, what you thought you were initially, then he’s succeeded with that title.

You’re tired. Already spent from the however many orgasms he coaxed out of you within an hour or more while he laid on his tummy to eat you out, using worship as foreplay.

Though he’s far from finished with you, it seems.

“You’re getting closer,” he murmurs into your collar, voice thick and unswerving in his goal to break you and reshape you into-

Into what? His quote on quote bride? You can’t be sure.

He keeps you all but hidden from the outside world now, your family just an echo that’s made its rounds and faded to silence. Your father never cared much for supplying you with a phone- seeing it as a distraction from your classes- so there’s no real way to access him save for writing.

For as far as they all know, you’re happily schooling under Rafayel’s roof as his epigone to-be.

But whatever it is he wants from you, you’re not certain if you can bend that way. And all those promises he pours down your throat with his tongue, each of them hammered into your conscience via fervent kisses and repetition— they all might as well be hogwash to you.

It’s entirely too confusing. The things you’re supposed to remember but your mind continually draws a blank on.

He spells it out for you. Paints it out for you. Leads you by the hand to the sculpture of a woman who vaguely resembles your features, her white grooves flowing like a veil from her head, and with a kiss to your temple says it was you on your wedding day.

However many centuries ago that was.

If misery loves company, insanity must love to be lent an ear. ‘Cause you didn’t believe him at first, you swear to God you didn’t.

…But then he starts to explain this supposed timeline with you, sketching some of the points out for clarity or just to invoke something within you, and all the meandering little tangents he goes off on are too intricate to simply ignore.

Somewhere along the way, you started to listen to him. If his intent is to spread his madness like a contagion, then it regrets you to say it might be working.

For the final months of your tutelage, he’s kept you almost exclusively inside Mo Art Studio. Barred you from the rest of society and even your father.

Over the course of several long weeks, he’s only allowed you to write him a few letters— all just as long as it’s under his close supervision, of course.

In all this time, he’s sat you before a canvas and forced you to paint, draw, sketch— there’s no medium he hasn’t provided you with to help remind you of your apparently shared past, yet it’s not enough to make you a full believer in it despite your spark of interest, and it’s never enough to satisfy him.

Waves at night, the tranquil surface lit by a marble white moon overhead: you’ve worked on something identical before (the piece now framed in his bedroom for you to look at glumly while he drapes an arm over your waist), yet along with a few other descriptors he’s given you to conjure something to mind, you can’t seem to illustrate it.

Not like before, at least. The inspiration is fleeting at best. Here and then gone.

Your so-called husband doesn’t explicitly say how upset it makes him... If anything, you spot the signs that he’s trying to be patient with you; encouraging.

But when he takes the brush from you, uncaring of the wet hues dying his hand, and drops it to the floor before dismissing you without a word, not meeting your eye, it’s obvious you’ve scarred him in some way.

And you loathe to tell him for the umpteenth time that you just-

Can’t fucking remember.

Part of you thinks he’s crazy.

The other recognizes those little crumbs of deja vu scattered amongst your memory bank and it cautiously follows them. Stooping over curiously (albeit desperately, because your career- yes, you still have hope for one- relies on how obedient you are, after all) to pick them up.

So maybe you’ve lost it together, then. Your minds.

But when his cockhead hits a particular, spongy spot inside you and your walls respond with a torrent of arousal in turn, his tone as seductive as a siren’s as he murmurs in your ear, your working brain thins out and you swear you see it. Even if only for a split second.

You. There. Under the gleaming with his hands in your decorated hair, hugging you close to his breast as- rising up from beneath the cool, luminescent water- a scaly appendage curls along your torso to support you as your limbs fall at your sides.

His eyes— oh, you could lose yourself in the anamnesis they bring sometimes. But the moment you try to focus on that strange sense of familiarity, it’s gone.

Like sand falling through the fingertips, whisking away in the wind.

Red spilling into blue. Carving wriggling lines along the surface like watercolor fissuring through a page. The pearlescent sheen of his eyes when you cup his face to cry.

You shoot your eyes open with a gasp, nails digging into his back, and he gives another moan for that, too.

“R-Rafayel-!”

“M’ here,” he murmurs, teeth nipping your neck cheekily. He lets out a heaving sigh, and when he clumsily rests his forehead to yours, you drink in the sight of his face as he does all he can to mentally record yours.

His cheekbones, flushed like twin cherries as his brow pinches in a way you can almost call cute, regardless of the fact he’s over a decade older than you; His wavy, lavender hair and the delicate shadow it spills over his brow. His mouth parts open to loll out his tongue, and then he’s erasing those couple centimeters in between to hungrily lick into yours.

In a word, his treatment of you is… possessive.

Possessive with the addition of reverent.

It’s only when you’re on the brink of suffocation that he pulls off your lips with a wet ‘pop’ and thumbs aside the hair clinging to your forehead, now peering into your eyes unhindered.

If it’s true that they’re the window to the soul, you wonder just what it is he’s witnessing as he holds your gaze for a certain amount of time, apparently starstruck.

Maybe it’s just your imagination or the fatigue bogging you down to the mattress, making you compliant under his hands, but you swear he finds a new angle- a more dizzying one- his strokes somehow hitting even deeper as he takes the moment to simply admire you.

If he really is your soulmate, if the concept is more than just a myth crafted by hopeless romantics and fools, then you suppose it’d only make sense that he’d know your body so well. Like a potter does wet clay.

And you suppose (or maybe justify is the better word), that it makes sense you’re a margin off from coming harder than you ever have before because of it.

“Hold onto me,” he heaves out, “M’ gonna go faster. Gonna make you feel so good you won’t remember anything else but me afterward,” broad hand splayed out over your collar, trailing down down down- impishly aware of the effect it has on you, tortuously slow- to rub at your poor clit.

Already puffy from his earlier treatment, every nerve ending alight with need and sensitive, it doesn’t take long at all for him to make you whimper. Pretty little calls of his name that make him shudder.

His breath is at your ear, the frenetic, heavy sort of rhythm to it reminiscent of rolling waves. Perfect, pink lips descend on your neck to kiss and suck and nip and then he’s picking up the pace, rutting into your velvety heat with a new groan for every thrust he makes inside.

“You’re so rude, princess, y’know?” Rafayel murmurs ruefully. You feel his lashes fluttering against your throat where he bows his head and tucks it underneath your jaw.

“More than that, even,” he chuckles darkly, “I can’t believe you’re leading me on like this... Why else would you have- ngh, fuck- painted our ocean if you didn’t remember? …I’ll buy you that special dress. Find someone to tailor it just right for our…” another grunt; you shut your eyes, realizing he’s getting closer and so are you— your impending orgasm approaching like a plane nosediving from the sky,

“ah- Wedding.”

The room spins when your eyes fling open again. Rafayel moans louder, the sound a dulcet, low drifting sound, when your nails, perched on either of his shoulders, embed themselves deeper, but otherwise he doesn’t care.

“Wedding?” You gust out.

He hums. Purrs, really, nuzzling into your warmth as he suckles another bright, rosy splotch into your décolletage. Anything to show he’s been there.

“Yeah.” He withdraws just enough to stare at you some more, monitoring your windswept look with soft delight.

His pupils dilate; a black moon hanging amidst that sea of blood, swallowing everything.

In the reflection of them, a very uncertain girl stares back.

His bride-to-be.

“It might be a little lonely without your family and all,” he chuckles, propping his elbows either side of your head now to lean his forehead against yours again, smiling an otherwise cheerful, albeit somewhat tired smile.

He brushes aside your wayward hair once more to trace under your lower lashline, quick to collect whatever wells up and falls from there, “But we’ll have other things to witness us, cutie, kay? Like…”

His lids droop as his gaze dips over your face, examining it like gold to turn over in his palm as he formulates the word.

There can only be one for what’s brought you both together.

He decides, “Fate.”

✦

White linoleum floors stretch down the aisle; with equally white walls to match them.

Dismal, to say the least. Maybe even a little mundane… as much as that’s in bad taste to say.

Saturnine visitors walk slowly, weaving in between the decorated partitions, and murmur amongst themselves.

Rafayel, with a friend close by, oversees the event with a sobered look.

Tucked to the far side, he’s safe from the main throng for now. But he received a flurry of questions and platitudes upon commencing- all of which he either returned with a obliging, weak smile, a slight nod of his head, or a low dip before excusing himself- and he doubts it’ll end there.

They’re all staring at it. Part of him is very, very pleased with that fact. Another is green with envy. Possessive. This is not theirs to gawk at, he thinks. But he holds that thought exclusively to himself: considering the grounds of this memorial of sorts and the propriety required of him, it’s better to keep it…

Captive.

Though, as more and more form a cluster at her display, perhaps that ugly thing festering in his chest is a sign of his indignance as well— but of course, he lets none of that show on his face. No, he keeps it chiefly stoic with the appropriate amount of despondence.

This is a terrible thing that’s happened. Really.

A tragedy.

Beautiful. Young. Full of potential and then gone.

There’s several artists on display tonight- just as planned. Rafayel had made the agreeable suggestion that it would’ve been what she wanted. Maybe that’s true.

Her work, hauled out from his studio in careful hands, is ribboned off as a means to preserve it, but that doesn’t stop some woman- a nosy, conspiring aunt, maybe- from trying to step around it and analyze the signature from up close, as if the scrawled initials could somehow reveal a clue as to her niece’s whereabouts.

If that final, meager note she sent her and her other relatives, however, held any water, then that’s exactly where she is. At the bottom of it. Somewhere off the Whitesand Bay Bridge.

A tragedy. A blindsiding and devastating thing.

Who could’ve known?

As that pest of a lady reaches her fingers out to brush the dried, multihued swaths of paint, her eyes shining like pearls as unshed tears cling to the clumps of mascara, Rafayel is a blink off from striding forward and smacking her hand away with a scoff.

If he had it his way, he would’ve kept all of it in his bedroom or living space with the countless other projects, some finished, some hardly just begun and others somewhere in between. But he’s willing to swallow this temporary upset down.

It’s a one and done kind of thing.

Within a couple days, he’ll be gone, anyway. Linkon will soon be a yellowed page in the big chapter book of his life. A stop along the way.

The destination is not a place he always knew at first, but now he does. Home is where the heart is, they say.

The letter was perfect.

Not just a good replica of her handwriting: it was her handwriting. Prim and proper, albeit a little heavy-wristed as her hand gave out. Clumsy on her K’s and R’s. With nothing left to be deciphered (not that she could’ve done much on the cunning front, anyway, what with the state she was in).

The truth of her demise is far more dark intricate than anyone could possibly know. Rafayel decides it’s better that way.

His name being called in a low, dreary ask alights his attention.

He straightens accordingly, “Ah. My apologies. Would you mind repeating that again?” and then gives the necessary, rather morose acknowledgment to the girl’s father.

The latter hums. Stuffs his thumbs under the straps of his tight suspenders. When he responds, he’s not looking his way, but rather engrossed with the distant section under her name in grandiose, golden-plaque letters.

“I said, now that I think about it,” the older one starts slowly, his furry brow corrugating.

There is a distinct note of sadness in his voice. Distant, like he’s but a spectator to his own person as he stares at the assorted paintings with a frown.

“Her art could have been a reflection of what she was feeling on the inside. A… silent cry for help,” he settles on, “That went on without being understood.”

When he turns over to the lilac-haired man, it’s his cue to sigh softly, nodding back. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “it might’ve been. She was… happy, though, that’s the part that shocks me. Our mentorship was almost over, but she couldn’t stop talking about how much she wanted to stay for longer. She told me she even wrote to you about it. Is that true?”

Another sage hum. The host readjusts his hands around the flat bands containing his belly and gives his agreement, “Oh, yes,” he gives a low but hearty chuckle, too crestfallen to do much of anything but laugh at this awful reversal of events.

“That she did. But fate is cruel, my friend,” edematous eyes hold Rafayel’s stare for but a moment or two before he claps him on the back.

“And what do you plan to do now that so much of your time is freed up? Hm?”

Marbled eyes widen imperceptibly at that.

…What does he plan to do?

The apple of his throat bobs as he swallows.

He wants to see her again, for one.

It’s an exaggeration to say it’s been eons since they last met face-to-face, but it feels like that anyway.

Gentle, hushed humdrum of the event drifts around the ornate, limestone pillars erected throughout the room. Rafayel thinks it’s one of her cousins that he spots vanishing behind one before reemerging on the other side of it, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she supplies from the flowery satchel at her front.

She catches his cool gaze for a second. He breaks it off in favor of replying to the man making his acquaintance.

“I think I’ll leave for a bit. The studio is…” He tightens his jaw, starting anew, “Quiet. Too quiet. I don’t want the reminder of all that happened anymore. And right now? seeing all those half-finished canvases of hers in my living room? Well, it’s impossible to think of anything else.”

Another hum of acknowledgement.

Hm.

A very odd, somewhat depressing conclusion to a very odd, somewhat depressing 35 years.

The pretending, the womanizing, the innumerable distractions he crafted for himself and others…

For the sake of civility, and for the sake of relying on his good, longtime, ever magnanimous friend, the artist asks, “What do you think?”

The hand on his back gives him a good-natured, if not slightly sorrowful shake, and then it withdraws.

“I think that would benefit you. You… You deserve the rest.”

Rafayel is just glad it’s over.

✦

Waves.

That’s the first thing you hear upon waking.

You feel them, too, undulating beneath the boat, sloshing against the side of it with gentle, dragging fingers.

The second thing you hear, coming to in a lush nest of bougie blankets and fluffy pillows, silk to the touch, is a familiar voice, going back and forth with another- one you can’t quite pick up- over the phone.

You groggily blink. Thomas.

“…Yes, yes, all’s well. I told you already, she’s safe. The captain wasn’t very pleased with the unconscious girl I had in tow, but an extra coin helped just fine. Which, by the way…”

As the sounds swirl around you (none particularly harsh)— the muffled ocean, what seems like gulls squawking somewhere outside, and Thomas’s conversation set to the tune of a classical record on the vintage phonograph you blearily spot across the lavish room— a chord of dissonance plays within you.

No… Wait- this isn’t…? You were just in the studio before this. Whatever this is. You’re almost certain of it.

How many days ago? Wasn’t it… yesterday?

Or perhaps this afternoon? You… can’t be sure of that, either, time just a ball of fuzz in the bulwarks of your brain. But what you do know is that you were led to the sofa by a warm hand after lunch, quick to doze off as soft lips pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, praising you on the correct choice you made- as if you really had one to begin with.

Oh.

Oh, no.

…And the ballpoint pen you’d used moments before to seal your death note- you remember that now, too. Lying on the table before he capped it.

Rafayel.

Where is he?

No, more importantly: where are you?

A chuckle. More like a snort, really, and you hone back in on the chatter on the other side of the door- hanging partly ajar as if someone has been entering every so often to monitor you.

“I did take from your pocket, I hope you don’t mind? Your manager went through all this trouble for you, after all. Which, very illegal, might I add!” He tuts. “Yet I can’t even get an answer on your deadline…”

Troublesome, indeed.

You go to sit up and immediately regret it. Your head throbs with something worthy of a motrin or two and another long nap to sleep it off. Behind your brow, a weight settles- reignited by your sharp, sudden movement- and it sends the expensive decor of the suite spinning until you’re facing the ceiling again, wincing.

Your trachea burns.

Water, you think, but can’t check the nightstand at your side for anything to soothe the ache as your vision swims and you shut your eyes- using the same force you would if all the concentrated, unmatched power of the sun blasted your cornea.

When he snips something back to the person on the phone, huffing under his breath, exasperated, is when you make an attempt to call for him.

“Thom-“

The croaking word dies in your throat.

Something on your hand glistens, drawing your attention to it like a magnetic force.

Big and shiny, a wedding ring sits on one of the center knuckles of your finger.

The band is studded with brilliant, intricate gems— the center a pearly, iridescent thing. The fit is… perfect. Wrapped around your digit like it truly belongs there.

But it can’t.

There’s no way he actually-

No.

No- this is all, all, all wrong.

He didn’t. This is all a bad dream. The letter never happened- and the blackberry tea. The long, warm, never-ending nap and the dumbed-out state of bliss it tossed you in.

None of it.

With a startled gasp, you pry your scandalized gaze off the opulent jewelry for just long enough to register a massive, rectangular frame propped against the wall opposite of the bed you lie on: a vivid, three quarters portrait of a woman who looks identical to you— a work so extravagant it had to have taken weeks and months of unbroken concentration.

As well as the painterly hand of someone who truly loves her.

In an instant, you shriek for your father.

Nothing comes out, you’re so horrified. Yet the vaguely conscious piece of you knows it’s futile anyway; you’re under no illusions that he’s aboard this ship on its path to hell.

When that produces no result, you yell for the man loitering outside your door, voice ragged from disuse and on the verge of an emotional breakdown, desperately trying to keep the hyperventilating breaths at bay.

“Mhm. I hardly want to be stuck with the two of you anyway. The soonest you can come back: do it. And then you can have your long, lover’s honeymoon without me. Aren’t you doing it… kind of backwards, though? Anyway- just focus on planning her tribute and then get that painting out before—“

“THOMAS!” You holler.

“Oh, hold on a moment- I think she’s awake-“ the door pushes open on two fingerpads, a concerned, but notibly curious face peering through the widening gap. It glows as it finds the opportune moment to shirk Rafayel.

“Dear? I’m coming in- I have someone on the line for you!”