Work Text:
When Rafayel asked for a painting that would speak to him, he didn’t mean literally.
His most exemplary student, of course, went above and beyond in this simple art assignment. While your classmates drew and painted oceans, seas, and even a cat (Rafayel knew immediately that that was his least favorite student's work), you had painted yourself.
It could've been a simple self-portrait — that would've spoken to him enough. But his most exemplary student, who knows the ins and outs of him more than any student should, drew herself in the ocean waters. A torn white dress adorning her figure, she looks back at the audience with tears in her eyes as though she were losing them.
As though you were losing him.
Rafayel blinks himself conscious, the stream of memories in lives that don't exist in this timeline consuming him whole. Voices echo in his head with questions he has no answers to. Songs play in his ear with notes he wishes he could forget.
So, as any self-respecting human would, he rushes to get ready for bed to sleep the memories away.
Oh, he should’ve known that his best student would go beyond just voices in his head.
Ghosts.
That's the only logical explanation for the voices emanating from the painting in the corner of his bedroom. Either that or he's truly gone insane, and he likes to think he has a few more good years until all of the longing gets to him.
Guess not, Rafayel thinks grimly.
Placing his glasses on his face (though opening his eyes completely would probably be more effective in clearing his vision), he begins to stand up to examine the painting. How it placed itself into his bedroom is not even in the top ten questions he has at the moment.
Your painting glows like a star, with lines around your figure like a halo. The blues of the ocean waves sway, and as Rafayel watches, he is reminded of his home. The canvas is a restricting medium for an artist as cunning — and loving — as you are.
He had known of technological advancements, but nothing with the ability to bring memories to fruition. Nothing that can make mere paints and watercolors turn into moving figures. Nothing like your hand, which moves with purpose in more ways than one.
Rain and thunder pour at the same time Rafayel massages his temples, ruining the tranquility the gesture should've provided while emphasizing the power of the painting that mocks him.
I am too old for this, he thinks, even though his smooth hands can still brush against the canvas with ease. The blues of your painting feel like water, and it makes him want to touch your silhouette next. To feel you in his hands.
Greedy, greedy man. He has you in his office more often than he should and he still longs for your touch.
Rafayel sighs, centuries of exhaustion falling into him at once, but all he does is lift his glasses up and walk to the window to watch the raindrops fall.
Rafayel feigns interest in the photos on social media, scrolling through feeds of fish, Linkon News, and the upcoming spring.
"Professor Qi."
Even though he was expecting you in his office, your voice still startles him. The sweetness of it, the innocence laced in every word. Nobody would suspect you were capable of schemes as torturous as this.
"Have a seat," Rafayel orders. "And please shut the door for me."
He sees you smirk before you walk over to the door as he’d asked. Acknowledging the dress you decided to wear today, he sits straight the way a professor would with a student. But acknowledging your relationship, he shamelessly eyes you like a God would with a mortal.
As soon as you sit back down, he breaks any opportunity of small talk with the point. "The painting, beloved."
"What about it?"
"The–" Rafayel lifts his glasses so you can see the anger in his eyes. "You'd made it so I would stay awake and think of you. Of my identity.”
He swears the skin of his palms are about to be pried into by his fingernails when you simply shrug. No arguments or lies, just a truth he wishes weren’t real. "Isn’t art supposed to evoke emotion? I've done my purpose as an artist if the piece moved you so much, Prof–”
"The piece moved!" Rafayel interrupts, exasperated. “The waves' crackles kept me up last night. I–”
God, was he losing words?
“I don't know how you did it, beloved."
You simply bite your lip, the innocence of it creating a fire different from his anger. "I guess that means I get a good grade?"
Rafayel nods, a "yes" too much for the one hour of sleep he had.
The sun spills through his office’s blackout curtains like forbidden desires, sunlight shining onto the figurines displayed on his shelves. The footsteps outside of his office ring louder as songs and voices echo in his head once more.
"You…” He becomes breathless by that one single word. “What have you done to me?"
Culminations of stolen glances, loaded praise, and searing kisses should help answer that question. A connection formed through art and a mutual pleasure in forbidden dynamics. He can’t even count how many times he's had you in his grasp, erasing words from your mouth and replacing them with hot, breathless pleas.
But now he is at your mercy, and you can do whatever you want with the pathetic lover man in front of you.
"What have I done?" you say slyly. "Does it matter when I can do so much more?”
Your painting appears in his mind, but it quickly disappears when you take hold of his face.
As quickly as it began, his glasses fall to his desk as your lips meet his.
In the haze between kisses — those hands of yours skillfully unbuttoning his shirt — the sunlight creates a halo around you, and the puddles his heart has melted into become the ocean waves you stand on.
Luckily, there are no tears in your eyes at this moment. Only love, only a determination to undo him completely, is present.
Alas, his shameless greed is satiated.