#romcom in space | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rcvcgers · 2 months ago

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Loathe To Paint You, part one

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

18+ MINORS DNI

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pairing ; rafayel x non!mc reader

synopsis ; you and rafayel are rival artists, always fighting for the spotlight. when it's revealed that rhys nixon, esteemed director of the famed art gallery the dreamscape, is looking for an artist couple who are the epitome of soulmates to be his next headliner, you and rafayel set your rivalry to the side and couple up in the hopes that you'll be chosen to be the headliner.

word count ; 7.4k words

author's note ; i would like to dedicate this part & series to a few people!!!! @zeskyzed , @kazbrkker , @jexireads . . . this is for you!!

content warning ; vulgar language, mention of an ass slap, nothing too crazy! slightly proofread! let me know if i miss anything!

my painters ✐ᝰ. ; @drowsyapple , @llamabois , @romils , @debrahhhhhhh , @kebarney , @mentaltrouble2201 , @itsmeaudrieee , @flamedancer13 , @lolightrealm , @ghoulishnero , @leeniverse , @justpassingdontworry , @yumesagashite , @m0ss-gremlin , @yunozumi , @azlyneamie099 , @m00nchildwrites , @mxkvlio , @nautismgremlin , @rafshottestgf , @blcknebula , @eve-ishu , @futurecorpse92 , @kaiii07 , @imhere2dosomething , @vyntheria , @queenkymmie

want to be a part of the taglist? click here!

The Dreamscape Art Gallery is every artist’s dream. They wish for their paintings to be chosen, to be hung on the gallery’s walls alongside other great artists. Every famous artist, known in every single country across the world and throughout the last fifty years, has been featured in The Dreamscape’s visions and exhibits.

Every exhibition they hold is otherworldly. Every detail, painting, sculpture, and layout is meticulously planned by the museum’s director, Rhys Nixon. He’s an older man now, being in his early seventies. He founded The Dreamscape when he was only twenty years old. Fifty years of excellence has made him a millionaire and has brought him worldwide fame and accolades.

Rhys is known for his kindness and sense of equality. He treats every person he meets with a gentle touch and heartwarming smile. His sense of life has been nothing but taking creative risks, treating those how you would like to be treated, and actions filled with love and splendor. He hates routine and people who play by the rules, always opting for unconventional art and sculptures that make people think. To Rhys, art should reflect the emotions of the soul while also challenging its audience to turn inward and reflect upon themselves.

The sad truth, though, is that Rhys Nixon is getting old. The Dreamscape has survived through his constant care and attention, always rotating a new theme every six months. He’s given up on so many shared memories with his children and wife, always tending to the museum and artists who fall at his feet. His children are all grown up now and are falling in love just as he did at their age. He is ready to pass down the museum to one of his children so he can live the rest of his life out in peace with his wife. Rhys wants to fall in love with his wife and family all over again before he leaves the world.

Love. What a splendid concept, no?

The Dreamscape is located on the opposite of Whitesand Bay. Rafayel is lucky to live so close by, usually taking a trip to the extravagant museum when he is need of inspiration or needs a break from Thomas and life.

The building itself is located alongside the shore, built from an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be a place to build ships but Rhys Nixon saw the potential for it become something better. The building is white on the outside but the inside colors change depending on the theme. It takes about a month or two to set up for the next exhibit, the floor to ceiling windows covered with navy blue satin curtains so the public cannot see what it to come. It has three floors, each one perfectly decorated and dressed for the theme.

The moon hangs low in the sky, beaming a warm yellow color. The stars in the sky are faint, quietly sparkling against the dark black sky. The brightest constellations tonight are Cygnus and Lyra, their stars brightest amongst the other faint dots. The further one gets from Linkon City, the more and more bright and exposed the constellations become.

Rafayel’s purple hair flows in the wind. He leans against the convertible’s door, the summer breeze warm against the Lemurian’s skin. The air is salty, the dark waves crashing against the tan rocks. The car drives away from Rafayel’s house in Whitesand Bay, driving through the narrow sandstone passageway. Rafayel smiles at the moon. He slowly inhales the salty breeze and closes his eyes, feeling the car turn down the road and away from his home and studio. He feels at peace.

“Promise me you aren’t going to fuck up?” Thomas asks, looking at Rafayel from the corner of his eye. The roads are clear, just a few other people passing by on their way home from the beach and back to Linkon City. Rafayel pulls down his sunglasses that sit on top of his head, covering his eyes from the bright headlights and to, well, avoid Thomas’ question. “Rafayel!”

“What?” the Lemurian whines. He sits up in his seat and pulls his sweater back over his shoulder, the knitted fabric soft against his touch.

“We can’t fuck things up tonight,” Thomas turns on the blinker and changes lanes, falling into the lefthand turn lane that enters The Dreamscape’s parking lot. Thomas looks away from the road, the car fully stopped, and narrows his eyes. “Tonight is important, okay? The future of your career is on the line—”

“My career? Now I know you’re messing with me,” Rafayel rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks in the opposite direction, the car now pulling into the large parking lot.

There aren’t many cars in the parking lot. The last night of the current exhibit at The Dreamscape is always dedicated to artists in the community and their agents. It’s a way for Rhys to find and assess new talent. To him, it’s not just the art he picks but the artist as well. No matter how talented somebody may be, Rhys will always choose the ones that are humble and kind.

“Look…I wasn’t going to tell you until we got inside, but,” Thomas parks the car. The engine shuts off and he turns to Rafayel, his face completely serious, no ounce of humor or playfulness hidden below his skin. “There’s a rumor among the other agents that Rhys’ upcoming exhibit is going to be his last. He is looking for two specific artists to fill all three floors and wants to closely work with them. It’s going to be a bloodbath when we get inside, Rafayel. If we don’t secure this for you, your—”

“What?!” Rafayel yells. Nearby artists and their agents look at the duo in their car as they walk to the art gallery. Thomas’ eyes widen. He frantically presses the button to close the convertible’s top but it malfunctions, moving back and forth, glitching. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?! I wouldn’t have worn this if I knew Rhys was on the line!”

“I didn’t want to make you nervous!” Thomas quickly retorts.

“Well, now I am! This is all your fault! This sweater is wrong and it doesn’t go with my pants! The cream color does not blend well with my pants!” Rafayel whines, frantically shrugging off his sweater, throwing it into the backseat.

All that remains is his white dress shirt underneath but the sleeves are covered in dried specks and brushes of colorful paint. Thomas reaches behind him and grabs the sweater, putting it on Rafayel’s lap. He leans over and points a finger in his face, glaring.

“You are going to put the damn sweater on and you’re going to like it! Understood?” Thomas’ breath is hot n Rafayel’s face. The painter rolls his eyes and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. “And don’t slam my god damn doors!”

Rafayel flips Thomas off and slips the sweater back on over his shoulders. His body becomes jittery, nervousness flooding his body. He checks his fingers, quickly scratching away any leftover dried paint from that day’s work. The blues and yellows come off with ease while the reds linger behind, staining into his pale skin. Thomas catches up with him, smiling and waving to other people as he passes them by. They step in sync with each other, passing through the open doors as employees greet and hand them pamphlets of the exhibit.

Rhys’ current theme is “Messy & Sloppy.” The walls are painted pitch black. Black canvases are spread out in even increments, about teen feet away from each other, and are covered in vibrant paints. The colors mix and match, showcasing abstract expressionism at its best. With some canvases, the paint moves past the canvas and onto the walls, breaking free from its confines whereas others remain inside the small white space, barely taking up the entire piece. The lighting is bright enough for the vibrancy of the pigments to come out yet dark enough where it looks like the paintings are in 3D, popping out at its audience.

“Rhys Nixon gathered twenty artists for the exhibit,” Thomas quietly reads from the pamphlet, “and they created the art in house. It took about three weeks to complete. He would like to thank all of those who accepted his invitation to paint alongside him and his wife.”

Rafayel hates to admit it, but he is jealous of the artists that were chosen to partake in the exhibit. He would have loved to come in and join the abstract artists in creating messy masterpieces by just flicking his wrist and splattering paint onto the canvas. He wishes that he would be carefree with his art and not toss a canvas out whenever he makes a mistake. Maybe it was best that he wasn’t on the list.

“Is there anyone we know on the list?” Rafayel asks, moving to the next painting. It is mainly filled with pinks and purples, a tinge of green hitting the edges. It is reminiscent of those machines where the small pieces of paper spin around and the paint creates rims of colors around it.

“Let me check,” Thomas hums. His finger runs down the list, moving over names of artists from other countries and ones that are outside of their social circle. He stops on one name, though, and turns to Rafayel. “Bob is on here.”

“Bob?! Like…” disgust is prominent in Rafayel’s tone, his voice growing loud before he drops it below a whisper, “the guy we caught chugging a bottle of tartar sauce? That Bob?!” Thomas solemnly nods. “How the hell did Rhys pick that guppy over me? What kind of cruel joke is this?”

“I don’t know, but I am going to make for sure that he chooses you for this final exhibit, Rafayel,” Thomas nods, moving along to the next painting, “nobody will get in my way!”

“Nobody?” the painter glances at Thomas. The agent rolls his eyes and nods. “Well, at least there isn’t much competition!”

Thomas stops walking. Rafayel smiles to himself, crossing his arms, walking ahead of Thomas. When he finally notices that Thomas isn’t at his side, he turns around, rushing back over. With one eyebrow perked up and his hands on his hips, Rafayel narrows his gaze at Thomas.

“What? What could possibly have you glitching now.”

“She’s here.”

“Who is she, exactly?” Rafayel scoffs and rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest. Thomas nods his head to a space behind Rafayel. The Lemurian sighs and turns on his heel, following Thomas’ gaze. When his eyes finally land on what the agent was referring to, his jaw drops.

You stand beside your agent, Abigail, and laugh along with a group of painters and agents. You hold a glass of champagne in your hand, your light red lipstick staining the rim of the glass, and reach out to touch a man’s bicep, leaning in as you laugh. Your hair is perfectly straightened and is held back by bobby pins that are adorned with, Rafayel’s hater ass is assuming, fake diamonds.

His cheeks heat up, balls fisting at his sides. His blue and pink eyes fall to your outfit, which is just plain better than his. It is effortlessly cool compared to his mess of a sweater and designer sneakers. You wear a baggy navy blue dress that is fastened at your waist with a belt, complimenting your figure. A pair of sunglasses sits on top of your head. Rafayel suddenly becomes aware of his own sunglasses and takes them off his head, hooking them into the collar of his shirt.

Rafayel clears his throat and looks back at Thomas, who slips his phone into his jacket pocket. His cheeks are pink and he avoids Thomas’ gaze, scratching the back of his neck.

He may hate you, but fuck do you look amazing.

“I can’t believe she’s here!” Rafayel turns his back to you and the group, not wanting to be seen just yet. He fixes his hair, going off of vibes and aura alone in the hopes that it looks good.

“Are we really surprised, though?” Thomas turns with Rafayel, “She is a front runner for Rhys to pick. She hasn’t been used yet, either!”

“And we’ll make for sure she isn’t!” Rafayel snaps back. He turns back around, gasping and taking a step backward.

You and Abigail stand in front of them with smiles on your faces. Abigail wears a suit similar to Thomas’, matching the cool tones of his suit jacket but is more on the vibrant side than gray. Your arms are crossed over your chest and you swirl the champagne around in its flute.

“Rafayel,” you smile, voice teasing and provocative. Rafayel places his hands on his hips, holding back a sneer.

“Long time no see,” he cocks his head to the side, “you’re like a barnacle I can’t get rid of.”

You fake a laugh, turning to Abigail who joins you. Rafayel and Thomas blink at the two of you before sneaking a side eye glance. They shift uncomfortably in their place. You stop laughing and pass off the champagne flute to Abigail. You step forward, eyes focused on Rafayel’s, only a couple of inches separating you. You reach forward and grab one of the fronts of his cardigan, giving it a gentle tug before letting go. Goosebumps spread across his skin, uncertainty tingling the back of his mind.

“I love your outfit,” your tone is dripping with sarcasm and patronization, “it makes you look like a fathead sculpin.”

Rafayel gasps. His hand smacks his chest, protecting his fast racing heart. The tips of his ears go hot. You smirk and sink back in place, taking the glass back from Abigail.

“That’s right, Rafayel, your aquatic insults will no longer swim over my head!” you announce with a proud smirk. His eyes remain wide, watching as Abigail pulls out a document from her tote bag, holding it up. A tan document sits inside a black frame.

Linkon University. Degree. Marine Biology. Your name in big, bold letters.

Rafayel turns his attention back to you. Your smirk makes his skin crawl, a frown tugging his lips down. His eyes sharpen and yet you remain unfazed, checking out your perfectly painted nails under the hanging light of the gallery. You look back to him and chuckle.

“That’s right. I’m accredited, bitch.”

“You—!” Rafayel takes a step forward but Thomas pulls him back.

“Raf. We’re in public. Calm down,” Thomas whispers the warning in his ear.

Rafayel nods and pulls away. He adjusts his cardigan and covers his torso, turning his glare back at you instead of the crowd. Your smirk turns into a smile, giving him a little finger wave. He sticks his tongue out at you.

“So! Abigail,” Thomas claps his hands together. Your agent, and best friend, turns her attention to the man, raising an eyebrow. Despite your rivalry with Rafayel, Abigail has decided to remain neutral with Thomas since they’re both agents that deal with personalities that are…larger than life. “Have you heard the rumor?”

The two of them attach themselves to each other’s sides, Thomas even going as far as offering his arm to her because he is a gentleman (and yes he is married. His wife is okay with him doing this at events okay leave Thomas alone). Abigail links her arm with his and they walk ahead of you and Rafayel.

The two of you exchange dirty looks. You turn, flipping your hair in his face before following after the two agents. Rafayel’s face scrunches up and he shoves his hands in his pants pockets, groaning as he follows in your wake. He steps in pace with you, keeping a decent amount of distance between your bodies. Thomas and Abigail’s voices float behind them, landing in your and Rafayel’s ears.

“I did! Isn’t it exciting? Scary as fuck, though, I can’t imagine how much pressure artist’s feel trying to get one of the two spots,” Abigail smiles at Thomas. They stop by a few paintings as they walk, making small comments about the colors and how creative the artist was for using the canvas.

“I’m pretty scared too! Rafayel is destroying his career because he’s a social recluse who refuses to let people buy his art — or display it for that matter — and refuses to do interviews!”

Rafayel’s head pops up. He glares at the back of Thomas’ head. You snicker from his side, covering your mouth with the back of your hand. Rafayel turns to you, glaring.

“That’s not funny!” he says in a loud whisper. You continue to laugh at him, breaking the barrier between you two and nudging into his side. He pushes back into you, though, and you stumble over your feet. You quickly regain your balance. He laughs now and turns his face away pretending to look at a nearby painting where it is nothing but white and gray paints on the canvas.

“Don’t get me started!” Abigail begins. You gasp and Rafayel’s head turns back to you, a devious smirk forming on his face. “She has no variation whatsoever! All she does is paint the same damn thing! People are getting tired of it!”

Rafayel snorts and doesn’t even cover it up. What a bitch! You smack his arm and he winces, turning to you, ready to fight back when Abigail and Thomas snap their fingers at you. The two of you stop, slowly inching away from each other.

“You two need to behave!” Abigail whisper yells.

“Rhys can be watching!” Thomas adds. “I…I can’t even look at you,” he rubs his eyes, trying to soothe away the budding headache that forms in the center of his head.

You move to laugh but Abigail shoots a glare in your direction, shutting you up as soon as you open your mouth. You swipe your tongue over your front teeth and turn to Rafayel, who glances at you with an equally annoyed and ashamed expression. Thomas and Abigail situate themselves in front of the two of you. Their eyes burn into yours, leaning in as you lean away.

“Play nice. Drink some champagne or wine or whatever fruity cocktail I know you’re going to order, Rafayel,” Thomas groans.

“Hey—!”

“Go look at the art and mingle with other artists, go scope out the competition for Rhys’ final exhibit,” Abigail continues for Thomas.

“With him?!” you point at Rafael. He audibly scoffs at you and roll his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest.

Thomas and Abigail circle around the two of you. They place their hands on your shoulders and push you together. Rafayel’s hip bumps into yours and the two of you share embarrassed looks. Thomas shoots the Lemurian a glare. Rafayel rolls his eyes and holds his arm out, looking away and in the opposite direction. You turn away as well, turning your chin up and into the air while you admire the ceiling. Abigail reaches out and links your arm with Rafayel’s, Thomas giving your backs a gentle push.

You and Rafayel stumble over your feet for the first couple of steps before you fall into a rhythm at his side. He guides you towards the steps, Thomas and Abigail following in your wake, and quickens his pace. You try to keep up with him, your heels dragging against the ground as feverish clacks sound off across the floor. He’s quick up the stairs, practically dragging you with him. Thomas and Abigail share quiet laughs.

When you reach the last step, the tip of your heel catches against the step. A gasp flies from your lips, your grip on Rafayel’s arm tightening. He looks down at you, one eyebrow raising in the air, before the momentum from your fall brings him down to the floor with you.

You land face first on the ground. Rafayel tumbles on top of you, your arms becoming an amalgamated mess.

The room falls silent. Hell, even the person in charge of the playlist at the event stops the music! All eyes are on you and Rafayel. He whines in your ear, matching the ringing you hear. His purple hair tickles your forehead, hands resting on either side of your head as he pushes up from the ground. You move onto your back, looking up at him with a large red circle on your forehead from where you hit the ground. Your eyes are half-lidded, somewhat dizzy from the fall. Rafayel’s mouth falls open when he looks at the red spot on your head, a laugh escaping his lips.

“I would ask you how many fingers I’m holding up but I think the only thing you’re seeing are floating pufferfish,” Rafayel quietly snorts.

You scrunch your face at him and throw a weak punch to his chest. You cover your face with your hands, remaining on the ground as he gets up, standing on the step below the top. He brushes himself off, the dust falling onto your crumbled body, and steps over you, smiling and waving at nearby artists who watch with amused faces.

You sit up from the ground, a glare burning into the back of Rafayel’s head. Abigail leaps up the stairs and drops to your side. She helps you up. You brush the dust off of your body and fix your dress.

“Did I flash anyone?” you ask in a hushed whisper.

“No, your spanx covered everything,” Abigail teases. You roll your eyes as she grabs a nearby glass from a silver plate, pushing the cool glass up against your forehead. A mortified Thomas walks up to you, placing his hand on your elbow.

“I am so…so terribly sorry for Rafayel’s behavior,” his cheeks are flushed pink from embarrassment, “I swear, I need to keep him on a leash like a toddler.”

“Or train him like a dog or cat—”

“I think he prefers aquatic animals to land creatures,” Thomas and you share a breathless, half-hearted laugh.

“Yeah?” you smile before it immediately falls, “then he really is a fathead sculpin.”

You take your leave from Thomas’ side, making a beeline for Rafayel’s side. He looks at a blue and white painting, one that took inspiration from the wave sin the sea. Well, that’s what the pamphlet told you, at least.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpens when he feels your arm link back with his, tugging him to your side. He lets out a puff of air and turns his chin away from you, crossing his arms, which in turn makes your arms be at chest level instead of at your side. You force a smile through the adjustment, though, and look up at the purple haired man.

“Aw, they’re cute together!” an oh so ignorant person asks from behind Thomas and Abigail. They laugh in sync, shaking their heads before turning around. The woman blinks at them. A few other people catch on to Thomas’ and Abigail’s laughter and float over. All of their eyes move to you and Rafayel.

“No,” Thomas sighs, grabbing a champagne glass for himself and Abigail as the server passes by. He hands it over and brings it to his lips, drinking the golden liquid. “They are definitely not cute.”

“Whatever the opposite of what ‘cute’ is, that’s what they are,” Abigail chimes in.

“Ugly, plain, unattractive, hideous, a fucking train wreck,” Thomas finishes his glass.

The group’s eyes follow you and Rafayel as you move to the next piece of art on the wall. He leans down and whispers something into your ear. A squeak comes from the forming group. Everyone leans in, dragging in a collective breath. When Rafayel’s face is pushed away by your hand, the group exhales and relaxes into their spots.

“How did they meet?” another person in the group asks. Abigail sighs and drinks the rest of her champagne, looking at someone else in the growing group. She hands them her empty flute and they replace it with a glass filled with red wine. She nods with an impressed smile and tips the glass to them.

“It’s a long story,” she breathes out.

“Is it, though?” Thomas shoots back. Abigail rolls her eyes and take a deep sip from the glass. “Well…their complicated friendship started two years ago on Rafayel’s twenty-second birthday…”

Rafayel stands in front of a large painted canvas. A proud smile lays on his face, one arm crossed over his chest while the other holds up his chin. His purple and blue eyes scan the dark pigmented paints, the blues and reds calling out to him from his spot against the light wooden floors. He tilts his head from side to side, taking in the painting from a new angle.

You stand from behind but you don’t observe the piece, no, you observe him instead. You tilt your head with him, a small smile forming on your face. Boldly, you take a few step forwards and take the place at his side, hands behind your back. Rafayel doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain on the pain strokes on the canvas.

“So,” you begin in a calm, cool, and collected tone, “what do you think about the piece?” Your gaze flickers down to the small piece of paper that displays your name beside the painting. Pride fills chest, knowing that you have worked so hard to get one of your paintings to be displayed in a prominent art gallery, even if it is in a desert city like Aridum.

“It’s grotesque,” Rafayel’s voice is intrigued, filled with wonder and awe. “It defies all rules of art. There’s standards and this…” he makes a ‘tsk’ sound, “does not follow those standards.”

You, on the other hand, take his ‘compliment’ as an insult. Your face immediately sours and you turn to face him.

Smack!

Rafayel gasps, finally looking down at you. He places his hand over his arm on top of the spot that you hit him. You smirk and flip your hair over your shoulder, looking back at the painting. Rafayel laughs from shock and complete and utter disbelief. He diverts his gaze to look around the art gallery.

Nobody saw your surprise attack, nobody even flinched!

His jaw drops. The Lemurian swivels back to you. Without thinking, he reaches out and pinches your arm. You gasp and face him. He has the same smug smirk you wore just seconds earlier. You slap his arm again. He slaps your arm back. You hit him again, a hit in which he returns. The two of you begin to fight now, exchanging blows and slaps.

There’s a slap to the face! A punch to the stomach! A half-opened hand to the groin! Did Rafayel just slap your ass?

The two of you fall to the ground and roll around, bumping into nearby patrons as you pull on his hair and he scratches into your skin. Your yells and screams fill in the quietness of the art gallery.

“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s not how it went!”

The group turns to look at Abigail. They lean in towards her and away from Thomas, who crosses his arms over his chest with an eye roll. Abigail chuckles and waves the group in closer. They follow her silent instructions like an obedient puppy dog.

“This is how it really went…”

You stand in front of your painting with your arms crossed over your chest. You wear a prideful smile on your face, eyes trailing over the painted lines on your red and blue coated canvas. The colors merge together and form a dark purple, although in the darker lighting of your studio it looked brown, and forms into the shape of a woman sobbing on the floor.

You gasp. Your shoulder lurches forward as Rafayel pushes past you. He reaches up to the wall, his hands grabbing the sides of the golden painted frame that hold your painting. The Lemurian rips it off the wall. A screech flies from your lips. He turns around and begins to walk away before you snatch the other side of the frame from him.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell at the man. He leans in, his torso now hovering over the large canvas.

“This belongs at the bottom of the sea! It’s hideous! We need to drown it!” he tugs on the painting.

The two of you take a few steps in his direction. Your fingers curl over the frame and pull back on it, moving back in your direction.

“It is not hideous!” your voice raises, “It is art! And art is subjective, motherfucker!”

“Mother…motherfucker?!I am not a motherfucker!” Rafayel screams back.

“Yeah?! Well you look like a bitch and a half then!” your retort is quick and sharp. It pierces Rafayel’s heart. His posture straightens, grip tightening on the frame so hard that the wood splinters. The man pulls on the painting and you pull back. His grip inches up the frame, moving closer to yours side. The two of you move in a circle, slowly picking up speed as you hurl insults at each other.

“Bitch!”

“Pufferfish!”

“Blobfish!”

“Asshole!”

“I bet your penis is microscopic!”

“Yeah? Well it’s bigger than yours!”

The room gasps. You let go of the painting, hands slapping over your mouth. The canvas tilts up with such force that it smashes over Rafayel’s head. The canvas stops right below his shoulders. His blue and pink eyes are wide, looking down at you. He clears his throat and adjusts his stance, relaxing with his hands on his hips while the canvas acts as a new fashion trend around his shoulders.

“Well…at least it’s destroyed now!”

“And now here we are!” Abigail proclaims with a smile. She finishes the wine in her glass and sets it down on a nearby table. “They have been rivals ever since that day!”

“You are so fucking ridiculous,” Thomas points his finger at Abigail who holds her hands up in the air as a defense against his words. “I mean, they are rivals, yes, but that’s not what went down between them. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh and yours isn’t?” she quips back, crossing her arms over her chest.

The group is suddenly bigger now with you and Rafayel out of sight, now on the third floor. Their eyes move back and forth between Thomas and Abigail as if they are at a tennis match where the current rally is tension filled and never-ending. If they didn’t know any better, they would think that they are the real enemies here instead of being really, really, really passionate allies.

“So, are they dating?” an older man’s voice rings out. Thomas snorts and looks inside his champagne flute, the glass now void of its golden beverage.

“Oh, no, they—” Abigail goes silent. Thomas looks at her, amused. Her eyes are big and wide, lips formed in a small frown, gulping away her sorrows. He shifts back and forth on his heels, slowly turning around to finish her answer.

“No, they are—” Thomas’s eyes shoot open. He stumbles over his words, incoherent blabbering now leaving his mouth. The large group that blossomed for your and Rafayel’s rival origin story now vanishes. The once gargantuan group disperses, a lot of the artists and agents flocking to nearby paintings and pretending to be invested in the abstract artwork. “They are…uh…” Thomas looks at Abigail. She’s of no use, completely frozen.

“They…they are not dating?” Rhys Nixon smiles at Thomas, hands resting on top of a simple black cane, leaning on it for support. “That’s a shame. I would have loved to talk to them about my next exhibit—”

“Yes!” Thomas breathes out, clapping his hands together. Rhys raises an eyebrow. He takes a step closer to the agents. Their hearts race in their chests the closer the famed art director gets. Thomas gulps and Abigail grabs his wrist, nails digging into the fabric of his silver-blue suit sleeve. “Yes! They are dating! I’m sorry for the confusion, Mr. Nixon.”

“Please,” Rhys extends his hand, Thomas immediately taking it, “call me Rhys!”

‘O-Okay, Rhys!” Thomas beams. “My name is Thomas and I am Rafayel’s agent!” Abigail pushes Thomas to the side and is the next one to shake Rhys’ hand.

“And I’m Abigail! I’m her agent! She adores your curations, truly!” the woman gushes over the elderly man. Rhys’s chuckle is gravelly yet is filled with warmth and delight. It puts both Thomas and Abigail at ease.

“Do you mind introducing me to them? I would love to discuss my final exhibit as The Dreamscape’s art director.”

“Yes! Of course! Follow us, please!” Thomas steps to the side, holding his arm out for Rhys to pass by. Abigail and Thomas attach themselves to Rhys’ side, helping him walk up the stairs to the third floor where you and Rafayel stand.

The third floor is empty. There’s a few sculptures scattered across the barren wasteland. The walls are lined with more canvases but the art pieces themselves are more conservative within the abstract style. Rafayel observes the pieces, humming to himself, while you stand by the large glass window that overlooks the sea. You sigh heavily. The lights from the building illuminate the nearby waves, the white bubbles from the collision capturing your attention.

Rafael’s attention soon turns to you. A faint smile spreads across his face. Je never knew you that you liked the ocean so much. Every time you ran into each other in Whitesand Bay, he always caught you looking out at the waves, a sense of longing in your eyes.

The Lemurian steps forward, silently closing the distance between you. His eyes catch how your smile grows when there’s a particularly large wave of water that crashes against the sandstone rocks. He stands right behind you. He can feel the warmth from your body on his chest, chills running down his spine. He tilts his head to the side, admiring your side profile.

He wonders how your features would look on a canvas but in his style instead of yours.

“You know, I can always throw you into the ocean if you want me to,” Rafayel’s voice is close to your ear. You shriek and jump, your hand backhanding him across his face.

“Fuck! You scared me!” your voice is loud and trembles. Rafayel stumbles backwards, holding his face in his hands. “Please tell me I didn’t break your nose! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard! You were just…there!” You reach out for him but he takes a step back, shaking his head no. You obey his silent command and stay where you are, watching as he slowly uncovers the bottom half of his face.

His nose isn’t broken, at least it doesn’t look like it, but his cheek is definitely a bright red color with a hint of purple shining through. You flinch and close your eyes, shaking your head, the stinging sensation somehow attaching itself to your cheek now.

“What?!” Rafayel’s voice is loud and trembly, “Is it bad?! How badly did you fuck me up?!”

“It could be worse! It could be a lot worse!” you immediately respond. You turn to face the stairs, giving him some privacy for whatever reason.

Well, the actual reason being that you’re so fucking embarrassed that you just did that to him. You hate the guy and his stupid fucking fish-themed guts, but you would never want to purposefully and physically hurt him! Just his career…and pairings…and the occasional sculpture he comes up with every now and then to try and one up you.

Thomas and Abigail’s head pop out from over the stairs. You sigh and wave to them, but they wear an expression on their face that tells you that something is simply amiss. Your face falls. Rafayel’s footsteps grow loud behind you, his presence becoming all too familiar at your side. Your cheeks heat up and you avoid his gaze, feeling his disappointment and annoyance burning into the side of your head.

“And here are the lovebirds!” Abigail declares with a bright smile.

Rafayel and yours faces contort from confusion. With a shared glance, you watch as Thomas and Abigail appear over the stairs with the one and only Rhys Nixon. Abigail walks ahead, her hands frantically waving at the two of you and hidden from Rhys’ sight. She mouths three words to you and Rafayel.

You. Are. Dating!

“What?” you whisper. She shakes her head as Rafayel takes a step away from you. She rushes to his side and bumps her hip into his, your bodies colliding, and she wraps his arm around your waist like a pro before Rhys can notice.

“Ah! Hello you two!” Rhys smiles. You return it, feeling Rafayel’s grip on your waist tighten. You clear your throat and nudge your elbow into his side before moving your arm around his torso. “How is the lovely couple doing?”

“The lovely couple!” you repeat his words with a shocked laugh. You look up at Rafayel, who looks completely bewildered despite the grin that spreads across his lips. You turn look at Thomas, who stands behind Rhys, furiously typing on his phone. “The lovely couple is……doing well!”

“Yes! They are!” Abigail chimes in, stepping in front of you two just as Thomas passes off his phone to Rafayel.

He wants a couple to headline his next exhibit. You two fuckers are dating! Act like it!

You blink at the message, struggling to understand before Rafael slips the phone into his pocket. He pulls you closer to his side, fingers curling into your dress and body. You gulp. Abigail steps back out of the way, no longer eclipsing the happy couple.

“What happened there?” Rhys chuckles, using his cane to gesture to Rafayel’s freshly bruised face.

“Oh! That!” Rafayel’s laugh is effortless and cool. It didn’t come off as unnatural or forced, but rather genuine and wholehearted. “My silly cutie here got a little too excited when she saw the beautiful view from up here!”

A belly laugh booms from Rhys’ mouth. Everyone else joins in with his laugh, exchanging awkward glances and winks from the agents behalf. His laughter dies down and he places his cane back down onto the floor, resting some weight onto it.

“How long have you two been together for?” Rhys’ question makes you and Rafayel look at each other with puckered lips and narrowed eyes.

“Um…great question, first of all,” you gush, buying the two of you time. “We met two years ago at a gallery!”

“Yes! And I asked her to be my girlfriend a year later!”

“So…you have been together for a year?” Rhys leans in. The two of you nod and exchange timid smiles and nods.

“Yup! She’s my little guppy!” Rafayel laughs.

“Yes! And he is my…” you pause, swallowing as you try to come up with something, “he is my…fathead sculpin?”

“Now that is just wonderful!” Rhys turns to your agents, who feverishly nod. When he turns back to you, they signal for you to keep going with thumbs up. “Your wonderful agents were telling everyone your meet cute! It caught my attention and, well, I thought I would introduce myself and extend an invitation to be courted.”

“Courted?” you repeat. He nods.

“Yes…as you may know, my next exhibit shall be my last. I want it to be a testament to the time and energy I have put into The Dreamscape as well as a celebration of my love for the art community and my family,” Rhys sighs.

He walks to a nearby painting, one that has bright pinks and reds and purples on it. Rafayel guides you over to him, settling in the space beside him. You pinch his waist. He lets out a quiet ‘oof’ before pinching you back, your hips pushing into his as you try to escape his touch. When Rhys turns around, the two of you immediately return to normal and smile at him.

“Love. That is the final theme,” he nods a knowing nod, “I know it may be cheesy, but I have never done it before. I wish for a couple to fill up all three floors The Dreamscape. I want to see their passion and desire for each other on these walls. I also want it to tell a story…your stories. How you fell in love.”

“That sounds like a wonderful theme, Mr. Nixon,” you breathe out.

Your words are genuine. If you weren’t stuck in a fake relationship with Rafayel and in a real one with someone else. Another creative who matches your artistic genius — one that is not Rafayel — and is there to push you past your limits instead of holding you back

“Thank you, young lady,” Rhys nods his head and takes a step closer to you and Rafayel. “I need to make for sure that the couple I choose are pure and not in it just to be featured in the gallery. I wish it to be as genuine as possible. There are many others who have already tried to be my…perfect couple, but I can sense that there is something real between you two...I need the epitome of soulmates for my final work. Nothing more, nothing less!”

Rafayel pinches your waist. You chuckle and look up at him, face scrunched and disguised as a loving face when in actually you’re silently planning for his demise.

“See! That is what I’m talking about! The love you share!” Rhys beams. “I’ll be in contact with your agents about meeting again soon, yes?” The two of you nod. “Wonderful! I will see you soon, then!”

Rhys bows his head and walks off. You wave, watching as the elderly man is helped down the stairs by Thomas. Once he is out of sight and Abigail gives a thumbs up, you shove the Lemurian away from you and shudder.

“Too close!” you quietly squeal. “Now I have your douche perfume all over me!”

“Okay, first of all: rude! Second of all: bitch! My perfume is delightful! It carries the scent of the sea with hints of—”

“Rafayel, shut the fuck up,” Thomas rushes over. The four of you stand in a circle. You stand across from Rafayel and stare at his face, memorizing the way a crease forms between his furrowed brows and the way he pouts when his agent chastises him. He turns his head and your eyes meet for a split second before you turn away, a blush creeping up on your cheeks.

“So, you heard the man,” Abigail takes a deep breath. “You two are a couple until this whole thing is over…or until he doesn’t pick you then we can stage a very convenient break-up to convince him that the stress was just too much. Maybe we can guilt him into giving us some connections, you know, gain something from this!”

“That’s horrible, but I agree!” Thomas points at Abigail. “We need to keep this charade going. Think you two can handle it?” Before either of you can disagree, Thomas claps his hands and smiles. “Great! Now, I’ll be in touch with Abigail about making you two appear more…loving with each other.”

Thomas takes Rafayel’s arm and yanks it back around your waist. He gasps and his cheeks turn pink. The agents furiously fix your appearance; they fix your hair and cover up the bruise on Rafayel’s face with a smudged kiss from your red lipstick (thank you, Thomas), and even switch around a few accessories to make it seem like you two share everything. Once they are down, they push you in the direction of the stairs, ready to feed you to the wolves.

Both of you hesitate when you reach the top step. Rafayel’s hand is at home on your love handle, dangerously close to your ass while your arm is wrapped around his torso and your other hand rests on his chest. You gulp. His body trembles, just ever so slightly, and you take a deep breath in sync. With one final look, the two of you nod, stepping down the first step.

Rhys’ courtship will only be a few weeks, right? He’ll probably only have a few meetings here with you two here and there. A simple few interrogations to try and weed out the phonies from the real couples. You and Rafayel descend into a minefield, a no man’s land where your only ally is each other.

Buckle up, fuckers, because oh my, my! What a ride this is going to be!

likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3 i love seeing what y'all have to say! <3

#rafayel x non!mc reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #lads rafayel #lnds rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel fluff #rafayel romcom #love and deepspace romcom #love and deepspace #qi yu #love and deepspace rafayel #rcvcgers writings #loathe to paint you ✐ᝰ

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rcvcgers · 24 days ago

Text

Loathe To Paint You, part two

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3

18+ MINORS DNI

previous part | next part

pairing ; rafayel x non!mc reader

synopsis ; thomas and abigail try to bring you and rafayel together. the two of you need to take pictures to convince rhys that your relationship is real

word count ; 6.6k words

author's note ; hi all! i hope you enjoy this chapter!

content warning ; vulgar language, raf gets a little handsy, they argue and bicker

my painters ✐ᝰ. ; @zeskyzed , @drowsyapple , @llamabois , @romils , @debrahhhhhhh , @kebarney , @mentaltrouble2201 , @itsmeaudrieee , @flamedancer13 , @lolightrealm , @ghoulishnero , @leeniverse , @justpassingdontworry , @yumesagashite , @m0ss-gremlin , @yunozumi , @azlyneamie099 , @m00nchildwrites , @mxkvlio , @nautismgremlin , @jexireads , @rafshottestgf , @blcknebula , @eve-ishu , @namjoons-toenails , @kaiii07 , @imhere2dosomething , @vyntheria , @queenkymmie , @animegamerfox , @achilleas-dream , @beaconsxd , @butterbiscuit444 , @eolivy , @shypotatoes013-blog , @cayrelyra , @curryexpress , @needsumcomfypillowstosleep , @plzdonutpercieveme

The smell of paint is thick in the air, the combined chemicals and pungent scent stinging inside your nose. You always placed the blank canvas in the center of the room, with it laying on the ground or perched up on an easel. The cans and tubes of paint you bought always surrounded you in a half circle, always available when you need to the change pigments and colors depending on what it is that you are painting. The nearby speaker blasts whatever music it is you’re into right now, drowning out the outside world’s noise. Below your feet is one large plastic tarp. It is covered in numerous paint splatters from previous projects, keeping the smooth concrete floor nice and clean. You always have been a messy painter.

It’s something you have grown used to, an environment you have carefully curated whenever a strike of inspiration hit you. It didn’t matter if the painting’s design was minimalist or if, like now, you found yourself throwing paint at an enormous canvas, the smells bring you a sense of home and comfortability.

Abigail absolutely hates the smell. Can’t stand it. She always plugs her nose whenever you bust open the tubes of paint she brings you, dramatically commenting on how repulsive you smell when you’re done. You always tell her that she’s lucky to even get a percentage from the works you sell, that if she continues to complain, you’ll settle into an early retirement. She always shuts up after that.

You look up at the egregiously tall canvas. The center is covered in layers upon layers of tape, keeping. The canvas perfectly clean underneath while the surrounding areas are covered in dark reds and burnt oranges.

You can barely see the skin of your hands, dried and fresh paint devouring your arms from your fingernails up to the middle of your forearms. From there, the paint scatters across your skin in small and thick droplets, splattered in weirdly shaped circles. You scrunch up your nose and grab the side of the canvas, peeling it off of the wall. The canvas falls to the ground with a clatter, the wood connecting with the concrete floor.

Barely glancing at it, you crack open a tub of red paint, a can you have had for the past year but didn’t know what to use it on until now. Your hand dips below the surface, the paint making itself at home underneath your fingernails and into the pores of your skin.

You throw the paint onto the canvas. It streaks across the side, adding more chaos to the already destructive design of hellfire you had in mind. You let out a frustrated yell, taking out all of your grievances onto the painting.

Are you a bit annoyed with the fact that Abigail and Thomas have so carelessly put you into a fake relationship with your mortal enemy? Yes. You could say that.

Are you a bit annoyed that Rafayel has been posting thirst traps on his Moments page ever since the plan began? Yeah, it has been pretty annoying.

But the most frustrating thing, the one thing that has driven you to the brink of pure insanity is the fact that whenever you and Abigail contacted Thomas, Rafayel was conveniently unavailable to take time out of his day to meet and go over the details of your fake relationship. So, you are doing what you know best: throwing paint at a canvas and hoping that something good comes out of it.

Your music suddenly comes to an end. Abigail must be here to collect you for a meeting or something. Just as you scoop up a handful of paint, a voice rings out from behind you.

“You know, if you wanted to drown the canvas, you could have taken it to the ocean instead.”

Your body freezes. Slowly turning on your heel, you glare at a familiar head of purple hair and the smug smile that sits on his face. You straighten your posture, a scoop of red paint sitting in your hand. You inch towards Rafayel, the Lemurian still not having noticed the paint.

“Drown it?” you scoff.

“Your layers of paint have made it thicker than it needed to be,” Rafayel critiques with a casual shrug.

“And what if that was the intention?” you counter, slowly stepping over the paint cans.

“Then I would say that you have entirety missed the point, as you usually do, and would advise you to start over and,” he sucks in a patronizing breath, “try again.” You glare at him, feeling your cheeks heat up from anger and irritation.

Fuck you, Rafayel, you fish looking motherfucker. I’ll get you back soon, just you wait and see.

“What are you doing here? Why the fuck are you in my studio?” you raise an eyebrow at him, moving your handful of paint in front of you, looking down at the dark red color with a glare.

“Oh? Haven’t you heard?” Rafayel closes some of the distance between the two of you. He wears black pants, casual yet fancy, and his white dress shirt has gold leaves on the collar, the shirt’s buttons beginning halfway down his chest.

You have to hold back every urge and temptation that courses throughout your body to not throw the paint at him. To get his pristine and undoubtedly expensive white shirt dirty, to stain the puffed out cuffs. You chuckle and tilt your head to the side, shifting all of your weight onto your back foot.

“What haven’t I heard, Rafayel?” your eyebrow perks up.

“We—” he steps forward, now only a few centimeters away. You suck in a breath, eyes fixed onto his blue and pink ones. He taps your nose, his free hand gently pushing the handful of paint down to your side, the paint slipping between your fingers and onto the floor, pooling by your feet. “—have a date today.”

“We do?” you blink as he turns away, suddenly feeling your heart slowly come back to life. It pounds inside your chest.

Rafayel nods and stops to look at other canvases inside your studio. He tilts his head to the side, his gaze lingering on the darkened shapes and figures inside the mess and chaos of your brush strokes.

“Thomas heard that Rhys is planning on going to a local art competition tonight. Something at a carnival in Linkon or whatever,” he shrugs again and swivels on his heel.

“Are you talking about the carnival that Akso Hospital holds? The carnival that raises money for sick children in need?” you narrow your eyes at him, watching as he turns his attention back to you.

“Is that what it is? Wow, I really need to listen to Thomas,” he offhandedly says, shrugging as if it is nothing. “Anyways! Thomas, Abigail, and I are waiting for you and your…Alanis Morissette, ‘I’m not like other girls’ session to come to an end.” He waves his hand around, gesturing to your messy hands, smock and overalls, and cliche yet classic messy bun that your hair is tied back into.

Your jaw drops. You look down at your overalls, which are a light jean color with numerous paint splatters and stains soaked into the material, before looking back up at him, watching as the painter walks away with some pep in his step.

“What the fuck is wrong with Alanis Morissette? She’s an icon,” you mumble to yourself with an eye roll.

Abigail’s office is just down the hall. The two of you work, and live, close together in a small house right on the oceanfront, nought with the money from your very first exhibition and pieces that you sold. The space is minuscule compared to what Rafayel’s grand Whitesand Bay home has to offer. It’s a mere shack compared to Mo Art Studio. Then again, your art is only showcased through curated exhibits and don’t have public access like how Rafayel does. His special exhibition floor, to you at least, is just an extension of his already inflated ego. It’s a way for him to to bask in the attention of others.

Fuck, it drives you insane. You hate that purple haired twat so much. You hate that he flaunts his expense wealth, which by the way, you need to ask Thomas what kinds of deals that he makes for Rafayel so you can get in on the action too. You hate how everyone in the room gravitates towards him. You hate how he could take a big fat shit on a canvas and present it to the world and they’d still fat to their knees and proclaim him a genius. You hate just how easy art comes to him and that he barely needs to do any work to create masterpieces.

Hell, he even managed to secure a job as a professor at Linkon University only a couple of years after his debut!

“Ah! Thank you for finally joining us,” Thomas exclaims as you enter the room, hair slightly damp from the quick shower you took to get all of the paint off of you, just another step of your artistic routine.

“Took you long enough,” Rafayel comments with a side eye. You glare at him, not even hesitating to pinch his arm as you pass him, sitting next to him in the empty seat at the table.

“Play nice, you two,” Abigail groans, bringing out papers with a list of questions on it. She places them in front of you and Rafayel with Thomas quick to lay a pen on top of the papers. “So you two clearly know nothing about each other besides you shared hatred.”

“So you want us to fill these out?” you ask, looking up at Thomas and Abigail, who sit across from you two. They nod in sync. You glance at Rafayel, who simply stares at the paper and pen. “Let me guess, you don’t know how to read or write. I always knew you were illiterate—”

“I can read thank you very much.”

“Wow! Really? I’m so proud of you. I bet first grade was really hard for you last year,” you snicker to yourself, feigning total support and concern.

“I know how to fucking read! Can you just shut up?!” Rafayel turns and raises his voice at you, his tone bordering on anger and embarrassment. You gasp, placing your hand on your chest.

Thomas and Abigail roll their eyes, crossing their arms over their chest. Abigail groans, mumbling, “Here we go again…” just as you begin to speak again.

“Rafayel…I am so disappointed in you,” you somehow manage to make yourself cry, your eyes immediately filling up with tears. His expression falters when he notices your saddened expression. A part of him actually feels guilty for yelling at you. You sniffle. “How dare you silence women’s voices? Are you just another Alpha Male who thinks that he can get whatever he wants in life?!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Rafayel rolls his eyes. Any ounce of guilt he felt towards you vanishes within a second. Your cries turn into laughter, unable to contain your joy from teasing him. You turn to Thomas and place your hands on your lap.

“Thomas, I regret to inform you that Rafayel loves to silence women. It’s his favorite hobby as you can clearly see—”

“I love women!” Rafayel rolls his eyes and throws his arms up into the air.

“You love it when they’re quiet and don’t have anything to say!” you lean in to interject, waving your finger as if you hold the moral high ground when it comes to the matter about women’s voices.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Rafayel turns to look at you, getting all up in your face. You shrug with a smile, leaning back into the seat. You gesture towards your crotch, giving him a knowing and smug smile.

“I have a pussy, Rafayel, I think I know more about the matter than you do.”

“I can’t work with her!” Rafayel stands from the table, his anger aimed directly at Thomas. His agent looks tired, exasperated, dejected. Thomas shakes his head.

“Rafayel, I want you to sit down and fill out the damn form,” Thomas points to the paper on the desk.

Rafayel, on the other hand, shakes his head no and looks away. He gently stomps his foot on the ground and you snort, earning an immediate glare from Abigail.

“No!”

“Rafayel, I swear on my wife’s life that—”

“You leave Solana out of this! She is a wonderful woman and you will not swear a single thing on her life!” Rafayel quickly retorts. Thomas rolls his eyes.

“Rafayel…buddy…work with me here. I want to help you get that exhibition with Rhys and she will help get you there whether you like it or not!”

“Yeah?!” Rafayel uncrosses his arms, his hands falling to the side. All eyes are on him in the room. He looks between everyone, making sure to glare at you, which only furthers your laughter. He points to you and angrily says, “Bitch is as bitch does, Thomas!”

“I also want you to stop saying odd shit,” Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What does that even mean?” Abigail mutters to herself, blinking at Thomas for an explanation that will never come.

Rafayel huffs to himself, rolling his eyes, and sits back down. He crosses his arms back over his chest and turns his back to you. His toned muscles flex under his thin dress shirt and you can’t help but stare and memorize the lines in his back and shoulder blades, the way his muscles tense before relaxing into place.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think that you find Rafayel handsome. And oh my, my, is that a scary thought for you to have!

“Why don’t we do this,” Abigail chimes in, catching everyone’s attention in the room. “Why don’t we make this a game, hm? Whoever answers the most questions correctly gets to choose the matching outfits for our activities today—”

“—as well as the outfits for the carnival tonight!” Rafayel chimes in. You can’t help but roll your eyes.

If anything, he’s going to win and make you wear an outfit that is so horrendously ugly. It’s a targeted attack! Rafayel knows exactly what he’s doing and you’ll be damned if you let him win.

“Fine! I agree to these terms,” you look at him with a hidden challenge behind your eyes. He immediately catches on, a smirk forming across his face.

“You’re on,” Rafayel holds his hand out.

You nod, reaching out to shake his hand, when he draws it back at the last moment, sliding his fingers through his hair. Thomas and Abigail hold back their laughs, Abigail holding onto Thomas’ forearm to the strength to not laugh. Rafayel turns back to face the other two, a smug smirk on his face as he crosses one leg over the other.

“You’re a child, you know that?” you groan.

“I thought I liked to silence women’s voices?”

“Two things can be true. They aren’t mutually exclusive,” you roll your eyes. You glance at Rafayel at the same exact time he looks at you. There’s a ‘really?’ look on his face. You smirk and adjust yourself in your seat, angling your body towards him. “Mutually exclusive means that two things can’t happen simultaneously. You being a child and a piece of shit aren’t, so they can happen at the same time.”

“Did your fancy degree tell you that?” Rafayel sneers.

“Yes, it did, actually,” you straighten your posture and flip your hair over your shoulder, “it also told me that with a face like yours, it’s understandable as to why you’re deemed a social recluse.”

Rafayel’s jaw drops. The room falls silent. Thomas and Abigail look at teach other, silently sharing the hope that your bickering will be over.

After a couples seconds of you and Rafayel staring t each other, Thomas claps his hands and gathers the papers in his hand, clicking a pen as he writes your names at the top so the two of them have an answer sheet.

“Wonderful! You’re both quiet! Amazing! Now only speak when you’re spoken to, okay? Great,” Thomas says, talking over himself before you and Rafayel can respond.

“Okay, so, we’re going to ask a question and you’re going to have to say what you think the other person’s answer is, got it?” Abigail continues for Thomas, already so in sync with him unlike you and Rafayel. The two of you share a glance of disgust before nodding.

You want to gag at the idea of having to get to know Rafayel. You liked watching him from afar, not up close and personal. Rafayel was much more tolerable when across the room, when you were forced to listen to his laughter from afar and listen to stories he was involved in whenever someone had a funny memory to share. You preferred it that way.

What was that saying that Abigail always love to use?

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

“Alright, Rafayel, what is her favorite color?” Thomas asks.

“How am I supposed to know that?” the Lemurian snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Rafayel.”

“Fine! Fine!” he throws his hands up in the air, dramatic as always. “Her favorite color is green. Not like the grass, but the vomit she throws up after a long night—”

“You know what you piece of shit?” you turn to Rafayel.

The two of you stand in sync. You push a finger into his face while he rests his hands on his hips. All Thomas and Abigail are able to do is watch. Watch as their careers as successful agents crash and burn, the fire from your feud with Rafayel only making the fire even worse.

While the two of you hurl insults at each other, Abigail reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk, pulling out a half-full vodka bottle. Thomas snatches it from her hands, drowning the rest of the liquid. You and Rafayel catch wind of him, watching as he chugs the rest of the vodka. The two of you go quiet, looks of horror plastered across your faces. Abigail watches with surprise, a hint of pride in her face once Thomas sets the bottle down, his face red.

“Are you…okay, Thomas?” Rafayel asks. Thomas nods, coughing, and gives him a thumbs up.

“I needed a sweet treat to subside the horror that is you two.”

“Vodka is a sweet treat?” Abigail’s voice is full of glee and wonder.

“It’s sweet enough,” Thomas shrugs.

“So much happened,” you turn to look at Rafayel, who just shrugs in response. You two wear the same look of shock on your face, turning back to Thomas.

“Okay, so you two clearly need to wear a time out shirt,” he says, standing and circling the desk, “wait — Abigail add that to the list, it’s a cute photo idea to have.”

“Photo idea?” you turn to your best friend and agent, who avoids eye contact. “Don’t…don’t tell me that we’re going to have to take photos together.”

“Do you want the exhibition or not?” Abigail sighs, looking at you. “We need to convince Rhys that you two are in love, okay? If you don’t have any photos together, or even know what his favorite color is, then you two are fucked! Your careers will be over!”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. Rafayel shifts beside you. He stands, turning to exit the room. Thomas opens his mouth to yell at him, but he waves his hand over his shoulder.

“Save it! I’m getting a new outfit from the car!” Rafayel’s voice bounces off of the walls.

Fuck. You hate him. You hate how easy it is for him to command the room and the way his voice can be heard no matter what. Fuck you, Rafayel, truly.

“What…what are you going to have us do?” you quietly ask, avoiding their gazes as you watch Rafayel through the window.

You approach the glass, tilting your head to the side as he slips across the loose gravel of the pathway through the front lawn. Thomas and Abigail stand on either side of you. Thomas brings out the car key, staring at it. He turns to look at you and Abigail, a mischievous smile forming on his face.

“Watch this.”

He storms out to the car, Thomas’ family SUV, and grabs the door handle. The yanks it. It doesn’t budge. He groans, tugging at it again. The Lemurian sighs, placing his hands on his hips. He waits for a few seconds, hearing a faint click sound. He smiles and fixes his hair, pretending that he isn’t about to crash out over a locked car door. He places his hand on the door’s handle and pulls on it again.

It’s locked!

You, Abigail, and Thomas laugh from inside the small house. The three of you watch as Rafayel struggles to open up the car door. Thomas keeps locking and unlocking the doors before the artist can open them. Rafayel kicks the drivers side door, leaving a massive dent into the metal. Thomas clicks the button that opens up the trunk.

Rafayel rushes around the SUV as soon as he notices the trunk opening. He looks around for a brief moment before reaching inside, grabbing a few of the black bags that holds premade outfits. Rafayel glares at the car, slowly inching away. The trunk doesn’t close, though. He reaches up and slams it down, huffing to himself about how difficult that was for no reason.

The man begins to cross the path when the car trunk opens again. He freezes, turning around. He rushes back over, closing the trunk with one arm. He begins to walk away when the door opens again. Rafayel throws the black bags to the ground and storms back over to the trunk. With one final slam, the door closes. As soon as it closes, the car alarm begins to blare off. Rafayel gasps and falls to the ground, scrambling across the lawn, capturing the black bags in his hands.

The three of you continue to laugh at Rafayel, doubled over as your sides begin to hurt from laughing so much. As soon as the artist reaches the door, though, the three of you quickly muffle and cover up your giggles, turning to look at something random inside of Abigail’s office.

“Thomas!” Rafayel screeches, his feet pounding against the wooden floor. “Your car is haunted!”

“Oh? Is it?” Thomas pretends to act concerned, which makes you laugh some more. Rafayel immediately glares at you, placing his hands on his hips, the bags of outfits hanging at his side.

“What’s so fucking funny?”

“I think it’s ridiculous to think that a car can be haunted, Rafayel,” you snort, covering your mouth with your hand.

Before Rafayel can get the chance to retort, Thomas grabs the bags from him and looks at the corresponding tags. The agent looks at Abigail, who is quick to move across the room.

“Should we start off with the park date?” Thomas asks. Abigail nods She crosses the office and grabs your wrist, dragging you towards the door of the office.

“You can change in here or the bathroom that’s down the hall,” she calls from over her shoulder, pulling you into your bedroom that’s nearby.

“Park date?!” you ask, watching as she dives into your closet. She immediately begins to pull out clothes, tossing them onto your bed. “What do you and Thomas have planned?”

“You two are going to go on some dates while we take pictures of you, okay? We need Rhys to believe that you two are a couple—”

“We can say we’re really private,” you breathe out, already changing into the clothing items that she points to. “That we didn’t want anyone to find out or hold our relationship against us?”

“I love you , but no. Absolutely not. What are your feelings towards tandem bicycles?”

“I — what?! You’re going to make us ride a bike together?” you gawk, turning to look at her as she fixes a necklace around your neck.

“You’re right. You two would purposefully crash to kill the other,” Abigail murmurs to herself. You hold back a bitchy comment, not wanting your irritation to get the best of you, and sigh. “What? It’s not like we’re going to have you two marry each other.”

“You’re right,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest, “I get to waste a few weeks of my life around the one person I can’t stand instead of making art and meeting someone who actually wants to be near me.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Abigail frowns, “you were going to sit your ass on the couch and watch Linkon’s Most Wanted with a tub of ice cream and you know it, so don’t even pretend to act like you have a life.”

You suck in a breath and look at yourself in the mirror. It’s a casual outfit, a simple pair of jeans and sneakers with a cute blouse and jewelry to match. It would be a cute date outfit for literally anyone else in the world.

This is going to be a long day.

And a long day it was. It was filled with constantly bickering from behind face smiles and laughter as well as many outfit changes as Thomas and Abigail directed the two of you on how to act. Rafayel cringed when he put his hands on your waist while you fought the urge to vomit. Maybe then will Rafayel see the shade of green he thinks you adore so much.

The two of you took pictures in the parking, holding hands and laughing with one another while Thomas and Abigail snapped pictures. You laughed about how much you hate each other, how to want to rip out the other person’s throat at any given moment!

Rafayel carried you in his arms while the two of you walked along the beach’s shore. You held onto him, running your fingers through his hair while the sun was high in the sky. Rafayel told you that you are very round and weigh more than a cow.

Lastly, as the sun begins to set, Thomas and Abigail thought it would be appropriate to have a few pictures with the sunset as the backdrop while at the pier, a known romantic spot for couples.

The two of you stand at the Whitesand Bay Pier. Rafayel stands behind and to the side of you, one arm draped behind your back. You stand beside a few other people, tourists you think, and remain close to Rafayel so you don’t bump into them.

“Can you not touch my ass?” you groan, pushing your butt into the palm of his hand while the two of you watch the sun begin its descent. Rafayel pinches your ass cheek, earning a shocked gasp and smack on the arm from you. His palm flattens against the low of your back before eventually dropping back down to your ass.

“They told us to act like how we would in a relationship!” Rafayel is quick to defend himself. You glare at his response, rolling your eyes before you turn back to the sunset.

The blue tones in the sky begin to turn orange and pink. It truly is one of the best things about Whitesand Bay, the way that the sky turns into a different painting every night. It truly is a sight for sore eyes and it always helps you calm down during your times of need.

And being so close to Rafayel just happens to be one of those times.

“So what you’re telling me is that you love to silence women’s voices and use them like your personal fidget toy?” you shoot the man some side eye, feeling his fingertips tap the back of your jean pockets. He slips his hand inside the back pocket and his fingers make themselves right at home. You roll your eyes and groan, moving to take a step away when he pulls you right back to him.

“What the hell was that for?”

“I just want my girlfriend to be at my side,” he looks down at you, a chaotic grin smacked across his face, “do you want to be the reason we don’t get Rhys’ last exhibit?”

“No,” you huff the word out, already being pushed past your breaking point.

Rafayel leans in. Your breath gets caught in your throat. He dips his head down, his eyes now at the same level of yours, and keeps the charming smile on his face. You look away from him, needing to stare at anything that aren’t his beautiful blue and pink eyes, and get your shit together. Rafayel, on the other hand, has other plans for you.

His touch is gentle. The artist turns your face to look at him, the upper half of his body turned to face you while he keeps his legs cemented at your side, effectively trapping you between him and the railing at the pier. Your eyes meet his and you can’t help but lean your body into his, feeling his thumb slowly stroke a small part of your jeans while his slender fingers remain tucked in your back pocket. It’s oddly calming and reassuring.

“What are you…” your words trail off.

He raises an eyebrow and leans in, his forehead pressing against yours. A quiet chuckle emits from his throat. Your heart pounds inside your chest, bouncing off of your ribs, just absolutely rattled. You close your eyes and keep your hands to yourself. His breath mixes in with yours. He pushes in further, his lips hovering over yours, his nose nestled into place.

Is he…going to kiss you?

Suddenly, Rafayel pulls away. You stay where you are, missing the warmth from his embrace, and slowly open your eyes. His blue and pink hues stare back at you in complete and utter amusement. Your expression sours and you look away, a hint of embarrassment tingling in the back of your mind. Your cheeks heat up.

“What? Did you want me to kiss you?” Rafayel muses with a chuckle.

“Why would I want to kiss you? Your breath smells like fish,” you retort, looking everywhere but his eyes.

“I can kiss you if you want me to,” he chimes in again, leaning down.

For a moment there, you wanted to say yes, to have him kiss you and take away the weird tension that floats between you two. But you catch yourself before you can give into the temptation. You shake your head no, quickly pressing the palm of your hand into his face, shoving him away from you.

“Okay! Okay! We won’t kiss,” a piece of you dies on the inside, “disaster averted.”

“Yep! You said it!” you pull your hand back, wiping his spit off against your jeans.

“Bullet dodged!” Rafayel’s voice is a little too cheery when he says that.

“Uh huh! For sure!” you laugh with him, the two of you sharing snarky expressions.

“Your lips will remain unkissed!”

“I…okay—”

“I’m free at least!”

“Free?!” you repeat his word, brows furrowed.

“I don’t have to torture myself to sell our relationship—”

“Okay! I get it!” you snap, glaring at him. Your cheeks are hot from a mixture of embarrassment and anger.

Were you really that repulsive to him that he wouldn’t kiss you? You aren’t the worst looking person, hell, you are a look better looking than ninety percent of Whitesand Bay’s population! You are a damn fine catch and you will not let an insufferable twat like Rafayel make you feel any less than that!

He turns to look at you, watching as you pull away from him, hands on your hips. He goes quiet, gulping from nervousness.

“I…I’m sorry,” Rafayel stammers, eyes widening. You cross your arms over your chest, raising your eyebrows at him to let him continue his sentence. He nods to himself, looking to the side at Thomas for help but his agent — and yours — aren’t there. “You just seem like the type of girl—”

“Girl?!”

“Shit! Fuck! Woman,” he corrects himself, “you seem like the kind of woman who hasn’t been kisses in awhile so I just wanted to offer...” Rafayel looks down at you, noticing the way the tips of your ears turn a deep red color and the bulging vein that pops out in the middle of your forehead.

Rafael doesn’t need to be an expert in body language and expressions to know that he has pissed you off.

“I mean, like,” he stammers, trying to cover his ass, “you just seem like you haven’t been in a relationship for awhile. I, uh, no offense but you know…you seem like a lot of work. I feel bad for the guy who comes by and tries to snatch you up, no offense.”

You raise an eyebrow at him and you swear you hear him whimper from terror.

“It would take a team of guys to help you feel secure, like an entire hoard or maybe even a school of fish. Maybe then you will get all of the kisses you want!” Rafayel is internally screaming at himself to shut the fuck up but his mouth just doesn’t want to listen. He goes quiet and you stand there as the world passes you by, the sun sinking lower and lower into the horizon.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me about your perceptions of my love life? Or, in your words, lack thereof?” your voice is dangerously low. It both terrifies and excites Rafayel. He purses his lips and his eyes dart away from yours.

“I’m just…in a really weird place right now—”

“Oh really, Rafayel, where is that place? You’re already at the finish line and decimated me!” you raise your voice, groaning and turning away from him. You take a few steps towards the spot where Thomas and Abby once were but feel Rafayel grab your wrist, pulling you back to him.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he fumbles over his words, shaking his head down at you.

“Fuck you, Rafayel!” you yell at him, yanking your wrist away from his touch. He scoffs and places his hands on his hips, glaring down at you.

“Jeez, can you not take criticism well? I think we’re going to have to pull out of the charade if you aren’t able to handle it! Even little guppies can handle tough love from their friends,” Rafayel says.

“Is that what you call tough love?! Rafayel, you just insulted me!” you laugh through the shock and anger, your fists balling at your sides. “And also, that’s fucking rich of you to say seeing how after one person said that weren’t a fan of your work, you haven’t been able to produce anything new or noteworthy!”

“Wow,” he crosses his arms over his chest, “that was a low blow.”

“Was it? Or was it just some much needed tough love,” you gently punch his shoulder, mocking him from before.

You begin to walk away from him, pushing through the crowd of people. He quickly catches up and grabs your wrist, forcing you to drag him along as you reach the parking lot where Thomas and Abigail stand in next to the car you all came in.

“What the fuck do you want, Rafayel?!” you yell in his face as soon as you break free from the crowd. You turn to look at him, anger written all over your face.

“I have a feeling that I fucked up—”

“I have a feeling, all right! It’s called nausea, you piece of shit!” you continue to yell. Rafayel’s fingers tighten around your wrist before he drops it. He shakes his head and clenches his jaw.

“You know, this is exactly why we would never work out together!” Rafayel yells back. People look at you but neither of you care. “From the first day I met you, you have proven to be so self absorbed and two faced! I could never find myself being in love with a bitch like you! You’re too much to handle!”

“And you aren’t? Look at the state of you, Rafayel! It took you two hours to decide on an outfit to wear for stupid fucking pictures! And why would I want to be with someone who has been nothing but cruel to me the first time we met? You’re an asshole!” you cross your arms over your stomach, nausea overtaking your body as well as the sudden urge to cry.

“Um, excuse me,” a maternal voice catches both you and Rafayel off guard.

You look at the woman, who has a crying baby in her arms as well as a five year old on a leash who keeps shouting curse words you have just said. You swallow the lump in your throat and force a smile onto your face. Rafayel stands beside you, completely stone faced as his eyes burn into the side of your face.

“I hate to interrupt your argument but there are a lot of children here today and as you can tell, it is causing a lot of chaos—”

“Right! I am so sorry, ma’am, we’ll take this somewhere else, we’re so sorry,” an apologetic look forms on your face. You sigh and look up at Rafayel.

The expression on his face makes you pause. His brows are furrowed, cheeks a light pink color, and his ears are completely red. He slowly breathes in and out, his breathing ragged and hollow. A piece of you wishes he wouldn’t look at you while another part of you wishes he only ever looks at you like that. You gulp and reach out for his hand, your fingers slipping between his. Without another word, you guide Rafayel away from the crowd and move deeper into the parking lot and towards the SUV.

Before you can reach the car, though, Rafayel stops you. You pull against his hand but he doesn’t budge, remaining in place in the middle of the street.

“You think I’m an asshole?” his words are quiet, just loud enough for you to hear.

“You think I’m two faced, am not worthy go being kissed or loved by a single person, and you called me difficult in so many ways possible,” your fingers go limp, ready to drop his hand, but Rafayel’s grip on you remains firm. “Let me go.”

“No,” he takes a step forward, “do you really think that I’m an asshole?”

“Yes,” you force the word out of your mouth, “I can’t wait for this fake relationship to be over so I can get away from you for good.”

You rip your hand away from his grasp. Rafayel’s face contorts, softening for a brief moment, before it hardens once again. He watches as you walk away, taking the slow and agonizing steps away from him.

“I need time alone. Away from you,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. You look to the side, noticing that your house isn’t that far away. You can very easily walk home from here. No need to be near him more than you have to, right? “I’ll see you tonight, Rafayel,” you call out from over your shoulder. You leave the parking lot and quickly disappear with the group of tourists, disappearing and finding shelter amongst the chaos.

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