#Sinking Ship Entertainment

[abbysinterestsblog]

odd squad has a japanese dub...no im not joking, (srry 4 the lq pic.)

it airs on nhk. the dub is titled "オッド スクワッド 出動! ヘンテコ捜査局" (or, "odd squad on the move! weird investigation bureau") its a dub of the odd squad uk season. it also has precure va's. does this mean odd squad is a tokusatsu?.......maybe.

[serendertothesquad]

"Wordsville" and the Problem with Cash-Cow Copies

[note original day of creation was February 15, 2024. just...just for reference. trust me bro.]

Hello.

Tonight I am in a silly mood fueled by sleep deprivation.

That means you all get an introspective blog that I will complete within a week and then ask "why'd I write that?"

So here's what's on Seren's lovely table of discussion tonight...

Put...put away the glasses. You don't need your glasses. This is the highest-quality thing I can get.

But et voila. A little project in the works called Wordsville.

Now, at this point you might be asking why I'm referencing "cash-cow copies" in the title. And whoo-hoo...oooooh...well, I don't want to make this some kind of clickbait blog, so I might as well perfect the atomic bomb in five minutes and land it on you folks.

What if I were to tell you that this is a blatant, shameless, slap-a-digital-coat-on-it-and-call-it-a-day copy of Odd Squad?

Ahhh, see, now I have you intrigued. Hopefully. If you are, then peep down below and let me discuss things a little more in-depth for you non-believing hacks asking me if I'm borderline insane.

So to put things in perspective, allow me to explain what Wordsville is, starting with my own personal summary.

Wordsville is an up-and-coming episodic (not to be confused with serialized, that's a whole 'nother ballgame) TV series that is produced (and will later be distributed) by Sinking Ship Entertainment and is made with assistance from WNET, a PBS station located in New Jersey, and TVO Kids, PBS Kids's girlfriend from Canada that's definitely real.

It was announced back in October of last year with a press release from Kidscreen, which didn't give much info aside from the following blurb:

Wordsville stars two child detectives on the hunt for missing words that are causing chaos in their town.

Sounds a little familiar, don'tcha think? Two kid detectives, finding something missing...and that "something missing" is causing chaos where they live?

Oh, but if you think the similarities end there, then no. No the absolute fuck they do not. I've got my bathing suit on and God damn it if I'm not gonna jump all the way in the pool instead of dippin' my little toes in there.

Doing a little bit of digging reveals more tidbits from a casting call for the series. It's rather wordy (ayyyyyy I did a funy), so let's take it piece by piece and discuss accordingly.

Wordsville is a town populated entirely by kids

A town that is populated entirely by children? Now c'mon, surely that doesn't ring a be-

...Ah. Whaddya know. Yes it does.

And with the adults as useless and idiotic as they are, it might as well be a town full of solely children. Next question.

and it’s a place where words matter. A lot. Every kid citizen has a special connection to words. And that means that if something happens to a word, there are far-reaching consequences.

A special connection to words? Like how there are children who have a special connection to normalcy? Stopping, oh, I dunno, hypothetically speaking...

...oddness?

Okay okay, I'm reaching just a wee bit here, but you can't read this and not tell me it echoes the funny kids math show to some degree or another. If an odd thing happens to a person, the whole town suffers. You've seen it. I've seen it. It's been the basis for many an A and B-plot. Must I elaborate? Good, because I don't plan on it. Continuing.

If the Main Street Baker bakes delicious donuts and they all mysteriously disappear, nothing else in Wordsville can taste good until they are returned.

Town Baker walked so Main Street Baker can sprint while blowing their lungs out.

If the Town Doctor’s soothing medication gets swiped, the whole town gets uncontrollably itchy until the medicine-napper is uncovered.

Ignoring the incredibly dark implications of this as well as the implications of this shoddy knockoff town having only one single doctor...

Dr. O walked so the Town Doctor can sprint while blowing their lungs out...over their massive paycheck.

(I technically could have also put New Dr. O too, but I'd like to spring for iconic OG's here. New Dr. O is neither iconic nor an OG.)

And let me remind you that "Torontonians get uncontrollably itchy due to something odd" would, by technicality, classify as an odd problem. Because...I mean, y'know...the cause is something odd happening. Doing shit with words is odd. This needs absolutely no explaining.

If the Local Scientist does an experiment with electricity and all the lights in town go out, they won’t come back on until the experiment wrecker is revealed.

Yep, I've taken shots of every IPA I can. We nearly hit the main character quadfecta, if you discount Dr. "bro thinks she's part of the team" O. All they needed was a bit about a high governing body and we'd round out the quad squad in proper with Oprah!

There's also a sneaky lil' crumb in the form of that blurb relating to Oona, who did, indeed, experiment with electricity in one episode and wound up proving why she can never take up Crossfit.

Hmmmnnnnext!

In each crime, the episodic word disappears and can’t return until the mystery is solved. The impact of the missing word is felt all over town.

This is another one of those things that I gotta wrench a hammy for in terms of comparisons, because about the only thing I can reasonably compare Odd Squad to is the second sentence.

See, here's the thing. You get oddness that happens to a person. Oftentimes, that oddness spreads to other people, whether directly (in the form of diseases and disorders) or indirectly (like the Town Baker's cakes being split in half, which wouldn't please Torontonians poppin' in for a whole cake and eyeing the display to get a feel for one). In a sense, normalcy disappears and, well, it can't return until [insert partner pair here] solve the case. It's kinda the entire schtick of Odd Squad as a franchise. It's formulaic, just like how Wordsville's "words disappear and nothing can be normal until the word returns" schtick is formulaic.

Is it a stretch? Perhaps. Mileage may vary. I think it's a bit of a stretch, personally. But hey, I'm a grown adult critiquing a ripoff of a kids STEM show. I shouldn't be talking. But I didn't start this fandom nearly 10 years ago just to let Sinking Ship's piss-poor attempt at really capitalizing on one of their biggest franchises sliiiiiide right by me on a floor smooth enough where I'm falling on my ass every 10 seconds.

Luckily, best friends and partners Sage and Chase are on the case and run the only detective agency in town. These tech-savvy sleuths solve mysteries entirely virtually because their reading, listening and digital literacy skills are their greatest strengths. Sage and Chase always catch their culprit and make sure everything is right with the word.

Now where in the McFuck do I start with this one? The PAW Patrol catchphrase thrown in complete with shared name? The fact that there is only one detective agency in the entire town? The fact that Sage and Chase are best friends as well as work partners? Or the pun that made me actively cringe in a way I haven't felt since Whitney told James she wanted to go on the lake?

I mean...this is about Odd Squad, so...I guess the second one sounds most plausible.

But that doesn't need explaining either. There is only one detective agency in town. There is one Odd Squad precinct per city or per state.

No, neither does the third bit. I already referenced Olive and Otto above. You should know what's up.

(I've also read that blurb five times now and...well...we'll get to the digital stuff in a bit. That just needs a whole side-set of word vomit.)

-------------------------------

In my digging of this series -- which, well, wasn't all that much -- I managed to find a few blurbs on our two main characters. The casting call for them, funny enough, called for, and I will quote this exactly, "talent to look 9."

As in, they want the actors to physically look 9 years old.

Which puts that qualifier in the same ballpark as Odd Squad UK's "talent must be Canadian but live in the UK". But at least that prerequisite actually had a legitimate earnest reason behind it, which is that the production needed to be Canadian in a lot more than just the "Canadian prodco works on a British series" sense. Hiring kids who have to physically look 9 years old and will probably be yoted onto the street the second puberty hits them like a truck is a practice not even the most egregious bosses of family-owned-and-operated businesses could pull off.

But enough about the qualifiers. Let's get started on our character comparisons and civil cidiscussion! (Oh the irony...)

And remember this: the casting call was handled by Larissa Mair Casting, who previously did casting for Odd Squad. So that means there will be tinny lil' crumbs of bonus material for me to dissect and discuss! Huzzah! Aw God why can't this happen for Odd Squad UK...man, I'm gonna have to go into my sobbing corner...

First up, we have Sly Sleuth, originally referred to as "Sage" here. I'll also be referring to him as "Sage" in this blog.

Sage is a great detective; thoughtful, extremely logical, and talented at getting information out of people.

Thoughtful of others. Logical. And can wrench information out of suspects like a badass.

Yep, we got an Olive that got hit with an Olando-fied beam. (And because half of you don't know who Olando is: Sage is meant to be a male Olive. I hope that clears things up for you.)

What else?

Nothing related to vocabulary or literacy gets by this investigator. Suspects can underestimate Sage but that is always a mistake. Sage doesn’t scare easily and won’t take no for an answer, traits that make an excellent detective.

You could tell me this was how Olive was meant to be written in "My Better Half", word for word, and I would honestly believe you. Right down to asking, "Her name was Sage in pre-production?"

About the only place I can draw the line here is at Olive not scaring easily. We don't know Sage's backstory -- and once again, this is an episodic series, so don't expect much in the way of plot, backstory included -- but Olive, at least, has a legitimate reason for all the times she covers her ears at loud noises or sharply reacts to something startling.

The former is because of The Censor-Friendly Bullet Massacre of '15.

The latter is because Dalila Bela marched straight out of a viewing of Who Framed Roger Rabbit and never looked back.

I...can't really say either applies to Sage. At least not yet. We'll have to see if Sinking Ship decides to bring Wordsville into its lil' multiverse that Odd Squad and Dino Dana and Endlings and Playdate already share.

Sage is also wise, which is why the name “Sage” is completely appropriate.

Sooooo does that mean his name is Sly because he's cunning like a fox?

Well then in other news, Olive is named such because she was inspired by the famous Law and Order character Olivia Benson. I have fifteen folders that back me right the hell up. Also I contacted Sinking Ship the other day, they explicitly told me.

No, no, but in all seriousness. Olive, too, is very wise. Historian buff, knows her shit about Odd Squad, doo-dah, doo-dah.

Anyway, next up we have Chase, who was renamed to "Gabby Gumshoe". (I'll be referring to her as Chase in this blog, as well.) Let's see what's on the chopping block for her in terms of our favorite food-loving, hella tall, crazy silly blorbo.

Chase is a fantastic detective, but is also goofy[,] funny, visually oriented, and, like the name suggests, loves the “chase”.

Now there's a man who got hit with a yassified beam, right there.

I'll leave it up to you folks whether you consider Otto to be "visually oriented". But in terms of "loving the chase"...yeah, I'd say that fits.

To lay it down: Otto is a rookie agent. Common sense would lead anyone to assume that he has an absolute blast solving odd cases and absorbing every bit of knowledge about Odd Squad that he possibly can. He finds out a villain's on the loose? He's right there, by Olive's side, workin' to catch 'em. He finds out oddness has run rampant throughout the town? He's right on that shit.

Chase, on the other hand, is someone I wouldn't call a rookie. It's made quite evident that she is, for all intents and purposes, seasoned. Seasoned enough that she manages to keep the detective agency she works for afloat and get approval from the others in Wordsville, Sage included. This, perhaps, is because she's not really meant to be an audience surrogate in the same way Otto is. Otto, at least for the first few episodes, serves as a way to ease the audience into Odd Squad and show them what the organization is and what they do without yoting them into it and leaving them asking "Where am I?" more times than a drunkard. Chase doesn't fill that role, because it could be argued that such a show like Wordsville doesn't really need an audience surrogate. Whether that's true, though, remains to be seen.

People tend to underestimate this investigator, but Chase often notices things like a chocolate stain when someone said they didn’t like chocolate or a squiggle of icing that turns out to be the antonym of the word they’re tracking.

Y' take Otto's...Otto's love of food...and y' put it in a gorl...and BAM you got a character.

...

That isn't a joke. It's dead-on serious. Even the casting call script pins Chase as a kid with a sweet tooth! It's just Otto but with a less diverse palate! Otto eats everything! This kid eats sweets! God sakes, give her some juice, make her Oprah, I don't give a shit, fucking hell I'm driving 50 minutes to Burger Ki-

Chase is also great with computers and incredibly artistic. A graphic note taker[,] Chase loves to draw, has a great eye for details, is a big fan of the “zoom in” function, and really enjoys creating animated re-enactments of Word Mysteries.

All right, we finally have somewhere we can draw the line.

No, not at being tech-literate. With being artistic.

Otto's artistic talent kind of varies throughout the franchise. In drawing on paper, he's pretty solid for an I-just-recently-turned-10-please-praise-me-year-old. In making paper airplanes, he's solid enough to take down a grown-ass man and rock his sunglasses when he's done for.

In computer drawing...well...if you can believe it, concepts like Ibispaint and Photoshop don't exist in the world of Odd Squad. (Okay, maaaaybe Photoshop does. I don't think it does. But it could be a good in-universe justification for it.)

We don't know Otto's digital artist merit because we never see him make any digital art. All of his art is solely non-digital. On Chase's side of things, she lives in an era where digital drawing is, like in real life, the norm. It's a contrast that might be one of the more glaring ones when it comes to comparing these two shows.

Now, as for the "creating animated re-enactments" schtick...if that isn't an excuse for Sinking Ship to work their animation magic after the Sandy Cheeks movie, then I honestly don't know what is. If you wanted to make the show animated, you could have made it animated. Would've been cheaper, too!

(And "Word Mysteries"...it's not as grating as Wild Kratts's "Wow Fact", but it's edging pretty close. I blame WNET. That's solely a PBS thing right there. TVO Kids would never.)

----------------

So we've gotten the discussion about the two main characters out of the way. Now we can dive into the heartier meat. The kind where's it's purple on the inside but you still digest it anyway.

I'm talking, of course, about the sample scripts- script. Singular. There is one script. Uno.

Now, lemme give you a bit of a rundown: casting calls for Odd Squad -- really, most shows, but this is a blog about Odd Squad -- often come with sample scripts. This is so talents can read their parts aloud for the camera and have the tape submitted to the casting agency for consideration. Odd Squad in particular has had quite an interesting ride with sample scripts, from entire episode plots being adapted into final products (with a bit of tweaking) to characters having names different than what they're named in the final product (which is the case with both Sly and Gabby). They're nothing on the scale of ABC Me dropping episodes earlier than PBS or shorts getting dropped as an alleged April Fools prank, but they're pretty damn good crumbs to chew on.

The sample script starts out with Sage and Chase on, of course, a video call. (Sinking Ship made a Zoom reference once. Pray they do not make another by the name of a friendly drug called "Speed" or that term for peeing known as a "Whiz".) Chase explains that she just gave her office chair's wheels a tune-up, which, of course, makes her hungry. Hungry enough that she declares a "cookie break" and immediately takes out a ginormous cookie from hammerspace that just made the European bakery down the street from me start sobbing. (Look, they make good cookies. Giant cookies. Cookies I need two hands just to hold properly. Trust me, it's- it's massive.)

However, when she bites into the cookie, she finds that it tastes absolutely gross -- "not sweet, not even sour". While she ponders if her body has forcefully rejected one of the best sweet treats known to humankind, Sage begins to grow suspicious and asks if it's a Word Mystery they need to solve.

Which is, coincidentally enough, when the Main Street Baker calls in a fit of hysteria, explaining that their "delicious donuts" are gone. And because we can't take enough from Odd Squad, we get a bit of "literal humor" in the form of the donuts both being delicious (probably) and them spelling the word "delicious" prior to their disappearance. After Sage explains what "delicious" means as well as what synonyms are, it's shown that the culprit also struck other pastries, up to and including gingerbread people, which Sage absolutely takes personally because he's a kid of pure culture who gives a big "fuck you" to holiday-specific treats being enjoyed only during said holidays.

Chase, in true Otto fashion, decides to take more bites of her cookie and instantly regrets it. Sage, in true...well...Clint Eastwood fashion (I shit you not, that's literally what it says in the script), declares that they need to find the word "delicious" and fix the pastries.

And...yeah, that's about it. Like I said, there's really not much to go on with casting call sample scripts. Especially not ones from Larissa Mair.

My conclusive thoughts on it, you ask? Well...they can try to hide it, but all it's doing is enforcing my point. From the Main Street Baker having donuts missing similar to how the Town Baker had bagels missing in "Soundcheck", to Chase being an idiot who is obsessed with food the same way Otto is (right down to his willingness to drink Odd Todd's pickle juice when it tasted gross in "Bad Lemonade"!), even down to the "literal metaphor" kind of humor as it applies to singular words. Am I stretching? Perhaps. But these supposedly insignificant pieces are just part of the bigger picture, the larger issue at hand in this long-winded piece.

------------------

The digital aspect of Wordsville is one of the ways they decided to put a twist on the precedent that Odd Squad set. And it's so blatant and in-your-face that it's on par with shoving a red flag in someone's eyes to blind them.

But here's the thing. The digital aspect been done. Amusingly enough, by the same company.

Lockdown is a show that fits right in with the others at the Shows-Made-During-the-COVID-Pandemic-About-the-COVID-Pandemic club. It was a way to capitalize on something in society that probably will never be relevant again until around 2050. Maybe even earlier than that, at the rate we're going.

I haven't seen it, so I can't speak much about it, but from my side of things it looks a lot like Unfriended if it took place during the pandemic and wasn't a horror movie and involved teens and not young adults/adults/I haven't seen the movie in many years bite me.

But the main difference between Lockdown and Wordsville, relevant to this editorial, is that Lockdown has a legitimate reason to be shot entirely on electronic devices. It's part of the plot. It works, I'm sure. For Wordsville, it makes no sense for the outline and isn't just limiting, but is downright insulting for something "rooted in the 21st century". It's good to be unique when making a show, but there's such a thing as trying too hard to be unique to the point where it's detrimental to your show's quality. Making the show be a digital-only angle isn't a smart move, especially for a detective procedural.

And if it's trying to differentiate itself from Odd Squad...well, do I got some bad news for you.

The show already did an entire Zoom parody in the span of an 11-minute episode.

And I still hate it with all the vitriol of an old woman who hates kids playing with beach balls in the yard pool. It sucks ass. It's entirely unneeded when you have three children sitting around the same table. I could vomit on you all day about it. But at least it's far more justified than Wordsville having its entire formula based on it. You can rip off a show without being limiting.

(don't. seriously. don't.)

------------------

Before we get to the conclusion, I need to dive deep into Odd Squad's own popularity and explain it a little more beyond just little "trust me bro" tidbits.

If you've been following it for as long as I have, then it's no secret that Odd Squad is one of Sinking Ship's cash-cow franchises. You've got the main series, six different spinoffs, a live show, a book...and I didn't even provide a whole damn list! Point being, it's huge. It doesn't have many roots in pop culture, but from a certain angle, it is an absolutely massive franchise that continues to grow, even in spite of its controversies.

Unlike works such as SpongeBob or Bluey, Odd Squad isn't popular enough to get bonafide ripoffs. The formula is relatively easy to copy, and if anything there are shows that have a similar premise but aren't even close to ripoff territory (K.C. Undercover, for example). It's just that, for all the ripoffs people have done of shows and movies over the years, the motivation for industry bigwigs in taking Odd Squad and running with it just...isn't there. I can connect it to Disney or Dreamworks or Viacom all I want, but at best they have a vague awareness of it that only goes as far as "oh, that's a thing, I guess". At worst, they see it as a pile of shit that would never turn a decent profit.

It could be argued that Sinking Ship wasn't all too well-known in the entertainment sphere up until Odd Squad came around. Looking at their resume doesn't show all too much in the way of what's popular. This is Daniel Cook, Roll Play, Playdate...they don't stick in your head, right? Yeah, none of them stick in my head either. Odd Squad was their first big hit for them, something that really helped them gain ground as a company. It's the one that's pretty much linked with Sinking Ship in news articles. Like husband and wife, but for the TV industry.

But to Hollywood bigwigs, that means about as much as finding a stick on the ground. I guaran-goddamn-tee Bob Iger is not going to put his grubby little hands on the funny kids math franchise and twist the hell out of it. The only way that's happening is if you run "Odd Squad, but make it Disney" through an AI generator. (Which, for the record, I have not done. You can't really replicate Odd Squad characters in animation without making them look like they walked out of yet another Law and Order spinoff that's far more kid-friendly.)

However, even with Odd Squad's varying popularity, there are shows that go just a little beyond having a similar premise to it but don't dive into ripoff territory. Sort of like a next step up.

A long time ago, a few friends and I in an Odd Squad Discord server were discussing the show Numberjacks. You know, that show that Jacknjellify may or may not have used as inspiration for Four's design? Yeah, that's the bitch.

The show has a few similarities to Odd Squad. You've got the focus on math, a system for exiting the couch headquarters that's similar to the tube system, and even the existence of kid agents and incredibly odd villains, one of which, need I remind you, Twitter tried to make into a sexyman for all of two days to varying degrees of success.

I will admit, I haven't seen Numberjacks in several years. In fact, the last time I saw it was when it was brought up as an Odd Squad ripoff. If I recall correctly, the episode that I picked to watch on a whim was "Seaside Adventure", wherein a few numbers take a vacation and trouble occurs. Or something like that. I really can't remember many details.

One thing I do remember, though, is distinctly thinking that I could see the Odd Squad similarities, but...it's not a ripoff. The series premiered in 2006. By that point, Tim McKeon and Adam Peltzman were off on their own ventures as they wrote for cartoons and other things. Thus, Odd Squad hadn't been birthed yet. If anything, Odd Squad took cues from Numberjacks, not the other way around -- but even with the existence of Odd Squad UK, we don't know that for sure. I don't even know how popular Numberjacks was in the UK. I'm a dumb lil' American, not a Daphne-Moon-esque English woman.

Since then, I haven't found anything that has come close to what Wordsville aims to accomplish. Granted, though, I have not looked very hard. I'm moreso keeping an eye on PBS to see if they're going to try and rip off Odd Squad rather than keeping an eye on any random B-lister studio. (And no, I'm not talking about WNET. They are a PBS station, but I'm referring to PBS as a whole entire network, not a sole affiliate.)

------------------------

So the question remains: is Wordsville an Odd Squad ripoff?

Yes. On multiple counts. Right down to the name inspo. Guilty as charged. Right to jail.

From it being for the 4-7 demo not unlike Odd Squad's own 4-8 demo, to Sage and Chase being referred to as "Word Detectives" in lieu of "agents", to it being a detective procedural not unlike Odd Squad and its spinoffs, to the synopsis of the show being described as having "a case rooted in a vocabulary lesson" similar to Odd Squad having episodes rooted in STEM lessons, to it actively encouraging the audience to solve mysteries along with Sage and Chase...to Sage and Chase having alliterative theme naming...

Yeah, safe to say, we've got ourselves a ripoff.

There's no denying that Odd Squad is a fantastic franchise. Even through all of its issues, including financial controversies, heavy criticism, and mistreatment from PBS, it has remained strong for nearly 10 years, and will stay strong for many more. Maybe one of these days, it will plant roots deeper into pop culture and become one hell of a phenomenon. We'll have to see.

But the fact that Sinking Ship Entertainment has to resort to borrowing a concept that is unique in its nature, a concept that has already been done, a concept that has been given life and creativity by the people who birthed it, and then try to pass it off as its own original IP is not a good look on them. It's been done similarly before with their other big franchise, Dino Dan -- key word being "similarly" because it's one show and three spinoffs focusing on different characters. That isn't the case with Wordsville, though.

Put it this way: it's a company ripping off not someone else's IP, like many other companies have done and continue to do. It's a company ripping off their own IP.

And really, it doesn't matter how it's done. Stealing is stealing. At the end of the day, all it shows is a complete lack of creativity and a complete craving for the almighty dollar. More so if it's a company stealing from themselves and passing it along as okay.

In spite of this, however, I am perfectly willing to give Wordsville a shot when it comes out. Not so much to see if it's good (though my curiosity is piqued), and definitely not to hate-watch (which has the opposite intended effect on a show or movie), but to see just how far Sinking Ship is willing to push the envelope in affirming viewers and industry buddies alike that this is not, by any and all accounts, a copy of Odd Squad. I want to spot similarities. I want to take whiskey shots until I can do a zoom-zoom to a hospital and then ask if they've got a bottle on board the rig. I want to give a full, I-watched-this-show-now-here-are-my-overall-final-thoughts addendum on the entire issue.

As of now, Wordsville has no narrow timeframe. All I know is that it's releasing this year, likely on TVO Kids in Canada. Whether PBS as a whole will adopt it into its roster -- and if anything, it'll be WNET-exclusive, otherwise we would've heard something about it at the TCA Winter Press Tour a few days back -- for American audiences remains yet to be seen. Rest assured, though, that I'll be keeping an eye on it and rushing to it as soon as the first episode drops. After that, I'll give a proper addendum so I can finally put this issue to bed. Along with myself. Revenge bedtime procrastination is a bitch.

Thanks for reading. This honestly started out as something silly, but then I became analytical. So you got a mix of both in this one. This may or may not be the norm. Day-by-day, y'know?

Seren out.

[biggoldbelt]

Prime Video Releases Trailer and Premiere Date for Beyond Black Beauty From Sinking Ship Entertainment, Leif Films and Saga Film

Prime Video released the trailer and key art for Beyond Black Beauty, inspired by the iconic novel “Black Beauty.” All eleven episodes of Beyond Black Beauty will be available on October 15 exclusively on Prime Video in the US and UK. Beyond Black Beauty follows young equestrian Jolie Dumont, whose Olympic dreams are dashed when her mother moves them from Belgium to her family’s urban ranch in…

[judiyo]

So no one told you life was gonna be this way

Your job’s a joke, you’re broke, your love life’s DOA

It’s like you’re always stuck in second gear

When it hasn’t been your day, your week, your month, or even your year

[dead-flight]

A NEIGHBOURLY WELCOME.

⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

Your new neighbour is cute. Wonder how big his-- nevermind. Or maybe?

TAGS: simon riley x reader, smut, sir? kink?, mild overstim?, size difference, creampie + multiple orgasms (r)

simon was not the type to enjoy moving about. in fact, simon hated it. hated how moving required picking up what life he'd established, even if it were small. he didn't understand how people could pack their lives up and ship across the country just like that.

'til he did. wasn't really a must, but he wanted to downsize. needed something a little smaller than what he had. it's not like he spent all his time there anyways--he was usually on base, and taking care of a bigger apartment was asking too much.

so he packed up, moved a few blocks away, holed up in a little apartment building. the day he moved in, carrying just a few boxes (he didn't have much to begin with), he couldn't help but notice the person right beside his door.

cute. you were wide-eyed and cute. stared at him across the hallway before sheepishly asking him if he minded moving out of your way so you could get to your apartment. lo and behold, you opened the door beside his and slipped in.

simon didn't give it much thought, to be honest. didn't really care how cute you were. he wasn't the type to want anyone, let alone a little girl. he doubted you could defend yourself if you joined a fistfight with a gun.

but you thought differently. walked past his apartment extra times a day, hoping you'd catch him on the way out so you could get a better look at his biceps, or the scar on his cheek, dragging down to his lip.

you lengthened your grocery lists, made sure the bags were a tiny bit too heavy, just in case you might see him in the parking lot and ask him for help.

you knocked on his door in the afternoon, shyly looking up at him with those big doe eyes, biting your lip and asking him, "um, sir, do you mind helping? my sink is leaking... and i just don't want to... bother anyone else."

simon was pissed, the first time he had met you. he always heard some kind of excited prattling from through the thin walls, as you excitedly rambled to a friend. you just talked, and talked, and talked--simon's head was going to fall off.

so maybe, if it shut you up, he'd entertain your silly little requests.

when you asked him how to fix your sink, so cutely, how could he say no?

so here he was, under your sink, on his back, his shirt under his head as he'd taken it off. (maybe you'd increased the AC in your room, hoping he'd take his shirt off. sneaky little thing.)

you sat on the counter, uncaring about what he was saying about your sink, hooked on the slight rasp of his voice and the way his abs flexed as he tightened your pipes.

then simon was done, and you grabbed his arm as he sat up, picking up his shirt. "sir? can i pay you? um... don't have much money on me to give you, but i could give you something else."

and fuck him, you were so needy. felt your hand on his arm tighten every time he moved as if to leave. simon knew he was falling straight into a trap, and if he was being honest, he's not sure he minded. he sighs, the crease between his brows deepening. "'yer alright, luv. ain't gonna ask y'for anythin'."

you pouted. like a sad, kicked pup. pouted at him. "please? stay a bit, let me... um. i can make you something to eat. cookies? i make really good cookies."

simon was really good at dodging negotiation tactics. really good at surviving the harshest forms of torture. but he hadn't been trained to dodge the torture suddenly straining in his pants as he took you in, pretty pink frills on your skirt, your thighs which dissapeared under the fabric. so he stayed, sat there whilst you busied about the kitchen, whipping together some cookies.

when they were done, you presented them to him, real giddy, jumping on your heels. "here, try one."

before he could reach for one, you sat yourself in his lap, right on top of him, offering the cookie to his lips. simon grunts, his hand instinctively moving to grip your hip. "watch y'rself, luv. don' wanna start somethin' you ain't gonna finish."

shame, that you were so confident, really. maybe then you wouldn't have ended up grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat. maybe then he wouldn't have bent you right over the counter, pushing your pretty skirt up to leer at the sopping wet patch of underwear over your cunt. "mh, she's real pretty, eh, luv?"

you were so confident up until you came on his fingers. simon didn't even give you a second to think, his fingers pressing deeper, squishing against your gummy walls. "c'mere, darlin', jus' wanna have some more."

and in one smooth stroke of his cock, after a second orgasm, the rest of your confidence dissapeared. the stretch burned, like he was splitting you in half, god, he was too fucking big. "s-sir, sir, it's too big..."

"hush, take it," he grunts, practically folding you over, his hips forcing against yours, his hand on your jaw. his thumb rubs over the corner of your mouth, swiping up the drool that slips from your mouth.

poor thing. you shouldn't have poked the bear, but you just couldn't help it, could you? craved the way his cock filled you up so good. he was going to ruin you for everyone else.

"you... you on the pill, darling?" he grunts out into your ear, heavy breaths puffing against your skin.

"ah, fffuck... yes, please. please, sir, want you..." you're cut off by a desperate moan as he thrusts into you heavily, his bodyweight pressing against you. the chain around his neck, dog tags, press into the skin on your back, branding against your skin, leaving a little red mark, pressing his name into you.

when he comes inside you, he huffs, rubbing your clit gently as he pulls out, softening cock resting against your thigh. "good fuckin' girl."

safe to say, you may just have to poke the bear a little bit more.

[saintobio]

TITANIC.

deep in the heart of the Atlantic, an unexpected love defies the lines drawn by social class and destiny.

𝇈𓈒 genre. tragedy, angst, forbidden love, titanic au

𝇈𓈒 pairings. rafayel, fem!reader

𝇈𓈒 tags. first class!rafayel, artist!rafayel, third class!reader, singer!reader, social class differences, classism, might be ooc (esp thomas), not set in l&ds universe, mentions of arranged marriage, cheating, suicide attempt, allusions to sex trafficking and prostitution, violence (not from raf), explicit smut, nudity, cunnilingus, fellatio, unprotected sex, drowning, hypothermia, deaths, sinking of the ship, major character death.

𝇈𓈒 notes. 22.2k wc. dividers by drinkthesky and mikeykuns. events are exactly the same as the film, except for some small alterations. this was so fun to write albeit being really tedious and time-consuming 🤧 please enjoy, and reblogs are highly appreciated !

The RMS Titanic was known as the largest and most luxurious liner in the world. When the White Star Line first announced the ship’s launch, various headlines were even made across the globe, dubbing it ‘The Unsinkable Ship’ or ‘The Ship That Even God Himself Couldn’t Sink’. A bit ambitious, of course, but the hubris that came along with it was mostly from the upper echelon of the society who had the means to experience the ship’s impressive size and unparalleled luxury. It was all they ever talked about for months and months, waiting in full excitement to board the ship on its maiden voyage, scrambling to secure tickets to its first-class accommodations as if their money were merely falling from the skies. 

Indeed, the Titanic was a grand ship, but for you and the other third-class passengers, it was anything but. 

Your passage was paid for, not by a stroke of luck or generational wealth, but by a woman who recruited female entertainers to join the ship’s voyage. Just a month ago, your contract as a singer had ended when the pub you worked at shuttered its doors, leaving you without income and desperate to find a way to support your mother and sister. It was during one of those aimless nights, jobless and searching for a way to survive, that the proprietress noticed you. And it was exactly while she was posting a job vacancy outside her establishment when she claimed how your background and experience in singing and performing made you a perfect candidate for her offer.

You envied the wealthy. Truly. Because they had the privilege to turn down job offers, with countless others waiting in the wings or an inheritance ready to secure their future. Some of them didn’t even have to work at all. But for those on the other side of society—people like you who were struggling to make ends meet—certainly, the proposition was a windfall.

‘It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to board the Titanic,’ they’d say. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to set foot on it, even if you traded everything you owned,’ they’d say. ‘Only a fool would turn down such a chance.’ So, who were you to refuse? Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. Besides, who would deny the American dream? You considered that America held the promise of something greater, with the country being called the Land of Opportunities—a chance that might finally bring the stroke of luck you needed to lift your mother and sister out of the squalor of the slums back home. 

A new beginning, a better life, and a future far from the harsh reality you were leaving behind.

And so, with the White Star Line boarding ticket on your hand, you turned back for one final glance at the place you had always known as home. 

You soon made your way toward the deck of the ship, and your eyes searched the crowd to find your mother and sister standing among the sea of people, waving to you with hopeful, bittersweet smiles. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile of your own, holding back the tears that threatened to spill as you waved back, trying to etch their faces into your memory for the days to come.

“Farewell!” you heard one of your colleagues, Eliza, shout to her family by the dock. Like you, she too fought hard to keep her tears from spilling, feeling that familiar tightness in her chest as she waved goodbye.  

“Won’t you come back?” you asked softly, your eyes drifting back to your own family.  

Eliza turned to you with lachrymose eyes. “There’s no certainty how this journey will end for people like us. We’re often the last to know and the first to lose.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself as the ship’s horn blared, signaling the imminent departure. “But maybe… maybe this time will be different.”

You nodded, her deep words eventually sinking into you. The scent of the salty sea air, the cool breeze brushing against your cheeks, the creaking of the ship—all became imprinted in your mind as you both stood there, knowing that this might be the last time you’d see your families again. For a long time. 

And as the ship’s engines roared to life, pushing the mighty vessel away from the dock, you clung to the belief that, somehow, this journey could still hold something brighter for you. The only way to live through life’s uncertainties and vicissitudes was to keep an optimistic mind. 

~~

Rafayel was once a celebrated artist across the continent. And today, he was among the elite who was surrounded by wealth and privilege, the same people who loved to talk about money and politics. He spent his first few days in the ship sketching its grandiose interiors and its ostentatious passengers, capturing the essence of their extravagant lives in his art. But despite his success and the admiration he received in his precedent years, there was a quiet loneliness within him now. A yearning for something more than the gilded cage he inhabited. The life of the wealthy—the first class people—just became too distasteful for him to paint on his canvas. 

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when his disdain for high society began, but it had been long enough for him to realize that the lives of the wealthy and powerful were far from the glamorous façade they presented. In truth, they were dull and repetitive, filled with people who indulged in their riches and flaunted their possessions to your face. It was a never-ending competition of who had more, a relentless display of entitlement over who could command others at the whim of their fortune.

That was why when Rafayel stood on the deck of the Titanic that afternoon, despite his extremely comfortable and luxurious surroundings, he couldn’t help but lament over the idea that he was a prisoner in a ship, journeying to a place he never even once dreamed of going to. But being a painter who no longer flourished in the world of art, he somehow had to find a way to keep up with the lifestyle he had been living. And boarding this colossal ship together with a woman he didn’t love was his ticket to regain the success he had lost. 

“You know,” Thomas, his agent, remarked as he leaned casually against the railings, “If not for Arielle, you’d never make it big anywhere else. Your time’s running out. Your paintings aren’t selling anymore. Soon, you won’t even be able to afford yourself. And knowing you, you can’t even live on tinned fish and cheap garments.”

Rafayel sighed inwardly, too weary to explain that the decline in his work’s quality over the past two years wasn’t due to a loss of skill, but rather a lack of inspiration. Being surrounded by the vain and self-absorbed had drained his creative spirit. Yet, the harsh truth was that with his paintings gathering dust and his exhibitions drawing fewer attendees, his rent payments had inevitably turned into mounting debts. It came to a point where he no longer had many choices for himself, financially speaking. 

“You seem to hold Arielle in such a high regard,” he retorted, “Why don’t you marry her yourself?”

Thomas met his glare, unimpressed by his tone. “You brat. I’m doing this for you, Rafayel. I had to arrange this marriage between you two,” he repeated the same tired justification. “Didn’t you hear her? She’s the heiress to a wealthy family in New York, and she has all the connections you need to make a name for yourself there again. She’s willing to do it if you marry her. How can you speak ill of a beautiful woman who only wants your love?”

“Love isn’t something you can demand.” 

He decided to ignore Thomas’s presence for a minute, tired of hearing his inane excuse of why he had to set up Rafayel with Arielle. Instead, he focused on his easel that was set up beside the rail, capturing the shimmering ocean under the twilight sky as he tried to find inspiration from the aureate horizon ahead of him. The soft brush strokes of his latest painting were interrupted by the occasional laugh or clink of fine china from the nearby dining room, but his mind wandered to a world he rarely saw—the lower decks.

Rafayel often wandered the first-class decks as he sought inspiration for his next masterpiece. Yet, today was the first time he noticed the decks below, and most importantly, you. You were a young woman from third-class, conversing with another female friend in your humble clothings, and seemingly longing for something beyond your reach. There was something about your warm, dreamy eyes that captivated him. And perhaps it was the stark contrast to the steely, formal interactions he was accustomed to in first-class.

You caught his eye once, which turned into a fleeting moment where your worlds collided, but his intense gaze seemed to have made your heart skip a beat. You were quick to look away as expected, and he felt awful knowing he might have made you uncomfortable. 

“Oh, forget it.” Thomas waved a hand to his face, cutting him out of trance. “You’re aiming too low with those third-class women. You should be focused on a higher destination.”

Rafayel sighed in response. “Just leave me alone for a while. I need some space to paint in peace.”

~~

Tonight, like every other night since you boarded, you had been told to sing. That your voice should fill the room with melodies, entrancing the well-dressed crowd of first-class passengers who watched you with a delicate balance of interest and indifference. Thankfully, the grand halls of the ship were already filled with laughter and music long before you were tasked to perform. Now, you were walking through the corridor, your heels clicking against the polished wood floor, while the elegant dress you wore swished around your ankles. 

Frankly, it was mostly the men who were interested in your performances, and their women often indifferent.

You had performed in worse places than this, so you couldn’t complain. Besides, most of the guests, with their sparkling jewels and tailored suits, still applauded politely after every song, and some would even smile as you made eye contact with them. Admittingly, you did feel a little thrill at the attention, at being seen. 

Because that was what you had always dreamed of as a child: to perform for the wealthy, to have your voice fill the room, and draw attention to your every move.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Eliza mused one night as you both settled into your cramped cabins in the steerage. It had been a tiring evening of performances for the first-class passengers. “Others dream of being wealthy, but you seem to dream of serving the wealthy.”

You adjusted the covers, keeping yourself warm. “I just feel like there are consequences to having so much money in your hands. I’m content with having just enough to get by.”

As the days passed and as the Titanic made its last final stop at a port in Ireland, that was when you began to notice things. Little things. The way some of the men in the audience looked at you, their eyes lingering far too long, with a hunger that made your skin prickle. The way your manager, Mrs. Hawthorne, hovered by the bar while speaking in low, hushed tones to the richest men in the room. You noticed how she always had a keen eye on you, watching as you moved from the stage to the back, and back again. It felt as if she was gauging something, calculating a certain transaction in her head.

After another night of singing, you found yourself backstage, wiping a sheen of sweat from your brow. Your voice was raspy, and your throat dry from hours of performance, but you felt a little bit of joy knowing you had done well. You were reaching for a glass of water when Mrs. Hawthorne appeared beside you—her smile a little too wide, but her eyes a little too sharp. A look that undoubtedly reminded you of a predator to its prey. 

“Lovely performance tonight, my dear,” she said smoothly, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “But our clients… they might want a little more than just a pretty song. You understand what I’m saying, right?”

Your stomach twisted at the suggestion in her words. “What do you mean, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Some of these gentlemen… Well, they’ve paid a lot for your company. They expect a bit more than just a few songs. A bit of private entertainment, if you will.”

You blinked twice in the same second. “P-Private entertainment? You didn’t say anything about that when you hired me.”

Her grip tightened on your shoulder. “It’s all part of the package, dear. You want to keep your place on this ship, don’t you? Want to make those dreams come true?” Her eyes flickered darkly, and her aura became more and more austere as you refused. “Just be accommodating. Smile, laugh, let them buy you a drink or two... and if they ask for more, well... oblige. Surely, you aren’t a virgin to be acting like you’re new to this.”

The stubborn side of you pulled away from her touch. Everything that was coming out of her mouth brought you profound disgust. “I’m not a whore, Mrs. Hawthorne,” you hissed, getting straight to the point. “I’ve never done those things.” 

She only chuckled softly. A cold, cruel chuckle that made your skin crawl. “Not yet, you haven’t. But this is a long voyage, and there are a lot of men here with deep pockets and lonely nights. You’re either useful to them or you’re not useful to me. However, I must remind you that your place in this ship is paid for by me. So, if I were you, sweetie, I’d make my choice correctly.”

“You…” Trapped and horrified at the situation you had thrown yourself into, you stared back at her in resistance. “You can’t do this! This is illegal—”

“Oh, sue me,” Mrs. Hawthorne replied in sarcasm before stepping back, her smile fading into the crowd. “Do what I say or you will be thrown off this ship. I have contacts back home that can surely check on your mother and sister, too.”

Your fingers tightened around the empty glass as she walked away, leaving you snapped into the dark and twisted reality of your current situation. All this damn time, the job you thought would bring you closer to your dreams was nothing but a front. A trap, with no escape in sight.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered just how much you were willing to endure to survive this journey. The faces of your mother and sister appeared before your eyes, their once hopeful gazes turning into a look of despair. Afraid for their lives. Hurt. Perished. 

No, you couldn’t let that happen. You thought as you swallowed your pride. 

~~

Alongside Eliza and your other colleagues, you were forced to endure the advances of the wealthy men who frequented the gambling rooms below deck. The stench of cigars and alcohol, the rough hands, and the leering eyes became your nightmare-turned-reality while being in a prison that was supposedly dubbed as the ship of dreams.

You had never felt so degraded. You were overcome with a sense of filth and self-loathing, feeling as though you were utterly sullied. You felt so low, so disgusted with your own skin that your femininity was not respected.

How could Mrs. Hawthorne do this? That was all you ever thought about as you sat perched on a wealthy man’s lap, his rough hands roaming over your body as he laughed, more at the cards in his hand than at the joke one of the other old men had told him. The other men at the table barely noticed you, their eyes glazed with the haze of a high-stakes game as they bet all their money and fortune on a mere deck of cards. You had seen this look before, the detachment, the sense that you were nothing more than an accessory, a toy to be played with.

Your colleagues, fellow entertainers, were scattered around the room, their eyes hollow as they performed their duties, doing what they could to survive. But tonight, it was too much. 

The disgusting old man’s grip tightened on your thigh, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered something vile. “Why don’t you let me have a taste later when I win this game, beautiful?” 

“I-I need some air,” you muttered, trying to stand, but he pulled you back down with his iron grip.

“Not yet, darling. Wait until I have you naked on my bed,” he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol. You couldn’t imagine letting an old man touch you like that, and the mere thought of it made you sick to your stomach. “You will please me when I tell you so.”

“Let me go!” 

“Pipe it down, will you?!” 

You felt panic clawing at your insides as you bit down the screams that were trying to rise from your throat. It was as though the room was closing in on you, the walls narrowing until you couldn’t breathe. Until you suffocated. Without thinking, you wrenched yourself free and kicked the old man on the shin, stumbling out of the chair and into the corridor with your pulse racing as you broke into a run.

I’m sorry. You repeated your apologies to your mother and sister in your mind, over and over, as you sprinted across the deck. The click-clack of your heels ricocheted into the distance as you sobbed. I’m sorry I can’t make it. I’m sorry… 

This wasn’t the life you had dreamed of, and you couldn’t bear the thought of being treated like an object, sold off to the wealthy and losing your dignity in the process. Night after night. Tears streamed down your face as you thought about letting down your family back home, about this being the last time you would ever see them, and about your own foolishness in embracing such cruelty.

You didn’t stop running and crying until you reached the stern of the ship, the cold night air nipping at your skin as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Breathe, you told yourself. But wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t? You leaned over the railing, the dark, icy waters below calling to you and offering a way out. And for a moment, you considered it. You considered it an escape. Anything was better than the life you were trapped in. 

You knew you wouldn’t last another day in this ship without having your dignity stripped off you, especially not when it was the last thing you had for yourself. You may not have the money, the power, and the influence that these wealthy people had, but one priceless thing you owned for yourself was your dignity. And that wasn’t something they could take away from you. 

Perhaps it was the adrenaline. The rush. The heavy emotions. Whatever it was, the overwhelming thoughts led you to climb over the railings, afraid and ready at the same time, to throw yourself into the gelid waters of the North Atlantic. Your trembling body and unstable breath didn’t stop you from looking down, waiting for the perfect timing… 

“I’m sorry.” A sob escaped your lips as you closed your eyes, uttering a prayer in hitched whispers. 

But before you could make the fatal leap, a strong hand suddenly grabbed your arm, making you gasp in horror at the unexpected intruder. You felt yourself being pulled back, and turned to see a man with amaranthine hair and kaleidoscopic eyes. “Miss, what are you doing?” 

“I—” you choked on your words now that the shameful reality of what you had almost done was crashing over you. “You know what I-I’m doing. Mind your own business!”

“I can’t do that now,” he spoke with urgency, eyes softening as he looked at you with an earnest gaze. “Whatever you do to yourself, I’ll be held responsible. Think about it.”

What is wrong with this guy? You swallowed, confused by his insistence in pulling you back. Judging by the way he dressed, he was obviously another first-class passenger. So, why did he care about saving a mere third-class woman? Weren’t they all the same? You held your breath and glared at him, distrustful of his approach. “L-Let me go! You’re distracting me.”

The guy used his thumb to wipe the faint tears on your wet cheeks. “Let’s talk about this,” he said, “Jumping from here would be the most excruciating way to die, trust me.” 

“How would you know?” you snapped, antagonism misdirected towards a man who was only trying to help. “You don’t get it. I don’t wanna go back there… with those old men…” 

For a moment, his eyes flickered with recognition. “You’re the singer, right? I’ve heard you perform. You have a siren’s voice.”

“I’m no longer performing for people like you,” you bit back, trying to wipe away your tears. But in that instant, in that span of a second, you lost your footing and slipped from the railings. “Aaah!” Your scream pierced the evening air as you felt a cold rush of fear slapping your face. “Aah! Help! Help me! Please!” 

“Hold on! I got you!” He gritted his teeth as he struggled to pull you back up, but determined with all his might to do so. “I… told you… you wouldn’t jump,” he panted, the muscles on his neck straining with the effort to pull you with your weight. You could see it in his eyes—the panic, the fear. Someone a stranger shouldn’t have for a person he didn’t know. And it brought you a thick sense of shame and guilt knowing you had him involved. 

With your help, you extended another hand toward the railings and fought to climb back in. It was a struggle, but he eventually pulled you back onto the deck where both of you collapsed against the floor, gasping for breath like a freshly caught fish. You looked up at him, taking in his relieved yet gentle expression, and feeling nothing but shame for the terrible situation you had put him through.

“T-Thank you,” you stammered, your chest heaving as you tried to steady your breathing. “Thank you, and I-I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright. You’re alright now.”

“W-What’s your name?”

He exhaled, a faint smile touching his lips as he shook his head. It was the first time through that near-death experience where you began to feel relaxed. “I’m offended you don’t know.”

“I…” 

“I’m kidding. It’s Rafayel,” he said with a polite handshake, helping you to your feet. “Please remember your savior’s name.”

Before you could say more, the sound of footsteps approached, and you heard the old man’s voice, slurred and angry, as him and the Master-at-Arms headed towards you like you were a culprit they had been trying to catch. “There she is! That little whore! She thinks she can run away?!”

Panic seized you again, but the man beside you—Rafayel—stepped forward, placing himself between you and the approaching figures as if he was protecting you. “She’s with me,” he strictly said upon realizing the situation quickly enough. His voice was also firm, leaving no room for argument. “Leave her alone. It won’t end well if you insist on taking this innocent lady.” 

The Master-at-Arms and security personnel hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances between Rafayel and the old man, who was clearly bristling with indignation. Yet, Rafayel’s gaze remained firm and unyielding, and it was evident that his social standing intimidated the crew. Unlike you, they seemed to recognize who he was and decided to back off.

So after a tense silence, the security personnel, clearly wary of challenging someone of Rafayel's stature, nodded reluctantly. They led the inebriated old man away, assuring him that they would find another woman who would be more willing to accommodate him for the night. 

When they were gone, Rafayel turned back to you with his already softened eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice filled with a kindness you hadn’t expected. It was clear that through his gaze, he seemed to have picked up the puzzle pieces for the reason of your near-suicide. And he sympathized with you for it, as if he had once tried to go through that route, too. “Don’t worry about that old man. I’ll see to it that he won’t bother you again. Any of them.” 

You nodded, though your legs felt like they might give out beneath you. The events that night were far too much for you to process. “Thank you,” you whispered. “You saved me twice today.” 

He smiled, a small, sad smile, and offered you his hand. “Come with me. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

For the first time in a long while, you felt something other than fear. You felt safe. And it strangely came from a stranger you knew little about except his name. However, he immediately noticed your hesitation, knowing that it was rooting from your mistrust and fear for the men in first-class who wanted to bed you, so he was quick to clear out his intentions. 

“I’m not like those people,” he said, clearing his throat. His words were accompanied by a reassuring smile, and the earnestness in his eyes provided some comfort to the uncertainty in your heart. “I’m not a businessman, not a politician, definitely not royalty. I don’t gamble, I have no vices. I’m just an artist. You can trust me. I won’t do anything bad to you.”

Yet again, you weren’t given a chance to fully express your gratitude, only because a slightly older man with brown hair approached, shooting a disapproving look at Rafayel. 

“I’m sure she knows her way back into steerage,” the other guy said curtly, his tone carrying a sharp reprimand as though engaging in a silent argument with Rafayel. “Don’t risk your image by accompanying her down there or offering her a place in first-class.”

Rafayel, visibly frustrated, shot back with the temper of a child. “Thomas, treat her like a human being—”

“I’m okay,” you interjected with a shaky voice, trying to ease the tension because you truly didn’t want to cause any more trouble on the man who had just saved you. You simply glanced at ‘Thomas’ before sending Rafayel a smile of gratitude. “He’s right, Rafayel. Your help means more to me than I can ever express, but it’s best that I return to my cabin on my own.”

Rafayel’s eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it seemed like he might argue further. But then he chose to relent when his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. He clearly didn’t want to force anything on you. “Alright,” he said quietly, though his gaze remained passionately concerned. “But please, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m not far.”

You gave him a reassuring smile, the gratitude in your eyes more profound than words could express. But Thomas was there to humble you from the fantasy of being the damsel in distress. From his watchful gaze alone, you knew he was telling you that you weren’t and would never be welcome into their part of the ship after tonight. “Thank you, Rafayel. I’ll be alright. I promise.”

All Rafayel could do was nod as he reluctantly stepped back. Thomas could only give a brusque nod as well, signaling the end of the conversation. And as they turned to leave, you watched Rafayel go and felt a strange pang of sadness at parting with a person you just met. It was odd, definitely, but the momentary relief Rafayel’s intervention gave you was briefly replaced by the gruesome reality of your life at the steerage. 

Turning back towards the staircase leading to steerage, you took a deep breath and started down the steps. The ship’s luxurious surroundings became more and more minimalistic as you descended, with the opulence of first-class fading away into the more sterile accommodations of steerage.

~~

When you woke up the next morning, you thought everything that had happened was both a dream and a nightmare. 

Eliza was staring at you from the opposite bunk bed, seemingly envious yet happy for you at the same time. For what reason? You weren’t sure yet. And neither did she say why she carried that look on her face as you got up from bed, wiping your eyes and realizing it was another dreadful day of being imprisoned in the Titanic. 

“What’s wrong, Eliza?” you asked. 

She offered you a small smile. “Nothing, just…” 

It horrified you to see the marks on Eliza’s neck. And the pained expressions on her face, a reflection of someone who had been stripped of her dignity—someone who could have been you if not for Rafayel’s intervention. You couldn’t escape the grim reality that, despite his heroic act, your fate might soon mirror hers. Mrs. Hawthorne still held the chains around your neck after all, compelling you to do things against your will in exchange for your life, your family's safety, and your livelihood.

But to your surprise, Mrs. Hawthorne was a different person when she knocked on your cabin door that morning. You had braced yourself for the punishment of failing to fulfill your ‘duties’ to the old man the previous night, but her demeanor was unusually pleasant. Her smile seemed almost too pleased, leaving you wary and confused about her true intentions.

Has she gone mad?

“Good morning,” she spoke in the same merry voice that you hated, displaying a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Y/N, from now on, your services as an entertainer are no longer required.”

Your heartbeat took a pause. “What do you mean? I-Is it because of last night?”

She placed the papers on the small table beside you and sat down. “Your contract has been terminated. You’re free from your duties as of now.”

So suddenly… You stared at her, trying to process the sudden change in her demeanor. “But why? I don’t understand. Not even long ago, you were asking me to—”

“A gentleman from first-class, someone with rather striking purple hair, has paid a considerable sum to terminate your contract.” The cruel woman sighed, rolling her eyes. “He covered the cost of your ticket and added extra, more than enough to ensure you were released from your obligations.”

Your mind instantly connected the dots. “Rafayel? H-He did that? But why?”

Mrs. Hawthorne’s expression turned cold. “He made it very clear that he wanted you to stop entertaining people against your will. He even went so far as to threaten me with legal consequences if I didn’t comply. Said something about ensuring I’d face charges once the ship docks in New York if I didn’t let you go. What a boastful young man! If not for his money, I’d have cursed him out in the face. I don’t know what you did to woo that guy, but consider yourself lucky.”

What? You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t ever believe Rafayel went out of his way to save you. Again. 

“Go and enjoy the ship like any other passenger,” Mrs. Hawthorne continued, her words dripping with a false sense of privilege. As if living in peace on this ship was a luxury for you. “I’ll inform the crew that you’re no longer required in the entertainment department.”

As Mrs. Hawthorne exited your cabin, you sat in silence and finally understood the reason behind Eliza’s gaze. But you didn’t expect this, either. You could only glance out the porthole in guilt, seeing the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out before you. This new freedom felt both exhilarating and daunting if you were being honest to yourself. For the first time since you boarded, you now had a chance to explore the ship on your own terms, but the uncertainty of what lies ahead lingered in the back of your mind.

Because, then… What about your family? What about your income? What about your dream of performing on Broadway? 

Only an ungrateful person would think selfishly about herself first before the person that generously saved her from this predicament. So, even if you swore to never bother him again, you had to take the risk. You had to seize your newfound freedom, at least, to thank him properly. 

With that in mind, you made your way near the staircases leading to the upper decks. You had ‘borrowed’ a costume from the entertainers’ closet, the only suitable and elegant clothing you could find to pass as a first-class passenger. But as you walked through the luxurious parts of the ship, the sound of a piano drifted through the air, and its melody guided your next steps like a sailor entranced by a siren’s voice. The rhythm. The melody. It was drawing you closer and closer. 

Before you knew it, you followed the enchanting tune, only to find yourself stumbling upon Rafayel in a room adjacent to the music room. There he was, deeply engrossed in his painting, the soft glow of the sun warmly illuminated his focused expression and the canvas before him.

Rafayel looked up, surprised. “Y/N? ” he said, his gentle smile lighting up his face as he noticed you. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

You flushed, feeling out of place. The irony of stumbling into the wrong room seemed to have brought you to the right person. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to intrude. I followed the music, but it led me here.”

His curiosity was piqued. “And what brings you to this part of the ship? The music room is across the hall, miss.”

“I was just exploring,” you replied, smiling and feigning innocence. “Trying to see a bit more of this grand vessel.”

His response was a soft chuckle. “Well, you’ve found quite the place. May I offer you a seat?”

To your surprise, you found yourself seated next to him, eyes wide as you were immediately captivated by his artwork. The painting before you was breathtaking, truly mesmerizing. It was a picturesque depiction of the ocean and sunset, and every intricate color blended beautifully on the canvas. “Rafayel, did you paint this? It’s incredible! It’s so beautiful!”

“You flatter me too much, but I’ll take the compliment. It’s a work-in-progress, though.” He chuckled, wiping his paint-splattered hand with a towel. Despite the barriers of social class, a connection naturally seemed to spark between you both. “If you’re interested, I might even give you a discount on it.”

You knew he was joking, but if you had the means, you would have bought his masterpiece without hesitation. “You must be famous all over Europe. It makes sense why…”

“Actually, you’re mistaken,” he corrected, his smile dimming just a bit. “No one buys my paintings anymore. My art exhibits have become quite empty. I’ve been living off my savings and selling off my most prized possessions just to keep up with my lifestyle. Money and fame are fleeting, after all.”

“But why?” you asked, genuinely curious. “With paintings like these, I’m sure people would want to buy them.”

“It’s been a while since I painted something like this,” he replied, eyes locking into yours. “My recent works have been more somber. People tend to shy away from dull, lifeless art.”

You hesitated. “Is it because of a lack of inspiration?”

He stood up, smiling softly as if you were the first person to understand. “You could say that.”

Driven by curiosity, you glanced around the room and noticed several paintings concealed beneath dust covers. You looked at him for permission, and he gave it through a simple nod. However, when you pulled the covers back, you were taken aback to find that the paintings depicted intimate, nude portraits of women—women who appeared to belong to high society. To say you were surprised was understatement. You were rather stunned, astounded.  

Rafayel, leaning casually against the wall, seemed to sense your astonishment. “Didn’t expect it, huh?” he asked with a hint of amusement. “Before you get the wrong idea, these are merely commissioned paintings. I didn’t paint them because I’m particularly intrigued with female anatomy or anything.” 

“But they’re live paintings, you say?” you asked, truly amazed by the thought. “I… Wow.” 

He hummed in agreement. “These kinds of paintings were what made me popular. Royals and high society people have a penchant for risqué art. It’s often erotic to them. They love commissioning nude portraits to gift to their husbands. My most significant client was the First Lady of France. I spent three months there, painting her repeatedly until an entire room in the palace was filled with her nude portraits. I even felt like I’m more familiar with every inch of her body than her husband, you know?” he jested just a little before continuing, “Anyway, so word spread about my paintings of the First Lady, and soon enough, French women flocked to have their own portraits done, too.”

You stared at the paintings, the elegant yet provocative depictions of high-society women capturing your attention in a way that you didn’t expect. And you supposed the perfect definition to your emotion right now would be fascination, because it wasn’t anything you had seen before. 

Rafayel’s voice, on the other hand, broke through your thoughts. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so intimate and personal can become a symbol of status and power.”

You turned to him with no judgement in your eyes. “It’s admirable, really. You’re very talented.”

Rafayel pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the covered canvases, his fingers lightly grazing the edges of the dust covers. “Most people see me as just another artist, another name on a list of commissioned painters. But this,” he gestured to the paintings, “was what set me apart. It wasn’t just about the art itself but about the allure and the mystique. It drew people in, gave them something to talk about.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “And now? Does it still hold the same appeal for you?”

His expression may have softened, but a hint of melancholy blanketed his gaze. “Not as much. The thrill has faded. The commissions came, and the fame followed, but it wasn’t as fulfilling as I’d hoped. It’s easy to get lost in the glamor and forget why you started painting in the first place.”

You took a step closer as the air between you silenced into a quiet understanding. “What did you want to achieve? What was it you hoped to find in your art?”

He looked at you with his deep vulnerable eyes. “I wanted to capture the essence of beauty and emotion. I wanted my art to connect with people on a deeper level, to make them feel something genuine. But over time, it became less about that and more about what would sell.”

There was a brief silence as you considered his words. “Then, to me it sounds like you’re looking for something more meaningful.”

“Perhaps.” Rafayel nodded, his gaze turning back to the portraits. “I want to paint again, but not just for the sake of profit or reputation. I want to create something that speaks to who I am, something that brings back that initial spark of passion.”

“Maybe you’ll find that inspiration again.” You plastered an encouraging smile on your face. “Sometimes, the most unexpected encounters can reignite a lost passion.”

“I suppose so. And maybe, finding the right subject or the right moment will make all the difference.”

There was a brief, comfortable silence that settled between you. The intimacy of the moment, coupled with the way Rafayel glanced at your lips, created a sense of attraction that—like a magnet—pulled you closer to him. What was it about this man that drew you in like a moth to a flame?

But you had to think straight, of course. You woke yourself up to the reason why you were even here in the first place. Though, as you finally broke the silence, a small smile played on his lips. “Thank you… Rafayel. I heard about what you did for me. You didn’t need to do that.”

He put a handsome smile on display. “It’s the right thing to do. You don’t deserve to live like that.”

You didn’t want to go into details and ask him about how he found out how Mrs. Hawthorne’s illicit business operated, but you trusted that Rafayel was smart enough to figure it all out. Everything that had led you here; from your attempt to jump off the ship, to him freeing you from the chains of being an ‘entertainer’. It was an unspoken understanding between the savior and the saved.

You stepped closer to him. “I feel terrible, though. You said you sold off some of your belongings to save money, but you ended up spending them for me.”

Rafayel was amused at that, on the other hand. “Hey, I never said I’m completely broke. It’d take at least five more years for that to happen.” 

“Lucky you, then.” You glanced around the room one last time, the paintings now seeming less like mere objects of scandal and more like symbols of Rafayel’s journey as an artist. You respected the nature of his paintings just as he respected you. 

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked, playfully wiggling his eyebrows. 

“To where?”

“To your accommodations down in third-class,” he suggested with a strange glint of excitement in his eyes, taking your hand in his, “I’ve always been curious. Can you show me?” 

~~

There were many things you learned about Rafayel. Firstly, he was an easy-going man who preferred rowdy pubs over formal cotillions. He didn’t care about social classes, something he had proven when you first met him, but watching him effortlessly bond with the other people from the steerage made your heart soften into mush. He began to feel almost unreal to you, like a dream, because you never imagined a man from such a high status could be so genuine, so down-to-earth. Yet, there he was, laughing and enjoying a pint of cheap beer with your fellow third-class passengers, without a scintilla of judgment or hesitation.

Secondly, he could certainly dance. You never saw it coming until he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the makeshift dance floor, inviting you to join him in a playful tap dance together with the other passengers. The lively, upbeat music of the steerage seemed to fuel his spirit far more than the refined, classical tunes often heard in the first-class dining halls. 

“How’d you learn to dance?” you shouted over the music, spinning as Rafayel twirled you with an effortless grace.

He grinned, shrugging casually. “I’d call it au naturel.”

And lastly, he was far more charming than you ever anticipated. Despite his tipsiness, Rafayel remained by your side the entire evening, his presence around you gave way to subtle protectiveness that never wavered throughout the night. What amused you, though, was the reversal of roles—you felt like you were the one guarding him, a vulnerable first-class man surrounded by a roomful of third-class passengers, where he could easily become a target for discomfort or even theft. Yet, much to your relief, nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, his natural charm seemed to win everyone over, defusing any tension that might have arisen.

“Rafayel, please be careful on your way back,” you said, concern evident in your voice as you watched his half-lidded eyes and his unsteady sway from the alcohol. He stood outside your cabin, clearly tipsy. “Do you want me to help you get back up there? I don’t think I can enter past the gates, though.”

He swayed for a moment before leaning in, resting his forehead against yours. His eyes, clouded with intoxication, locked onto yours. “No need. That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me.”

You decided to tease him, hoping to break the sexual tension. “Well, getting this close to me isn’t exactly gentlemanly, either, Mr. Rafayel.”

“Touché.” His cool breath fanned across your face as he chuckled. “I guess I’m not much of a gentleman after all.” 

For a moment, you forgot about the crowded halls of the third-class cabins, the distant hum of the ship’s engines, and the people bustling around you. It felt like it was just the two of you, suspended in time. Your heart couldn’t stop racing at an unreasonable pace. 

Rafayel’s smile widened, his lips only a couple inches away from yours. “But if I were, would I have had the pleasure of meeting you?” 

Your heart fluttered in your chest. “Maybe not. But I’m glad you’re here now, gentleman or not.” 

He lingered there for a minute longer, his forehead still resting against yours, before he finally pulled away with a reluctant sigh. “Alright, I should head back… before I lose any more of my honor.” His grin eventually faded into a soft smile as he caressed your cheek with his gentle hand. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun, Y/N. Thank you.” 

As romantic and noble as he seemed, you knew your boundaries. You knew your place in society was no way near his. “You’re always welcome here,” you said, gently holding his hand—the one that had touched your cheek. “But you don’t belong down here, so up you go.”

“I’d rather be wherever you are,” he whispered, planting a kiss on your hand and making your heart pound wildly against your chest. 

Though you cherished the moment, you knew it wasn’t the right time. He was under the influence of alcohol, and you worried he might regret his actions and words later. After all, you were a mere woman from the steerage, not someone he could proudly show off and be with. You had nothing to offer, nothing to match his way of living. You only had yourself, but you didn’t know if that was enough. 

With that in mind, you had to keep your composure. Being too ambitious might one day bite you back the hard way.  

“Good night, Rafayel,” you said, taking a step back, watching as he turned and stumbled a little before catching his balance. “Be careful, okay?”

“Always, sweetheart. Always.” He glanced back, flashing you one last grin. Then, with a mischievous wink, he started to make his way back to the upper decks, leaving you with a warmth in your chest that lingered long after he was gone.

If only you two weren’t divided by social classes. 

~~

Slap! 

“What on Earth was that stupid act you pulled down there?!” Arielle’s voice resounded across the room with a harshness Rafayel hadn’t heard from her before. But honestly, the sting of her slap wasn’t what shocked him, it was the way she had shown her true nature from being a sweet, passionate lady into a manipulative, entitled woman who seemed to think she had a claim over him. “I can’t believe you were mingling with those filthy third-class people while I was waiting for you in my suite last night!”

Keeping his head turned in the direction she’d struck, Rafayel clenched his jaw. “You don’t know those people. They’re better than most of the ones up here on this ship.”

“And what?” she snapped, her ocean-blue eyes blazing with fury that almost matched the deep crimson of her hair. “You went down there for some whore? Don’t push me, Rafayel. You are not to see that lowly woman ever again.”

Rafayel’s patience wore thin at the mention of you, and he finally looked up to glare at her. “Stop trying to control me, Arielle.”

“You are my husband-to-be.” Her reminder was more so a warning to him. “It is a privilege for you to be married to me. So start acting the part. You will live by my rules, spend my money, and enjoy the privileges I grant you. Don’t think you’re above your place now, especially with your boring paintings not selling anymore.”

Frankly, Rafayel had never imagined himself marrying this woman. The engagement ring on her finger wasn’t even something he had chosen—it was bought and meticulously picked out by Thomas because Rafayel couldn’t be bothered to find one himself. If he already felt this way about the engagement, how much more about the impending marriage? Her relentless need to control everything was already a nightmare he could clearly see unfolding. And he knew he would never have the freedom to be the man of his own house, always trailing behind her like a shadow, always listening to her commands like a broken man. He would have to obey her every whim like a pathetic servant, living solely for her pleasures and demands. 

The wedding hadn’t even happened yet, but he already wanted to put a pistol to his mouth and end everything. 

“Don’t you dare ruin our reputation by mingling down there again,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain as if she were speaking of animals rather than people. “I mean it, Rafayel. You know exactly what I’m capable of doing to that whore.” 

That threat was enough to force him into a tense, angry silence. “...Don’t you dare touch her.” 

Arielle scoffed. Despite the jewelry and makeup that made her quite the face of a luxurious woman, Rafayel could only see how rotten she was on the inside. “I will do what I want if you do not behave yourself.” 

He didn’t even try to console or win her back after she stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut with a loud bang. Why should he? He held no affection for her, and he certainly didn’t care about winning her over. He was even contemplating telling Arielle directly to her face that he wanted to call off the wedding, to let her know he didn’t need her to survive on his own, but things were easier said than done. And more importantly, there were various factors that held him back.

One of them, being his longtime friend and agent, Thomas, who soon entered his private suite. The guy’s lips were already tightened into a thin line as he eyed the red mark on Rafayel’s cheek. “I told you not to get involved with that third-class woman. You’re already engaged to Arielle. Why can’t you just appreciate what you have?” 

Rafayel remained silent, leaning against the table and rubbing his temples in frustration. He couldn’t believe that the person closest to him would be the first to side with someone else.

“And can we talk about why you paid that shady woman, Hawthorne, to release the third-class girl from being a hostess?” Thomas continued. “Her problems are none of your business. You’re just involving yourself in all these rumors.”

Rafayel’s eyes hardened. “You know Y/N didn’t consent to that situation. She was clearly deceived into it—didn’t you see her nearly jumping off the ship trying to escape those men? Helping her was the right thing to do. She has a mother and sister waiting for her.”

“This is not about what’s right or wrong. It’s about maintaining appearances. And if you start ignoring the rules for everyone you meet, you’ll find yourself in quite a predicament.” His agent stared at him blankly, sighing. “It’s not just about you, Raf. Your aunt Talia—she’s counting on you. She’s the only family you have left. She invested everything she had to support your career, hoping that you would make something of yourself. But things didn’t turn out the way we all had hoped for, did it? Besides, this marriage isn’t just a contract. It’s a way to secure your future and her well-being.”

He could feel his jaw tightening at the clear attempt to draw guilt from him. “I’m aware of what my aunt did for me, but this isn’t what she envisioned for me. She wanted me to be happy, to succeed on my own terms, not to be trapped in a marriage I didn’t ask for.”

“You’re being short-sighted,” pointed out Thomas, “By marrying Arielle, you secure not only your future but also Talia’s. You know she’s been struggling with her health. She needs to know that you’re stable, that you’re not making reckless decisions that could jeopardize her security. If you back out now, it could destroy her.”

Rafayel’s gaze dropped to the floor as his mind grappled into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—frustration, guilt, and helplessness. 

“Is this really about me,” Rafayel said quietly, “or is it about what will happen if I defy you?”

“I know Arielle isn’t the kindest person,” Thomas continued, ignoring his question. “But sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the greater good. And this marriage might not be perfect, but it’s a step towards securing everything you’ve worked for. It’s what will keep Talia safe and secure, not some fleeting romance on a ship or a misguided impulse.”

Rafayel’s silence became pregnant with contemplation. He was ultimately speechless, not because he agreed with his agent, but because the tables had turned in a way where the guilt and pressure was now placed on his shoulders squarely. 

Sensing his deep thoughts, Thomas stepped closer and placed a hand on Rafayel’s shoulder with a reassuring grip. “Think about it carefully. The right decision isn’t always the easiest one, but it’s often the one that will ensure a future worth living.”

~~

Another day had passed since that fateful night when Rafayel had pulled you from the brink of ending your life. 

You had already settled back into the confines of the steerage, trying to adjust to the routine of your life as best as you could while Mrs. Hawthorne stuck to her word of leaving you alone. But as each supposedly normal day went by, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. The brief moments you had shared with Rafayel suddenly felt like a distant dream, and you wondered if it was all just a fleeting impulse on his part. 

Did he actually regret spending time with you that night? Getting to know you? Opening his heart to you? Despite the joy he seemed to express, you wondered if he felt disgusted with his actions the moment he woke up sober. Because as kind and down-to-Earth as Rafayel appeared, he was still part of the wealthy elite, like the rest of them. He was born into a rich household, accustomed to the life of high society, and it wouldn’t be all too surprising for him to view the unsophisticated passengers of the third-class as pitiful. 

But a small part of you believed Rafayel was better than that. No, he was more genuine than that. 

It was early in the morning when you found yourself drawn to the upper decks from your humble area in the third-class decks. You watched the first-class passengers from the starboard side, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who had saved your life and made you feel special. He should be there somewhere. Some place where the sun had risen. After all, didn’t he say you could come find him anytime? Your eyes searched aimlessly through the crowd, hoping for a sign, a familiar face. 

Until he appeared.

Rafayel stopped by the railing, engaged in a conversation with the captain of the ship. Next to him was a graceful woman clinging on his arm, a girl with luscious red hair, pearlescent skin, and crystal blue eyes. The dress she wore was bedight with intricate patterns, sewn carefully through hours of labor to highlight the detailed gold threads on the satin dress. She was about the same age as you, it seemed, but her aura was the epitome of elegance and wealth, someone you could never be. Though, despite the distance, you could see the tension in Rafayel’s posture and the way he didn’t appear to be present in the conversation at all.

Then, he happened to have looked in your direction. 

Contrary to the expectations in your head, he didn’t greet you with a familiar smile or a friendly wave. No, he avoided your eyes not even two seconds after he met your gaze. It was as if he was intentionally keeping his distance, and the sight left you feeling inexplicably hollow.

“Hang on,” you could hear one of your cabin roommates say, “Isn’t that the gentleman from first-class who danced with us?” 

“Who’s that woman next to him?” 

“Oh, first-class people. They’re all the same.” 

“Did he just ignore you, Y/N?”

He did. And it hurt in a way you didn’t expect. You couldn’t quite understand your feelings or why they were so intense when you should have anticipated this, should have expected it. Or did you really believe he could be some sort of prince charming who would fall for a poor woman after meeting her for a few days? This was no fairytale. 

God, but it was unbearable—the silence, the misunderstandings, the thought. As foolish as it might sound, you needed to hear it from him directly. Growing fond of Rafayel was already an abyss you had thrown yourself into, and you were willing to walk that path just to speak to him again.

You weren’t sure how you did it so well, but by using the same old trick, you were able to sneak into the first-class deck smoothly. The transition from steerage to first-class was blunt, and you already knew you had to yet again play the role of a wealthy woman, or at least a nouveau riche, just to blend in. But that wasn’t what you were focusing on this journey, you weren’t there to dillydally with the elite. You were there to see a certain amaranthine-haired man who had saved your life countless times in this ship. 

When you spotted Rafayel slipping into a private room—the same room where he painted, you followed him like a spy, hoping not to be seen or caught by other onlookers in the area. You still had the decency to knock softly at first, but when there was no answer, you decided to let yourself in. The room was dimly lit, with rich, velvet drapes decorating the walls. And the smell of paint and canvas was an unmistakable association to him. Of Rafayel, who was there standing by a large window, his back to you.

“Rafayel,” you said softly, taking a tentative step forward but inexplicably drawn to his beautiful, radiant face. “Hi.”

He turned to look at you in an unwelcome surprise, however. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here.”

You closed the door behind you, the soft click signaling your privacy. “I just… I don’t know why I’m here. Frankly, I just wanted to see you. I wanted to understand if I did something wrong.”

There was guilt in his eyes, you saw that. But he was quick to cloud it with a look of resistance. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said in a neutral tone, his eyes avoiding yours. “It’s just... it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeated. “It’s because I’m from steerage, isn’t it…”

“No,” Rafayel interrupted firmly, as if the thought was absurd. “It’s not about where you come from. That doesn’t matter to me.”

You felt the distance he was placing between you two as you stood in front of him, not wanting to wear your heart on your sleeve. But it did sting. The way he was struggling to meet your eyes, the way he was looking at anywhere but you. 

“I have a fiancé,” he dropped the hard cold truth, “I’m engaged, and it’d be disrespectful for me to spend time with another woman behind her back.”

The revelation struck you like lightning, probably worse than the impact it would have on you if you had jumped off the ship that other night. “...I see.” 

“I apologize,” he quickly added, still averting the direction of his gaze. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

There must be a logical reason why he had never mentioned his fiancé the moment he had met you. But whatever it was, the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and yet, the complete picture remained frustratingly out of reach. The pain in your chest was undeniable, truly, but you tried to mask it with a smile. You knew when and how to feign a calm composure in the most critical situations. 

“If that’s how it is,” you said quietly, “then I understand. I just needed to know.”

Rafayel’s eyes were an amalgam of shame and despair. “I’m sorry. You should leave before anyone sees you here.”

You didn’t wish to carry any grudge or bitterness towards a man who saved your life. If anything, you were still grateful for everything he did for you up to this point. You were happy that while you were drowning in a sea of despair, he became the buoy that you could hold onto. Even for a short, fleeting moment. So, despite the ache in your heart, you brought it upon yourself to show appreciation for one last time. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone now,” you spoke softly and faintly, “But before I go, I just want to say, Rafayel, that you are the most talented artist I have ever met. I admire your eye for art… I do, and also your passion for what you love. I hope that when this ship docks, you’ll find all the inspiration you need to create wonderful paintings again. I hope you never lose faith in yourself, because I know you’ll make it big out there. Even bigger than you already are, I can see it happening. You are an amazing person and a blessing to everyone around you, Raf. I wish you and your fiancé all the best.”

You didn’t wait for his response, neither did you look at his eyes and hope for him to stop you. He didn’t need to. You knew your place, and it wasn’t anywhere near him or any part of the first-class rooms and amenities. It was at the bottom of this ship, in a small cabin with two bunk beds and your limited garments. Their world was not meant for you. 

It never was.

~~

“So, when’s the big day?”

As usual, the grand dining hall was abuzz with the chatter and clinking of expensive cutlery. The long table was set with exquisite silverware, and the servants moved about with practiced grace, ensuring every need was met with precision that defined the excellent service of the White Star Line crew. Yet, despite the utmost grandeur of the setting, Rafayel felt strangely detached.

He sat at the head of the table, surrounded by the elite passengers of the Titanic, staring blankly at the plate in front of him. Little did everyone know, his thoughts kept drifting back to the conversation he had had with you yesterday. The way you had looked at him with those searching eyes, the way you had quietly accepted the painful truth he had laid bare. The image of your hurt expression haunted him, so much so that he disregarded the polished and pretentious world that now surrounded him.

Arielle was there seated beside him, and was occupied in an animated conversation with a group of socialites. Her laughter was light, her gestures demure and sophisticated, but to Rafayel, it all seemed pretentious. He knew she was only trying to look happy on the surface, trying to keep up with the appearances. She often glanced his way, her eyes carrying annoyance whenever he didn’t respond to her attempts to include him in the conversation. It was clear she was treating him as nothing more than a decorative accessory to her social standing, rather than—as she called it—a future husband. The more he observed her, the more he felt like a mere piece of furniture, simply existing for her to use.

The disparity between this world and the brief moments of freedom he had experienced with you in the steerage was jarring. The laughter, the warmth, the raw honesty of those times were replaced by the superficial chatter and insincere pleasantries of the elite. The perfect lives they spoke of in high society wasn’t where he wanted his art to thrive. They were of no raw and unfiltered essence as the dreams you spoke of and the hardships you had endured. Your ability to find beauty in even the smallest things was where visions of empowerment bloom. 

And in realizing that, he knew, all along, that you were the inspiration he had long been searching for.

“Darling?” Arielle’s hand rested lightly on his arm, a gesture meant to convey affection but to Rafayel felt like a shackle. She leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper that he barely registered. “Rafayel, are you even listening? Everyone’s talking about our wedding. Aren’t you excited?”

“Of course, Arielle,” he said, forcing a smile before his gaze wandered to the window, where the sun was beginning to set over the horizon. He wondered where you were or how you were doing. Were you singing your heart out somewhere? Dancing with your friends down at the steerage? Drinking happily with fellow passengers who didn’t care about money or status or anything of the sort?

Truth be told, things began to strike him with a painful clarity. He knew long ago that the inspiration he had once sought was never meant to be found among the pomp and pretense of high society. But only now did he open his eyes to the times that had breathed life into his art, that had given him a glimpse of something real and meaningful. And they were moments with you.

But how could he have that inspiration now when the vibrant muse that had sparked his creativity was out of reach? 

Rafayel’s gaze fell to his plate, the food before him growing cold and unappetizing. “Excuse me.”

~~

Come Josephine… in my flying machine 

Going up she goes, up she goes 

The cold wind nipped at your cheeks as you stood at the bow of the ship, singing under your breath, and gazing out at the endless expanse of ocean stretching before you. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, as if the universe itself was offering an evanescent moment of beauty in a world that often felt so cruel. 

Balance yourself like a bird on a beam

In the air she goes, there she goes

You gripped the railing tightly, feeling the ship’s gentle sway beneath your feet, wondering how easily Rafayel would have captured the landscape forever in his canvas. You closed your eyes, letting the wind wash over you, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to push away the feeling of longing that had settled deep in your chest.

But then you heard it—the soft crunch of footsteps approaching from behind. You knew, even before turning, who it was. Your heart instantly tightened in your chest, holding your breath as you felt his presence come nearer. Slowly, you turned around, finding Rafayel standing there, his purple hair catching the light of the setting sun, his eyes apologetic and full of yearning.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled his words, taking a deep breath. “I lied to you.”

You felt a pang in your chest, both relief and hurt swelling inside you. “Why… are you saying this?” you asked softly, your eyes never leaving his. “Didn’t you regret everything?”

“No,” was his swift answer, shaking his head slowly and stepping closer. “No, I didn’t regret getting closer to you. Not for a second.” He then paused, only for his voice to break just a little. “But I was bound by obligations. Bound by things that I thought would help me and the people I care about. It’s all materialistic and I’m ashamed to admit it to you.”

You turned back toward the ocean, gripping the railing as the wind whipped through your hair. In that moment, truthfully, staring at the endless sea felt like you were flying. “Because I’m from third-class? Because I won’t understand your world?”

“No, it was never about that,” Rafayel replied urgently, stepping closer until he was beside you. Until he was holding you by the waist, both hands securing you from behind. “I’ve been living a life that was never mine. About to marry a woman I don’t love, painting for people I despise, pretending to fit into a place that feels like a prison. And then I met you.”

“Raf…” You could feel the changing rhythm of your heart as you turned to face him, searching his face, trying to understand. “She’ll give you a better life. You deserve to have a woman of the same class as you.” 

“I don’t understand why we’re kept apart by such rigid lines. There’s so much more to life than these divisions,” he spoke in a troubled expression, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. “The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about you. About how you made me feel alive again, how you gave me the inspiration I’d been longing to find.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart melt, allowing your walls to break. “This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve missed you,” you admitted softly, your hand still under his, feeling the warmth of his touch despite the cold wind around you. “I wanted to forget you, but I couldn’t…”

“I don’t want you to forget me,” he whispered, leaning closer as a pained smile tugged at his lips. “I want to be the one you remember. I want… I want to be the reason you smile, the reason you feel alive.”

You felt a tear escape your eye, and he gently brushed it away with his thumb. “Rafayel, I—”

“I’m done pretending,” declared he, “I just want to be with you, for however long we have. I don’t care what it costs me.”

Was this real? Your heart felt like it was about to burst, and you were scared that this might just be a dream, an illusion that you would soon wake up from. But then he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your face. “May I?” he asked, his eyes flickering to your lips.

And you nodded, you allowed it. A soft gasp escaped your mouth as his lips captured yours in a deep, searching kiss. The world seemed to fade away as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer as you kissed him back with all the pent-up emotions you’d been holding onto for days. His lips were warm and soft, encasing yours in a passionate lock, while his tongue was sweet and tender, exploring your mouth in a loving, burning kiss.

For a moment, there was only the sensation of his lips on yours, the taste of the sea in the air, the feel of his heart beating against yours. The world, the ship, everything around you seemed to disappear, leaving just the two of you on the edge of the world.

~~

“We’re going to get caught—!” There was an obvious hint of nervous laughter in your voice as both of you giggled while racing through the corridors of the first-class halls.

“Shh,” he hushed you with a grin, placing a finger to his lips. “We’re almost there.”

All the while, Rafayel held your hand tightly as he guided you toward his private room. The thrill of sneaking around, hidden from prying eyes, seemed to fill him with a rush of adrenaline. But you couldn’t blame him, for you certainly shared the same thrill. There was a certain excitement in having you there, in his world, in his arms, like you belonged to him.

And he was right about being near. Because just a few more steps down the corridor, he finally stopped in front of one of the larger doors and pulled you into a lavish suite that seemed like an entirely different dimension. And good lord, you could hardly believe your eyes. Even though you had heard countless descriptions of the luxury on this ship, seeing it with your own eyes felt undeniably surreal. Left and right, no matter where you looked, the room was adorned with rich furnishings, a plush king-sized bed piled high with soft pillows, and even a private fireplace to keep the cold at bay during the night. His private suite alone was the size of ten basic cabins in the steerage. You didn’t bother asking the cost of his boarding ticket, knowing full well that it was more than what you could ever afford in your lifetime. 

To be able to throw so much money away for a mere couple nights on a ship, though, you couldn’t imagine yourself doing that. 

“Wow,” you marveled nonetheless, spinning around in awe while Rafayel watched your delight with a warm smile, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Your room is enormous.” 

“Can you stay right here for a second?” he asked, violet eyes meeting yours. “And close your eyes while you’re at it.” 

“Okay…” Curious but trusting, you smiled and shut your eyes, wondering what he was up to or what he was planning. It wasn’t long until you heard the faint sounds of rustling, drawers being opened and closed, the click of a safe, and then his footsteps as he returned behind you. “Are you done?” 

“There’s something I want to give you.” His raspy voice nearly tickled your ear. When you opened your eyes, you realized you were in front of a mirror, and you could see him from behind as he opened a velvet box and fished out a stunning, glistening heart-shaped blue diamond. Best believe your mouth was on the floor right at the next second. You were simply awestricken, and anyone who would look at it with a straight face was absurd. The jewel sparkled with an otherworldly brilliance, reflecting the tiny specks of light from the chandelier, yet maintaining its regal, deep blue color.

“The Heart of the Ocean,” you gasped, recognizing it instantly. It was a gem of legend, one you had only ever heard about in whispered tales when you were a little girl. “How… how did you get this?”

“The First Lady of France gave it to me,” he patiently explained while bearing a wistful smile. “It’s her token of gratitude for the time I spent painting her. Thomas insists it to be my gift—a dowry, actually—for Arielle.” He paused, his kaleidoscopic eyes staring at you through the mirror. “But now I realize it belongs to someone else entirely.”

Disbelief coursed through you. “Wait, I-I don’t understand. You can’t be serious…?”

“I am,” was his confirmation, stepping closer with a sincere gaze. With a delicate touch, he lifted the necklace and draped the cool, weighty chain around your neck. His fingers brushed softly against your skin as he fastened the clasp, then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re the one who deserves this and everything I have to give.” 

You stared at the gem resting just above your heart, its blue depths shimmering like the ocean beyond the ship. It felt like a treasure meant for someone else, someone more deserving. For an ordinary girl, you felt undeserving of such a rare, exquisite gem. “It’s… stunning,” you breathed, your fingers grazing its cool surface. “But why give it to me?”

“Because you’re the one who holds my heart,” Rafayel whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion. “I want you to have it… to know that you’re more precious to me than any jewel.”

“Rafayel!” Your heart swelled, and you turned to face him, feeling a rush of emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. You could feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, wondering what you did in your past life to be blessed with such a man. “I don’t deserve this—I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything and more, my sweet.” His words held all the sincerity and genuineness you had to hear. “I want to capture the way I see you right now. Will you let me paint you?”

Heat permeated your cheeks at his request, but you were willing. More than willing to be his muse. “I’d be honored,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your chest. An intimate idea suddenly formed in your head. “But if I’m to wear something so special… I want to do it right. I want you to paint me like one of your French girls, Rafayel. Wearing only this.”

~~

Being in the middle of the Atlantic exposed you to the cold, freezing temperatures. 

Yet, how come Rafayel’s room felt quite… hot? 

Perhaps it was the crackling fireplace offering the heated atmosphere. But you weren’t sure if it was really just that. Your heart pounded at an erratic pace, racing with every beat as you watched Rafayel arrange the couch in the middle. Meanwhile, you stood on the side, a thin robe on, as he padded the pillow before settling into his seat. It’s now or never, you thought as you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. I shouldn’t be nervous around him. 

“Monsieur,” you teased, taking in slow, measured steps in front of him. “Your muse is ready.” 

The artist himself was blushing. His cheeks were limned with a deep rosy red, clearing his throat and trying to avoid looking at places he shouldn’t be. He gestured to the cushioned couch, his voice a bit shaky as he fought to keep his focus on the task at hand. “Uh, you can… you can sit there.” 

You wondered whether this was considered you betraying your principles by willingly exposing yourself to him. Had you become a hypocrite, denying advances from wealthy men as an entertainer, but now willingly revealing yourself to someone of the same class? Not long ago, you were just running away from said first-class men, despising every inch of your skin that they desired to touch. So, why were you here? Why didn’t you feel the same way?

Firstly, Rafayel was different. He was respectful, kind, and everything the others were not. You could feel the sincerity in his gaze, the way he looked at you as though you were something precious. He saw you like you were the art, not his paintings, nor the landscapes. You. And so, you began to slowly undress, letting your robe fall to the floor, and immediately feeling the cool air hugging your bare skin. Rafayel’s gaze remained fixed on you, full of reverence and awe, as though he were witnessing something profoundly sacred.

When all that was left was the blue diamond nestled against your naked figure, you moved to the couch he had arranged and lay on your side on the cushions. Rafayel took a deep breath, as if steadying himself, and then moved to his easel with his brushes in hand. “Stay still, sweetheart. Move your left hand a little closer to your face.”

You did as told, shifting awkwardly on the couch to place yourself in the exact position he had envisioned for his art. Dear God, the tension was surely eating at you. You knew he could feel it, too. Especially when his eyes fell to the intimate places of your body—admiring, studying. Your best move was to clear your throat and break the ice. “Not so professional now, are we, Monsieur Rafayel?” 

He was mixing his paint as you teased him, the corner of his lips being pulled into an upward slope. “I am very professional, just so you know.” You were glad to hear him returning the small banter. “Now, don’t be moving your mouth too much, sweetheart. Save it for later.”

“Hey!”

“Just kidding.”  

The hours eventually passed in a delicate silence. You didn’t catch when exactly the awkwardness had begun to fade, but now, the only sound in this quiet room was the soft, rhythmic strokes of his brush against the canvas. You felt his eyes on you, studying every line and curve, every shadow and light, capturing not just your likeness but something deeper—something more human. It was as if he was painting not just your body but your soul, the very essence of who you were.

You remained still for him like a doll, and throughout it, all you could think about was this moment. Him. This encounter. Despite the initial horrors your job as entertainer presented, everything still led you to this—to Rafayel. To the man who saw you as the true art, not the colors he was blending in his canvas. 

Were things too good to be true? 

It took some time, probably a good hour or two when he finally pulled away from his canvas, his breath coming in soft, quiet exhales. You could see the emotion in his eyes as he gazed at the finished piece. “This is how I’ll always remember you,” Rafayel said, dreamy eyes staring right back at you. “As the one who wore my heart.”

Overwhelmed by the tenderness in his gaze, by the raw, unguarded love that radiated from his every word, you stood, crossing the room to him where he met you halfway and pulled you into his arms. You felt his heartbeat against yours, his breath warm against your ear.

“You are amazing,” you whispered against his shoulder, holding him tightly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

And for that moment, there was nothing else in the world but the two of you, entwined in each other’s embrace, lost in the profound connection that had brought you both together on the edge of this endless ocean. To forget about everything and everyone seemed to be the lingering thought in your heads, and it manifested in the way his hands trailed down your curves, pulling you closer to him. Your lips were inches away, a proximity so near that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face. 

“Beautiful,” he spoke in a hushed voice, face mesmerized by the sight of you. “I want to kiss you.” 

“Then, kiss me,” you replied, your fingers reaching up to his collar, gently pulling him down. Nothing stopped you when you pressed your lips to his in a passionate, fervent kiss. Nothing prevented you when your fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt with slow and deliberate movements. The fabric of his shirt soon fell away, revealing the lean, muscular contours of his torso. You trailed kisses along his chest, savoring the feel of his warm skin beneath your lips. “I’m yours, Rafayel,” you breathed back into his mouth as the kiss deepened, catching your breath between each shared moment. “Touch me, feel me, do whatever you want with me. I want you just the same.”

“You drive me crazy,” he grunted under his breath, hands roaming over your body. His touch confirmed to you that the desire was mutual, driven by an urgent need to connect on a level beyond words. His hands moved with a gentle yet insistent hunger, caressing the curve of your waist, exploring the delicate arch of your back. And in your ardent lip-locking exchange, you could feel the slopes of your breasts being pressed against his chest. Rafayel then bit your lower lip, fully submitting to his carnal desires, before reaching down to give your bum a tight squeeze. 

“R-Raf.” 

“Tell me if you want to stop—”

“Don’t stop. Don’t.” 

With your consent, he guided you to sit up on the couch, not knowing how his touch ignited an inextinguishable fire within you. While on his lap, you moved your body against his and traced your fingers along his collarbone, down to the ridges of his abdomen, feeling the heat of his body beneath your fingertips. He returned the favor by cupping your mounds, massaging the plump flesh as if he was desperate to feel how soft they were. 

One thing led to another. And before you knew it, you were already crawling out of his lap, only to kneel on the carpeted floor in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his trousers. Your eyes widened as soon as you released his aching member from the confines of his undergarment, revealing a handsome size that was proportionate to his height. 

“Don’t stare at it like that,” he whined, cheeks flushed red as he leaned back on the couch, wrapping a hand around his shaft. Who knew Rafayel can get quite shy, too?

You found it adorable, if anything. But the equal lust you shared in your gazes remained on each other, even as you joined his hands at doing the job. Up and down did you stroke his length, watching him hold back a moan, only to crumble as soon as you decided to replace your hand with your mouth. It’s warm, you heard him say. It feels good, sweetheart. His cute little groans were in fact a pleasure for you to hear, encouraging you to do better at bobbing your head and sucking his entire length. You didn’t care about the string of saliva that appeared when you released his member with a pop, now using your tongue and dragging it from the base to the tip, where it swirled itself around until his cock began to twitch. 

“How’d you learn these things?” Rafayel’s quiet groan was more so a jealous complaint. But he couldn’t take it anymore, he had to have you. He had to have a taste of you, too. 

So to your surprise, he suddenly carried you in his arms, moving in a rush as you shifted from the couch to the bed. His movements were clearly driven by a primal need to leave his mark on you, to feel each other in the most intimate way. Because you didn’t expect him to lay you gently on his bed, climbing on top of you like a hungry shark who was ready to devour a small fish. 

He started with your neck of course, feathering soft, tender kisses around the skin before moving to your breasts, alternating between squeezing and sucking the flesh, nipping and biting at your nipple. It didn’t surprise you to see him hungrily trapping your breast in a tight suction, revealing a red mark that would later be the same color as his hair. 

“R-Rafayel.” By now, you were arching your back, legs spread open as he began to descend further and further until he met the perfect spot. Him staring at your womanhood almost made you wish to close the distance between your thighs, but he didn’t allow it. In fact, he was quick to dive head-on into your sopping cunt, lapping the entrance with his tongue—teasing and exploring your walls, your insides, until you were screaming his name. “R-Raf—! Mhm…!” 

“You taste so sweet,” he spoke under his breath, encircling his thumb on your sensitive bud before looking back at your slit, slightly spreading them apart to look at the exact hole he was about to enter. And he did. He didn’t hesitate one bit at positioning his fully erect manhood on your entrance, its tip soaked by the wetness of your core before he eventually slid himself right in. A series of curses were released by him, while as for you, the dulcet melody of your moans were just what he needed to hear. “Damn it, Y/N… You feel really good.” 

“Ngh—! Y-You—aaah!” You could feel your body being dragged back and forth, your hips being jostled as he continued to sink himself into you. His pace started slow and sensual at first, relishing the way your bodies intertwined, moving together with a fluid grace. At the same time, his kisses were soft and sweet, exploring every inch of your collarbone, while your own nails clawed at his back in the same passion. You felt it—him, the tip of his member hitting your sensitive spot and sending you into a euphoric trance. Every time his cock kissed your cervix, you were a moaning mess, your legs shaking violently at the electrifying pleasure spreading all over your body. He was inside you, all of him. “Haaah!” 

The act itself was a beautiful, raw expression of the desire that had been building between you. You moved together with a synchrony that transcended mere physicality knowing that it wasn’t just an act of sex, but an exchange of love. 

As you reached the peak of your intimacy, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, lost in a moment of pure, unadulterated passion. And when the waves of pleasure finally subsided, you lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms. The residues of Rafayel’s love for you remained in between your thighs, a visual proof of the passion he harbored for you.

Rafayel’s breath was heavy, but his body relaxed against yours. He held you close, his touch gentle now, with the intensity of the earlier moments shifting to tender intimacy. “Once the ship docks in New York,” he said in a soft whisper. “Come with me. I want to leave everything behind and start new with you. Let’s both figure it out, together.”

You nestled closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart against yours. At that moment, it was as if everything had fallen into place. “Together.” 

~~

On the night of April 14th, everything on the ship took a daunting turn. 

Literally. But before you could get to that part, you were strolling the first-class decks at the time, hand-in-hand with Rafayel, as he escorted you to the exit.

“Must you really go back down there?” he asked softly, embracing you in his toned, protective arms. “Can’t you stay here with me? Just for a little while longer?”

You looked up at him, your heart aching at the thought of leaving him for a while. But you knew you had to honor the constraints of your position because the risk of discovery was too great to ignore. Especially for his part. “I wish I could stay,” you replied, pulling away to squeeze his hand. “But I can’t. I need to go back to steerage for now, and then we’ll find a way to meet again.”

“I’ll come to you, every day.” Rafayel acted like a stubborn kid as a frown played across his features. Yet, he still leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that lingered a little over a minute. 

What interrupted your romantic moment was the sudden sound of shouting and panicked voices that erupted from the bow of the ship. The noise was chaotic, and it immediately turned into a cacophony of warnings and vigilance as the watchmen, officers, and quartermasters ran about, speaking jargons you could barely interpret. You both pulled apart, the intensity of the moment breaking as the shouts grew louder, more frantic. Something was dangerously off. 

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice laced with worry.

Rafayel, his expression now a mask of alarm, could only hold you closer. “I don’t know, but we need to find out.”

You didn’t need to be told. The shudder of the ship, the deafening screech against the starboard side, and the massive iceberg passing slowly by were all the signs you needed to understand the gravity of the situation.

The Titanic struck an iceberg. 

“Aaah!” 

“Watch out!” 

“Rafayel.” You turned to your lover, the fear in your eyes mirrored by the shock and disbelief in his face. “I’m scared.” 

“It’s okay.” He pulled you gently but urgently, soothing your worries by rubbing your back in comfort. “I don’t think it’s serious. I’m sure this ship’s made to withstand that much impact—”

“You saw it with your own eyes, Raf!” It was the irrational fear consuming you, leading you to overthink everything as you saw how the crew members and officers alike were running in every direction, their faces pale with fear. “The iceberg… We’re not safe. You know we aren’t.” 

As you both stepped into the corridor, the commotion was unmistakable. And he himself knew he could not play the situation as something trivial. Because otherwise, the ship’s own crewmen wouldn’t have been as alarmed. It didn’t help that Rafayel also caught Mr. Andrews, the very man who designed the ship, clutching rolls of blueprints as he hurried to meet the captain.

“Mr. Andrews.” Rafayel stopped him before he could walk any further. “How serious is it? We saw the iceberg.” 

The respectable man looked between you two, his eyes clouded with an apologetic haze. Though, staying calm appeared natural to him, only giving Rafayel a gentle pat on the shoulder and urging him to make his way to safety. “Make sure to wear your life jackets and secure yourselves a spot on the lifeboats available. And also,” he paused, swallowing hard. “Try not to cause panic to other passengers for now. All rationality is lost the moment fear strikes.” 

While you and Rafayel hoped to hear a more reassuring answer, of words saying that the issue at hand wasn’t anything to be alarmed about, Mr. Andrews’ words were clear. 

The ship was about to sink.

~~

It was your decision to inform only the closest people you knew about the unsightly situation. But it was Rafayel who requested if you could both let Thomas know first, seeing as he simply couldn’t abandon his longtime friend. Despite their disagreements, he had been there for him in his artistic journey, and never not once gave up on supporting Rafayel’s dreams. He was family to him, one way or another, and that was why Rafayel insisted he had to know. 

So, you did. Rafayel and you, hearts racing and hands intertwined, made your way back to his first-class suite, both determined to find Thomas and inform him of the dire situation. In your short walk, the stewards were already scrambling about, opening doors, shouting and instructing everyone to put on their life jackets. 

“Everyone, please put your lifebelts on and come up to the deck!”

“Can you tell me what’s going on, please? I felt the ship shudder.” 

“Madam, there is no cause for alarm. This is just a precaution. Now put your lifebelts on, please.”

Meanwhile, as you reached the door to Rafayel’s suite, you were met with an unexpected and unsettling audience. The Master at Arms, his security personnel, and Thomas stood in the hallway, their faces grim and serious. But it was Arielle who stood out, with the reason being…

“You!” Arielle’s voice immediately cut through the hubbub like a blade as she stormed up to you, her vibrant blue eyes electrifying you with her anger. Without a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you toward her. The stretch on your scalp was sharp, but the shock of her attack was what shook you to the core. “You wretched little thief!” she spat, her voice dripping with venom as she threw you onto the floor, kicking you, smacking you, and pulling your hair. “You lowly whore! Trying to seduce my fiancé and worm your way into his life!”

You winced, trying to free yourself from her grasp. “I-It hurts!” 

“Arielle, stop! Stop hurting her!” Rafayel’s voice was fierce and desperate as he lunged to intervene, trying to wrench Arielle’s hand away from you, but to no avail. She was unstoppable. And his efforts were futile against her relentless aggression. “Enough! Let her go!”

“You slept with this whore?!” Arielle’s face twisted with rage as she sent a crisp slap to his face. The hurt. The betrayal. You could understand why she felt that way and you wanted to apologize, to beg on her knees not to pour her anger out on Rafayel, but she already turned to the officers and Thomas, her voice rising in a commanding tone. “Gentlemen, this woman has been sneaking into the first-class areas illegally! She’s been trying to lure in first-class men, including my fiancé. She should be sent down to steerage and locked up immediately. She’s a threat to the order of this ship!”

The officers, unsure of what to do, looked to Rafayel for guidance. He was just pulling you to him, protecting you in his arms, as he shot his fiancé a glare. “Arielle, enough, will you?! We have more pressing issues right now and we need to focus on that—”

“If you won’t do it, then I will cause a scene on this ship!” Arielle’s eyes narrowed as she watched him hold you close. “I’ll make a huge scandal out of this!” 

The officers, now caught between their duty and Arielle’s demands, began to move toward you with a forceful stance. They were already firm with the decision to take you away, in spite of your resistance, as you looked at Rafayel for any sort of help. 

“Come with us, miss!” 

“N-No… Rafayel,” you pleaded, your voice trembling. “Help me. Please.”

“Don’t touch her!” Rafayel’s fiery gaze didn’t intimidate the officers, even as he tried to retrieve you back from their grasps. But Thomas had intervened, pulling his friend back, and ensuring he wouldn’t meddle any further. “Thomas, let me go—they’re taking Y/N away! She did nothing wrong! It was all me!” 

The Master at Arms stepped in between, glancing at an enraged Arielle and a pitiful you. What did you expect? The rich were always favored, and the poor oppressed. You would never win against her in a tug of war. “We’ll send her back to where she belongs, Madam. You can rest easy now.” 

“Nooo!” 

The last thing you saw before being forced out of sight was Rafayel’s anguished face, pain and sorrow clinging into every line of his expression as he heard your screams, saw your tears, and felt your fear at being taken harshly away. 

You knew, right at that moment, that this was only the beginning of an impending maritime disaster.

~~

The cold, metal bars of the brig felt like a cage around your body and soul, confining you to the sterile environment below decks and reminding you exactly of just where you belonged—at the bottom. In your confinement, your breath came in shallow gasps as you heard the muffled commotion of the crew members outside, the frantic shouts, and the loud creaking of the ship. They had locked you in here, unjustly accused and abandoned, and now, trapped.

Your eyes darted toward the small porthole above, the glass fogging up with your breath. You could see the deep blue water sloshing against it, confirming your worst fears that the majestic Titanic was indeed sinking before your eyes.

“Help! Help me!” It would only be a matter of time until you’d drown in this confined space, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. There was no knight in shining armor like Rafayel ready to save you. Even if you screamed for help, your voice raw and desperate, there was still no response except the relentless sound of rushing water.

And speaking of, the icy water began to seep under the door, slowly flooding the room you were kept in like a prisoner. You could feel the coldness against your feet, then your legs, creeping higher with every passing minute. Or two. Or three. 

“Damn it, it’s so cold!” The fear clawed at you, and your heart pounded in your chest as you continued to scream, your voice hoarse and breaking in the process. You cried and let your screaming voice echo through the confined space. But the water continued to rise, and still, no one came. “Help! Please… someone… anyone!” 

In a couple minutes more, your body began to tremble, and a fusion of cold and fear overtook you as the water reached almost past your thighs. The panic only set in deeper, and your breathing became staggered as you struggled with an attack of anxiety. Anyone in your state would have passed out by now, surely. But you tried not to give up as you pounded on the door, hoping that someone would hear you. Or that God himself have mercy on you. 

“...Please!” Yet, nothing changed. No other presence outside your door came to your aid. Your shoulders slumped at the thought, and you leaned back against the cold metal wall, the water now up to your chest. All you could do at that moment was close your eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek as you slowly accepted the inevitable. You were going to die here, alone in the dark, in a place that no one would ever find. “Please… help me.” 

You took one last, shaky breath, feeling the coldness envelop your entire being. And while you had already given up on life, you thought about your mother and sister back home who were probably unaware of the tragedy that struck the ship you boarded. You wondered when they would hear news about the sinking of the ship. Perhaps in the morning? Perhaps another day more? You were haunted by the despair in their faces, the grief of losing a daughter and a sister, just when they thought that you would make it across the continent safe and sound. 

A thought of Rafayel also crossed your mind—a bittersweet memory of his touch, his kiss, and the way he looked at you. A man who was merely a stranger to you before you boarded this ship, but now became the lover you would keep in your heart as the promise of forever finally came to an end. You hoped that, even if he had already abandoned you, he would be sent somewhere warm and safe, away from the glacial waters of the Atlantic where you would soon sink into as another dead body in the deep seabed. 

~~

Up on the first-class decks, the passengers were scrambling toward the lifeboats, their voices adding into the pandemonium as things were becoming clearer that the Titanic was about to be submerged. The officers barked orders, and women and children were ushered toward the boats, the urgency growing as they prevented the men—no matter the social class—from getting into the lifeboats. 

Rafayel stood among the crowd, his eyes distant and unfocused, as if he were miles away. He didn’t even notice Arielle dragging his arm with a tight grip, her voice shrill with frustration as she argued with an officer. “Why can’t he come on the boat with me? He’s my fiancé!” she insisted, her face flushed with anger. “This is unacceptable! We are first-class passengers!” 

“Women and children only, ma’am!” the officer replied firmly, already turning to help another passenger, ignoring her selfish, hubristic demands. 

But the thing was, Rafayel hardly heard her nagging. His mind was elsewhere—back in the brig, where he knew you were locked up, alone and scared for your life. He could hear Thomas’s voice in his ear, the warning, the plea not to pursue you, to stay with his people, to secure his own safety. Selfish, all of them. It was all Rafayel ever thought about as he spaced out. 

Thomas, sensing his hesitation, leaned closer and whispered urgently, “Rafayel, don’t be foolish. We can arrange a seat for you on the next lifeboat. Think about your future, your life! Your aunt Talia is waiting for you!”

Rafayel’s heartbeat slowed as he glanced at Thomas, then at Arielle, who still gripped his arm tightly. His eyes moved over the frightened faces of the people around him—the elites he had grown to resent, their fear and desperation laid bare, yet their arrogance and selfishness still overpowering even in the middle of a crisis. 

“Are we going to be seated according to class?” 

“I don’t want to sit with those stinky steerage people!” 

He saw his own reflection in their panic-stricken eyes, and in that moment, he knew. He knew he couldn’t leave you to drown alone in the cold darkness. The thought of you trapped below, your face filled with fear, haunted him like a ghost who was seeking for justice. You didn’t deserve to be there. 

You, the one person who had shown him what it meant to truly live, was more important to him than anything else in this cruel world.

Thus, without another word, he pulled free from Arielle’s grasp as soon as the officers were guiding her into the lifeboat. It was the right timing, and Rafayel calculated that perfectly in his head, knowing that Arielle would be stopped if she even dared to get off the boat and endangered the passengers and officers who were already secured in it.  

“Rafayel!” Arielle shouted, her voice rising in disbelief as she tried to snatch his arm. “What are you doing?!”

“Madam, stay put!” 

“Get your hands off me—Rafayel, come back! You bastard!”

He didn’t answer. He simply didn’t give a damn about her anymore. And he only turned, his legs moving with purpose, his heart pounding in his chest as he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of those around him. He could hear Thomas calling after him, Arielle bursting into frustrated tears at seeing him escape, but their voices soon faded amidst the furor. 

His mind was made up. Right at the beginning. He was going to find you, no matter what it took, no matter what happened to him. Rafayel knew he was running against time here, against the very odds of survival, but he didn’t care. No. His feet pounded against the deck, his breath coming in harsh bursts, as he made his way toward the lower decks. 

He was coming for you. And nothing, not the cold, the water, nor the imminent doom of the Titanic, would stop him now.

~~

The water was up to your waist now, freezing and relentless, biting into your skin with a cruel ferocity that made your entire body tremble. Your teeth chattered uncontrollably as you banged your fists against the locked door, your hands now raw and bruised because of it. Every breath felt like a knife in your lungs, and every exhale was a desperate sob. Pathetic. You felt weak, hopeless, with the cold sapping every bit of strength you had left. You were shaking, shivering, down to a point where you became numb.

I can’t think straight… 

The water climbed higher, reaching your lower abdomen, then your stomach, and you felt the sorrow settle in. It was about time you gave up. Resting your forehead against the cold metal, closing your eyes, you let the tears slip down your cheeks being the only warm thing you could feel on your face.

This is how I’ll die…. 

No, not yet. Because suddenly, there was a loud crash—the sound of wood splintering and metal bending. You blinked, too disoriented to understand what was happening beyond the door that was forced open. A rush of water followed, and there he was.

There he goddamn was. Rafayel, soaked and breathless, his face clouded with fret and remorse. 

“R… Rafayel?” you exhaled his name, eyes wide open, wondering if you had already died and this was nothing more than a hallucination. 

But he brought you back to reality as he surged forward, pulling you into a desperate, breathless kiss, with lips that were cold but full of life, of urgency, of love. “I’m so sorry," he whispered against your lips, the apology written on his face was more than any words could describe. “I love you… I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t.”

Tears pooled your eyes the same way the gelid waters filled the room, and you cupped his face, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cold fingers. “Y-You c-came back,” you whispered, your voice breaking with emotion as you spoke through gritted teeth. “I thought you—”

“I did. I’m here now. I’m sorry, Y/N. I love you, I’m so sorry.” He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands trembling as he embraced your body. “We need to go,” he said urgently, pulling you with him. You didn’t exactly have the leisure of time to have an emotional exchange right now. “Come on. Can you swim?”

“I can… a little.” 

With that, you waded through the freezing water together, your legs numb and heavy as you fought against the strong currents. The corridors were eerily quiet, flooded with icy water that was quickly rising like it was filling up a tank. Had you been alone, without a man holding you in his arms, you would have been swept away by the harsh waves. Your body alone was already shaking from both the cold and the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but Rafayel held you tightly, guiding you through the flooded passages as he focused on looking for the way out. Honestly, you admired him. He was doing so much better at handling a situation like this than you, and that came from someone with a social standing like his. It was as though he had always navigated hardships, so used to dealing with different crises.

“Raf, I-I’m s-so cold!” 

“I know. I’ll get us out of here, okay?” 

Finally, you reached a ladder, and you forced yourself to keep moving, pushing your exhausted legs up the staircase despite the weight of your drenched clothes pulling you down. By the third-class gates, you were already panting, sore everywhere, when you saw a clatter between the crowd of people being held back by stewards. 

You spotted Eliza, her face pale and tear-streaked. It was the first time you had seen her again since this morning, and this horrific way of reuniting with her wasn’t anything you saw coming. “They won’t let us up.” She burst into a sob. “They said we can’t pass through, not until the first-class people have filled the boats!”

Her words made Rafayel’s eyes flash with anger towards the stewards guarding the gates. “This is absurd! You can’t keep them like animals. They have the right to live!” He turned to the other men with a commanding presence. “Gentlemen, come on! Help me break down this gate!”

The men nodded, understanding that a first-class man like him genuinely wanted to help, and together they grabbed a wooden bench nearby and slammed it against the metal gate. Once, twice, and finally, with a loud crack, the gate burst open. Despite the protests of the stewards, the crowd surged forward, feeling nothing but relief as they flooded through the open passage where the freezing waters had yet to reach.

“Go!” Rafayel urged, pulling you along as you ran through the hallways together. You pushed through the panicked crowd, dodging falling debris and slippery floors, until you finally reached the deck. He picked up one of the discarded life jackets on the floor and quickly wrapped it around your frail body, the click of the straps securing you underneath. Before you could even process everything that was happening, you could already feel his lips being pressed on your forehead. “You’re okay. I’m here.” 

“Rafayel.” You looked up at him, hands clutching into his shirt with your tearful, shiny eyes. “How are we going to make it?” 

The night air alone was frigid, and the deck was too crowded with people. Somehow, in the middle of all the ensuing chaos, a group of men—the ship’s orchestra—were playing a symphony of melodies in the background. They held their instruments with complete disregard to the horrors of their surroundings, and your heart broke at the sight. Until the very end, they stuck to their duty of maintaining calm and peace for the passengers. Of playing music, performing for the sake of others. 

Good luck to each of you, sirs.

Rafayel turned to you, tugging your hand. “You need to get on one of those boats,” was his firm insistence. “It’s your best chance.”

You scanned through the havoc, looking for a vacant lifeboat, but the crew was shouting ‘women and children only’. That was enough for you to immediately shake your head in response. “No, I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he urged, his voice breaking. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Just go.”

“But—”

“Y/N, you need to listen to me, okay?” He was already pulling you towards one of the lifeboats, pushing through the crowd, to make way for you. “You need to get on that lifeboat. I’ll be okay. I… I have an arrangement with one of the other boats there. Really. I’ll come find you as soon as they rescue us.” 

“No, I—”

“Officer, I have a lady here!” Rafayel announced, his hand carefully guiding you upward. At this hour, the ship was already tilted at an angle of around 5 to 10 degrees while into the evacuation process, so they still had the time and space to get more women into the boat. And as soon as the officer saw you, you were quickly pulled up, but your hands refused to let go of Rafayel’s. “It’s going to be okay, Y/N. I’ll meet you later.”

“Come on, ma’am. Get in the boat!” 

As the pressuring eyes pierced through you, you reluctantly nodded and let go of his hand, swallowing back the tears as you climbed onto the lifeboat. But as you sat there, the arctic wind whipping against your face, you looked at the crying women and children around you. Their faces were draped by the anguish of seeing the men they were leaving behind—fathers, husbands, lovers, and sons. You looked back at Rafayel standing on the deck next to those men. And among them, his eyes were filled with love, of relief knowing that you were safe now like it was his only goal. You suddenly remembered the words you had told him not long ago, about figuring this life together.

You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t leave him.

With a burst of adrenaline, you leaped off the lifeboat and back onto the deck, nearly losing your footing and the railing hitting your stomach as you landed, but you didn’t mind it. You had to reunite with him. 

“No!” You could hear Rafayel shouting while you ran toward him. “Goddamn… Y/N! Are you crazy?!”

You ran and ran, pushing past the people, carrying your heavy feet across the slippery floors until you finally met with Rafayel by the upper decks, panting heavily and feeling your legs wobble from the strenuous effort. “I can’t—I’m staying with you!”

Rafayel’s eyes were lachrymose as he saw you, catching you in his arms, holding you tight as lips passionately crashed into yours. “You’re so stupid, Y/N,” he murmured against your lips, though his voice was filled with such raw emotion. “Why did you do that?! You’re so stupid.” 

“Maybe, I am,” you whispered back, hot tears falling from your eyes like waterfall. “But I’m not leaving you.”

You shared another kiss. A deeper kiss this time around, as you felt each other’s lips embracing the remaining warmth it could offer. It was at that time where you realized that you had never felt any kind of love that was nearly as pure as that.

And across the water, on another lifeboat that was already rowing away from the titled ship, Arielle watched the two of you with tears gushing down her face. Her maid tried to rub her back, seeing that your romantic interaction with her then-fiancé was a sight for sore eyes. Though the frustration igniting in Arielle’s veins was hidden under her curtain of clothes, her hands were trembling as she clung to the edge of the boat. She was cursing the two of you under her breath, and could feel her heart breaking apart as the distance between her and Rafayel grew wider, especially as the realization sank in that he would never be hers. Not now, not ever.

But you didn’t see her. She was completely out of the picture between the two lovers on the upper decks.

Because you only saw Rafayel, and he only saw you. 

~~

Contrary to the quiet of the sea, the screams around you were deafening. 

The ship had tilted sharply by now, the deck at a steep angle, and every step urged you to fight against gravity. It was heavy, it definitely was. But you fought through it knowing that Rafayel’s hand was tightly intertwined with yours, his eyes scanning the rapidly flooding deck for any sign of a lifeboat, any hope of escape.

But there was none. 

The lifeboats were all gone, already drifting far away into the dark waters of the Atlantic, leaving behind only the desperate and the doomed. A distress flare shot up into the sky, bursting into a bright, fleeting light before fading back into the cold, endless night. It illuminated the panic-stricken faces around you for a moment, then disappeared, swallowed by the darkness.

You could hear the officers yelling for the boats to come back, demanding that they weren’t even half-filled. You could hear passengers shrieking as some of them slipped through the tilted floors, their bodies hitting the obstructions with a loud bang. Prayers were sent out by the priest who was holding onto a railing, with the other believers clutching his hand as the ship continued its incline. Others had already given up on staying on the ship, jumping instead to the crisp waters of the ocean thinking that their life jackets would be enough to keep them alive and afloat for another hour. 

Rafayel looked at you with a determined face, unfazed by the growing number of lost souls around him. “We need to get to the stern,” he urgently told you. “It’s our only choice.”

You nodded, your heart thumping loud and fast, and together you began to climb, pushing with your all might against the sharp incline of the deck. Water rushed in from all sides, pouring over the railings, swallowing everything in its path. But you wrestled against the pull, your muscles burning as you climbed upwards, gripping onto anything you could find—the rails, the sides of doors, anything to keep yourself from sliding back into the icy depths below.

“I’m falling—!” 

“I got you.” Rafayel was right beside you, pulling you up when your strength faltered, guiding you through the path. 

The ship groaned beneath you, the metal screaming in protest as it began to break apart, the sound like a giant beast roaring into the night. It was scary. God, it was the most frightening sound you had ever heard. But you kept moving, kept climbing, until finally, you reached the stern, the very back of the ship that rose high into the air above the freezing water.

“Quick. Cimb over!” Rafayel urged, helping you over the railing. “Hold on tight. No matter what happens, do not let go.”

You did as he said, your fingers gripping the cold, wet metal of the railing. It was getting more and more difficult for you to think straight, to think rational, as the temperature of your body dropped low. The stern was now almost vertical, towering above the rest of the ship that was disappearing into the dark, unforgiving sea, but Rafayel’s voice kept you steady and awake. He climbed over beside you, his face close to yours and the fog of his breath visible in the cold air. 

“Th-This is where w-we first met,” you reminded him, your voice trembling from the subzero temperatures. “Right h-here… on the stern.”

He displayed a small forlorn smile. “And it’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” he replied softly, his voice carrying over the wind as he briefly pressed his lips onto yours. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Y/N. I couldn’t exchange this memory for the world.”

You felt tears sting your eyes, your chest tightening because of this heavily poignant scene. The ship shuddered violently, and you gripped the railing even tighter as Rafayel reached out, cupping your face with one hand, his thumb brushing away a tear that slipped down your cheek.

“I never thought I’d find someone like you,” he continued, mellow eyes staring straight into your soul, “You’ve shown me what it means to truly live, to feel, to love. I saw the most beautiful art in you.”

“I love you.” You swallowed hard, feeling the lump in your throat. You couldn’t even hear your voice anymore as the words trembled on your lips. “I love you so much.”

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead in return. “I love you, too. More than I ever thought possible. And I promise… after this night, you’ll be sleeping in a warm, comfortable bed. In my arms. Under a blanket. It doesn’t matter how, Y/N. As long as you’re safe. I won’t let go.”

“Raf—”

The ship groaned again, louder this time, and you felt it begin to shift beneath you, the stern rising even higher into the air. “Hold on tight!” Rafayel shouted over the roar, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. “Just hold on!”

“Aaah!” 

“Haaaaah!” 

The ship tilted further, and you clung to the railing with everything you had, your body pressed against his, locked between him and the metal railings. It was ironic, truly, how the cold Atlantic wind whipped around you, while the stars above flickered like distant, indifferent eyes as if the universe was seeing all of it unfold. The clear skies could only watch the disaster like a silent audience. While deep below, the ocean was a dark, churning mass, ready to swallow everything whole.

“I’ll never let go.” You held your breath and leaned your face close to your lover’s chest. “No matter what.”

“Together,” he promised. “Until the very end.”

And as the ship continued its descent into the icy abyss, you held on, holding each other close, refusing to let go. The ship was slowly dragging you and Rafayel down with it, and you could feel the brisk waters rush up around you, like a torrent of cold that bit into your skin and stole the breath from your lungs.

“Hold your breath in as long as you can!” Rafayel shouted, his voice muffled against the growling ocean. You tightened your grasp onto the railing, your hands numb and slipping, as the ship sank deeper and deeper into oblivion.

And then, with a sudden, violent pull, the ship disappeared beneath the surface, and you were plunged into the bone-chilling depths of the North Atlantic. You expected the cold to be immediate and shocking, like a thousand needles penetrating your skin and making you numb. Yet, in spite of the lack of sensation, you kicked and fought against the water, your lungs burning as you struggled to find the surface.

Need… to stay… alive, you thought. For him. 

As soon as your head broke through the icy water, you gasped and choked on the cold air like a fish on the surface. Around you was a sight of horror—people flailing, gasping, some disappearing beneath the waves. Screams and cries filled the void, with their despair being the last horrifying things you had heard. You spun around, desperately searching for Rafayel, hoping that he was somewhere near. Safe. Alive. 

Then you saw him—his pallid pale bobbing up and down among the waves, his eyes looking for yours among the throng of flailing passengers. Without second thought, you swam desperately toward him and longed to be embraced by his arms again. “R-Rafayel!” 

“Y/N! A-Are you okay?” he asked, kissing your face over a million times that night. 

You two waded through the agonizing pressures of the polar water, and you tugged at his hand, suggesting you couldn’t move any more than you have. The exhaustion, the lack of oxygen, the subzero temperatures were beginning to overcome you. You were freezing to death. “I can’t… a-anymore!”  

“No, Y/N. You can do it. Come on, over there!” Rafayel shouted, pointing to a floating piece of debris—a wooden door bobbing nearby. He reached for your hand, guiding you toward it through the frigid water. “Climb up!”

With a tremendous effort, you managed to haul yourself onto the door even though your body was shaking uncontrollably from the cold. You reached out to Rafayel, pulling him toward the edge, but as he tried to climb up, the door tipped dangerously, threatening to submerge again. That was how he landed on a decision to leave it be. 

“It’s okay,” Rafayel murmured, his voice weak but accepting. “You stay. Stay up there.”

He remained floating beside you, ensuring no one would try and push you off the door, while his lips turned blue and his face became pale. You could hardly even recognize the color of his eyes, nor his hair, nor his once rosy cheeks. 

“Rafayel, p-please,” you begged in a raspy voice, desperately trying to pull your weak body up until he stopped you. “W-We’ll find another way.”

He shook his head, his eyes soft as he looked at you. His gaze was the only warm thing he could offer against the cold. “This… this is enough. Just stay there… please.”

Tears began to blur your vision, but they froze on your cheeks before they could even warm them. Still, you held his hand tightly, your fingers gripping his as if you could tether him to life itself. “All y-you did… since the d-day we met… was s-save my life.” 

“A-And I’ll s-save you again,” he struggled to speak as his body shook from the cold, his jaws clacking with every shiver. “I’ll save you again a m-milion times, okay? Y-You will live, Y/N. This isn’t where y-you’re supposed to b-be.” 

Holding his hand, you pressed a kiss on top of it. “I love you.” 

“I love you.” 

~~

The watch on your left wrist said it was already past 2:00 am, yet time passed by in an excruciating crawl. 

By this time, screams around you had long faded, replaced by the chilling silence of the dead and dying. You didn’t think there was anything more terrifying than the Titanic sinking, but this deadly silence was all and everything that would traumatize you for years to come. 

Your fingers were already benumbed, the cold penetrating deep into your bones, but you didn’t let go of Rafayel’s hand as you held onto him and prayed for a miracle. While staring into the clear, starry skies, you imagined how your life would become after this night. Perhaps, once the boats come back to rescue you both, you could truly start fresh with him. 

You could imagine Rafayel pursuing his passion for art by starting off as a small artist. You could imagine his paintings being celebrated again, and how you’d be by his side during his exhibits, proud of how far he had come without the help of anyone but himself. 

You could imagine your own bit of success too, having the chance to perform at Broadway, even as a mere extra, and being able to bring your mother and sister with you to live in the beautiful New York City. 

You could imagine all the beautiful kids you’d raise with Rafayel. Those mini carbon copies of his running around the house, playing around as carefree as their father. 

“Rafayel?” you whispered after a long silence, turning to him and shaking his hand lightly. “Where do we go after this?”

But his eyes were closed now, his face unnaturally still, his body half-submerged in the freezing water. His skin had turned a pallid blue, his lips white and cracked. No… You shook him harder, panic rising in your chest as his face was as solid as a block of ice. “Rafayel!” you called out, your voice trembling at the suggestion of his current state. “Wake up! Please… wake up!”

Silence. Nothing but heartbreaking silence. The lack of response made you sob, but you still managed to pull his hand closer to your chest, feeling your heart being torn asunder as you looked at him. “No, no, no… please, no…” You clutched him desperately, feeling the weight of his cold, unmoving body against the wood. “Rafayel, please. Please. Open your eyes. P-Please… You said you’d n-never let go.” 

Along with your quiet tears, the ocean around you had become lull as if a deathly silence fell over the waters. The shrieks and cries were no more, replaced by the soft lapping of the waves and the distant creaking of the lifeboats. 

And the Titanic, once called the unsinkable ship, was nothing more than a myth.

If not for the faint voice carried over the water, you would have passed out. But someone was calling out, a beam of light flashing your way, forcing you to stay awake. You turned your head, blinking away tears, and saw a lifeboat finally coming back. After what seemed like eons, the crew shone their lights around, searching for survivors, hoping to save anyone at all. 

But for the most part, they were too late. 

“Over here!” you screamed, waving your hand frantically as your voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone to hear. “Please, help us!”

The beam of light turned toward you, and you heard the oars slicing through the water as the lifeboat approached. Relief may have flooded through you, but then you looked back at Rafayel, his face still and peaceful, like he was sleeping.

“Miss, let him go,” one of the men in the lifeboat carefully said, reaching out to you. “He’s gone… you have to let go.”

“No!” you protested, holding onto Rafayel’s hand tighter, eyes filling up with tears again. “I can’t. I can’t let him go.”

“Please, miss,” the man urged, his voice softening into a pained tone. “You have to let go… or you’ll go down with him.”

Your chest tightened with agony, every fiber of your being screaming to hold on. To never let go. You promised him. You made a vow to him that you would figure everything out together. But as you looked at Rafayel’s face, so serene in death, you knew he was already gone. He had left long before you could say goodbye. 

Tears streamed down your face as you leaned down, pressing a final kiss to his cold, unresponsive lips. “I love you,” you whispered, voice breaking into a sob. “I’ll never forget about you.”

With trembling hands, you released your grip on his hand, watching as his body slowly slipped beneath the icy water, sinking into the heart of the ocean. Your heart shattered as you watched him disappear, Rafayel, the love of your life slipping away forever.

Strong hands soon pulled you up into the lifeboat, and you collapsed, your body numb and cold, but nothing compared to the emptiness in your chest. It was as though someone carved a massive hole in your chest, excavating your heart out, only to leave a hollow space. The men wrapped a blanket around you, their voices were barely registered in your mind as they asked if you were okay. 

But you weren’t. You would never be the same again. You stared out into the endless, dark sea, where Rafayel had disappeared, knowing a piece of you had gone with him, lost forever in the cold, unforgiving waters of the Atlantic.

~~

The room was quiet and still, filled with the soft light of the morning sun glowing through the windows. Meanwhile, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down your dress and your fingers trembling slightly as you adjusted the hem. The reflection staring back at you seemed almost foreign—older, wiser, yet with the same eyes that saw the tragic event that had happened in the years since that fateful night.

A soft knock on the door broke your reverie. Then, Zayne’s gentle and patient voice came from the other side. “Are you ready, love?” he asked, his tone careful, knowing this wasn’t easy for you. “We don’t have to do the interviews if you’re not feeling up to it. I’ll tell them you’ve changed your mind. No one can blame you.”

You turned around to meet his warm, olive eyes as he entered the room. His presence had always been a comforting, steady anchor in the storm that had been your life since the sinking. Beyond being your husband, he had been your rock, your safe harbor, ever since that day. He never pressured you, never pushed for more than you could give. He had simply been there, and over time, you had found solace in him.

“I’m okay,” you spoke almost inaudibly, though he could recognize the uncertainty in your voice, worried that you might not be able to go through an interview as a survivor of the most tragic maritime disaster in history. “I’m fine. I just… It’s surreal to me that it’s been ten years.”

Zayne nodded, coming closer and taking your hand in his, letting his thumb brush over your knuckles in a soothing motion. “I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. If you do, I’ll be right by your side.”

You smiled faintly, the warmth of his hand reassuring you. But before you could respond, a younger voice suddenly cut through the room.

“Mom? Dad?” It was your son appearing in the doorway, his purple hair catching the light, and his eyes a striking kaleidoscope of indigo and magenta. “Can we go now?”

Your heart clenched as you looked at him—so young, so full of life, and yet a constant reminder of the man who had given him that life. The same man who had given you so much more than he ever realized.

“We’re coming, sweetheart,” you assured him, reaching out to smooth your son’s hair. He looked at you with a curious tilt of his head, and for a moment, you saw Rafayel’s mischievous grin, his playful personality shining through in the child you had brought into the world.

You exchanged a glance with Zayne, who offered a small, understanding smile. He had never asked about your traumatic past, about the love that you had lost to the cold depths of the Atlantic, because he knew that part of you would always belong to Rafayel. And he accepted that. He accepted you and loved you despite it.

Taking a deep breath, you stood up with a more determined mien. “Yes, we’re ready,” you said, more to yourself than to anyone else. 

The world deserves to know who he was, what he did… and his story.

As the three of you walked out of the room, your son chattered excitedly, blissfully unaware of the history you were about to share to the world. But as you looked at him, you saw Rafayel’s spirit through his eyes. Instead of it being a haunting image, you felt warmth spreading through your chest. 

Because Rafayel had given you so much more than a son—he had given you a story of a lifetime, one that was worth telling.

[beastyeastfreak]

Hey could you do headcanons for the beast cookies with a reader that was created by the witches to be their guide and after they where sealed away the reader was punished by the witches because they believed the reader failed at their purpose so the witches sealed them within a mirror and the beasts hear what became of reader

Ooo i love this, reminds me of Lapis Lazuli! /pos I leaned away from headcanons a wee bit if thats alright :)

Cw and tags: angst, nothing really noteworthy

Written pre silent salt release

Long ago, five ancient heroes were created to provide for cookie kind and nurture civilisation. The witches assigned each one a task, a purpose and to solidify their cause they created souljam. But before they were placed in the oven, one witch chimed in.

“What is power without direction? What is a ship without a lighthouse,” they rasped in the light of the oven fire. After that, more dough was presented, and it was infused with the purpose of guiding the heroes.

The six would soon leave, following the cookie like a beacon as they were led to new lands. With the heroes help, cookie kind grew and learned. Unfortunately, with power comes misuse. As time passed, this guiding light became more of a suggestion. The newly born beasts began to wreak havoc in their own twisted ways and were ultimately trapped within a tree of pure silver.

It was a day of celebration, the beasts were gone and the land could now heal. But you mourned, for you had failed and your friends were no more. Unbothered by your regret, the witches appeared to you.

You were just as guilty, you had failed them, the witches and your fellow cookies. So for that, they transformed your dough into a mirror and trapped you deep within the bowels of beast yeast. You could not speak, you could not weep, you could only watch the walls slowly sink with age. While the beasts were trapped within the tree, you were solitary for their actions while they were unknowing. Surrounded by growing vines and struck with immense guilt, never to be found or comforted.

Of course, peace was only temporary. Soon, they broke from their prison. When their beacon could not be found, they looked harder then found an ancient building withering away. Within it, was a mirror in a shiny sugarglass case and in its reflection was you.

🌾 - Mystic Flour pulled you out of the overgrowth with a small snap. Her hand on the handle, she could see the light reflect and knew it was you. She’ll dust off the glass and open her eyes just a little. Her face once bare of emotions now showed some remorse. Her other hand comes to the side. “How cruel,” she murmurs coldly.

🏜️ - Burning spice snatches you away from her. “Who did this to you! I’ll crumble them!” He shouts and in the reflection the witches are presented. His eyes become fiery. “I will destroy all of earth bread to free you!”

🌷 - Eternal sugar holds you next, trying to calm the enraged beast. “You must have been so lonely… ill keep you company forever, in the garden where you’ll be safe.~” She runs a knuckle over the glass in a calming way.

🃏 - Shadow milk pulls you away, floating above the rest along the ceiling. “Oh please! Y/N doesn’t need company they need entertainment! I was soooo bored in that stupid tree!”

🗡️ - Silent salt reaches up and pulls Shadow Milk down by his leg making him yelp and swat at them. They take the mirror and hold the rim protectively. They say nothing, but perhaps they wish they could have protected you…

The five beasts decide the best course of action is to protect you while they figure out how to give you your body back which may or may not involve laboratories, cookie slaughter and dough experimentation.

Mystic flour keeps you close as she meditates and handles duties, assuring you the time spent in the mirror will be meaningless when you emerge.

Burning Spice is begrudgingly careful with you, he’ll rest the mirror on a silk cushion on the arm rest of his throne, asking you what you think he should do and laugh when you give a less destructive answer.

Eternal sugar will bring you to events with other angels, show you how wonderful her paradise is and that if you want to stay there forever then she’ll let you.

Shadow milk will put on puppet shows for you, or bring you to spy on poor unsuspecting cookies as he puppeteers them to lie.

Silent salt is quiet, they’re not distant but a welcome change from the others. It feels as though theres a sliver of solidarity still beneath that armour for you.

[gothamite-rambler]

Batman has to constantly remind them he's not going down with the sinking ship when it's not his fault

Superman: Yeah, so we're turning ourselves into the government. Do you want to meet us there, or should we meet with you?

Batman: …

Wonder Woman: Batman, we're on a time crunch. Just give us your answer.

Batman (while driving, hesitating): First, I'm fine, thank you. How are you? Second, my son, who is in the car with me, is also fine… thankfully. Third, are you on crack?

Superman: I… We as a team voted that it's best if we turn ourselves into the government.

Batman (flatly): That's a decision you made. You guys have fun with it. Can I go now?

Wonder Woman: You’re part of the team! You have to turn yourself in!

Batman: Says who?

Wonder Woman: We decided as a team!

Batman: Yes, good for you. Why am I being dragged into this?

Wonder Woman and Superman: YOU ARE PART OF THIS TEAM!

Damian (in the background): Father, can we get McFlurrys later?

Batman (to Damian): Why do people eat those? They taste disgusting.

Damian: You have to get the one with the Oreos.

Superman: We’re still on the call!

Batman (annoyed): Right, not going in. Bye.

Wonder Woman: Don’t end the call! You have to hear us out.

Batman: I should just hang up, but I’m bored and need something entertaining to listen to. Proceed.

Flash (speaking first): Take one for the team, Bruce.

Batman: Okay, first, when I'm on a call with any of you, call me by my hero name. Commissioner Gordon can get away with that, but I’m not on that level with most of you. Second, I’m not on this team if you want me to do this ridiculousness. Third, seriously, are you on crack?

Green Arrow (in the background): Thank you for not saying heroin.

Damian (in the background): Father, why do they think you’re dumb?

Batman: Because they’re not very smart.

Green Arrow (expecting this): It’s amazing how badly this is going. I told you guys he’d say no, but nobody listens to me.

Batman: This is one of the rare times I agree with Arrow. I didn't sign up for a team where we all turn ourselves in for something I didn’t do.

Superman: It’s a team decision.

Batman: I don’t care.

Superman: But it’s for solidarity.

Batman: That I don’t care about.

Superman: Again, we’re a hero team. We’ve saved the world together; can’t you do this one little thing?

Green Lantern (Hal): And his response is…

Batman: Fighting villains, I enjoy. I wouldn’t be on a sports team, a firefighter team, or a doctor team with you if you're going to be this dense, and I sure as hell won't be on this team if you want me to do something this stupid. Is the brain cell you share gone for the day?

Superman: Okay, well… Kara is going with us.

Batman: And I've lost a little respect for her.

Supergirl: Hey! Wait, you had respect for me?

Batman: Did you contact any of my adult kids? Nightwing? Red Robin? I know Red Hood would just laugh before hanging up.

Superman: We haven't called them yet… but I bet they'd say yes!

Batman: No, they wouldn’t. I know that because they just texted my youngest son, who’s with me, and their messages say, “Not a chance in hell.” I didn’t even have to say anything. I raised them well.

Superman: Can’t you put aside your ego and just do this for us?

Batman: Who’s going to pick up my son from school? Go to my daughter's recital? Attend my other son’s group therapy session? Talk to my future fiancée about where I’ll be? Just curious, which one of you will handle that?

Batman waited for a few seconds, and none of the members responded.

Batman: Right. As stated, I'm not going, and if you call me again with this stupid request, I'm cutting the power to the building for a month. I will let that building decay to prove a point.

Damian: You tell 'em, Father!

Batman ended the video call without another word.

Wonder Woman: He’s getting calmer with his reactions.

Green Arrow: Yeah… Guys, maybe we don’t turn ourselves in this time. Maybe we… do something else? Anything else, because he has a point. I'm not sinking in the Titanic when there's a lifeboat.

Aquaman: Good Titanic metaphor.

Green Arrow: Thanks, man.

[cookies-after-dark]

I feel like you would cook with a burning spice fanfic. Dude what do you think of reader riding him cause he's just so BORED! You do the work this time!

- 🦭

additional tags: explicit content, size difference, gender neutral!reader

ships: burning spice cookie x reader

See now when I think of Burning Spice Cookie, I can't really imagine sex would be one of the things that would bore him. Maybe the same old routine for thousands of years might get a little stale, but I can't ready imagine him just laying there like, "I don't feeeeeel like fucking today, you do it." unless he was being some type of brat, which imo he absolutely is.

If he sits back on his throne, spreads his legs and beckons you to him, that means he wants to see how you would ride this big, horny bull. You can even see how excited he is for it, his cock is basically standing straight up and twitching for you to sink down onto it!

Throwing this in there also, but one thing Burning Spice Cookie never seems to get tired of is how you struggle taking in just a fraction of his mighty size. You jerk and gasp when even just the broad tip of his cock spears you, your weak little cries and hiccups are just making him more eager to ruin you. Burning Spice Cookie demands that you take it, take all of his giant cock right to the hilt, and if he hears you complain even once he won't bother to show you any mercy.

How does it feel to entertain him, to take a dick that's as thick as your forearm?

[heliosunny]

Hello love your writing style and ideas !!

can you write au siren reader x Phainon but not the kind that sings with sweet deception—hers is a quiet, haunting presence, a being who does not need to lure with honeyed songs. . She does not chase her prey; she waits, watches, lets the prey come to her and whether by choice or by fate, all who cross her path will find themselves drawn into the abyss.

I wrote the yandere one is Phainon *cough if I'm mistaken, please forgive me.

Yandere!Phainon x Siren!Reader

Phainon had spent his life hunting monsters.

The sea was full of them—things with too many teeth, too many eyes, lurking beneath the waves where no man dared tread. He had slain creatures the size of ships, things whispered about in fearful legends. The bounty was good, the thrill intoxicating.

But you were something else entirely.

You looked at him from the water’s edge. A haunting silhouette against the crashing waves.

He had been told sirens lured men with songs, full of honeyed lies, but you did not sing. You did not need to. Something deeper, something older called to him. The tide lapped at his boots, coaxing, beckoning.

He should have turned back.

Instead, he returned. Again and again. Until the sea smelled less like salt and more like you, until the nights on his ship felt hollow without your gaze watching.

The first time, it was a corpse.

Phainon stood at the water’s edge, the scent of blood thick in the air. The body—a man, throat slit clean, slumped from his grasp and hit the waves with a hollow splash.

“I thought of you” he murmured, “While I was cutting him open. I wondered if you’d like it fresh.”

The second time, the offering was still alive.

The man kicked, thrashed, screamed. Phainon held him by the hair, forcing him to kneel in the shallow water. The fear in his victim’s eyes was nothing compared to the madness in Phainon’s own.

“She’s watching” he whispered to the struggling man, “You should feel honored.”

Then he looked up, as if seeking approval. His hands trembled—not with hesitation, but with exhilaration. “Do you like it better this way? When they’re still warm?”

Phainon smiled. “I’ll bring more.”

---

Phainon sat on the shore, a strange grin playing at his lips. The moonlight turned his silver hair ghostly, his hands moving deftly over the instrument. He did not look surprised to see you—no, if anything, he looked satisfied.

“You’re here” he mused, fingers never faltering.

The melody shifted, softer now, coaxing. It did not pull like a siren’s song, but it lingered in the air, refusing to be ignored.

“Can you understand me?” His voice was almost teasing, “Or have I been speaking to the waves all this time?”

You replied him with nothing but silence.

Phainon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. His hands stilled on the strings. “You know,” he said, “I’m an expert.”

“If you don’t come to me, I’ll find a way to get you myself.”

The tide licked at the shore, rising as if in warning. Phainon's fingers pressed idly against the strings of his instrument, though the song had long since faded.

“I was starting to think you were nothing but a shadow in the water.”

You did not respond.

The wind howled between you both, salty mist clinging to your hair.

“You believe you can take me?” You asked at last.

Phainon laughed. It was not the laugh of a man deterred, but of a man entertained. “Oh, dear siren,” he murmured, standing slowly, his boots sinking into the wet sand. “You mistake me.”

“I don’t need to take you.” His fingers brushed over the hilt of the blade at his hip, not as a threat, but as a promise. “I just need to make sure you never leave me.”

----

Humans had no strength in the water. You knew this. Had seen them flail and drown, helpless against the current. Humans were fragile creatures swayed by fear, by curiosity, by the gentle pull of the tide. You did not need to sing, nor whisper sweet deceptions. You only needed to wait.

And they came.

The first was a sailor. He did not see you at first—only the glint of something pale beneath the waves, something shifting in the current. He stepped closer.

By the time he realized his mistake, the ocean had already swallowed him whole.

The second was younger, trembling as he peered over the railing of his ship, searching for whatever force had dragged his crewmate down. He never saw the hands that pulled him under.

The third did not even scream.

One by one, you took them, the water welcoming their bodies, their struggles fading into the deep. The abyss always called, and they, like all before them, answered.

splash

Phainon.

You turned, expecting him on the shore, but no—he had come from above, from a ship lurking just beyond the reach of the waves.

And before you could move, something cold snapped around your wrist.

Bracelet?

Phainon grinned, hair fanning in the water like silver thread, eyes burning with something near-manic. “Got you.”

Phainon had no place in the water.

He was human— no matter how steady his hands, no matter how many monsters he had slain. The ocean did not care. It did not recognize him.

And it swallowed him whole.

The weight of his own foolishness dragging him down. He had leapt in willingly, with no plan, no survival in mind.

Typical.

You swept him under without hesitation.

The current embraced him instantly, pulling him deeper, his body twisting in the tide. His fingers brushed against you, grasping for something, anything. But you had already let go.

Bubbles burst from his lips, frantic, uneven. His arms thrashed, desperate to break the water’s grip. It was pathetic.

You turned away.

And yet—

Something in you twisted.

A pull urging you to turn back.

You did not want to.

But you did.

You moved before you could think.

Your arms wrapped around him, dragging him up, breaking through the surface with force. His head lolled against your shoulder, his breath nonexistent. The waves carried you both, faster than they should have, as if the sea itself was trying to rid itself of him.

You pulled him onto the sand, his body cold, heavy. For a moment, you hovered, staring at the rise and fall of his chest—shallow, struggling, but alive.

You should not have done this.

With one last glance, you turned and slipped back into the depths, vanishing into the tide before he could wake.

----

The thing on your wrist pulsed, faint but constant, sinking into your skin like rot. A weight that did not belong, that was not of the sea. And worse—

It would not come off.

You clawed at it, pried at the lock, but the metal held fast, unyielding. The more you struggled, the more it burned, a creeping heat that should not exist in the abyss.

It was wrong. It did not belong here.

Phainon.

Even now, his presence lingered, his touch wrapped around you in this cursed thing he had left behind. He was not here, but somehow, he had still reached you.

And for the first time in your existence, the ocean did not feel safe.

---

The cave was silent, save for the steady drip of water against stone.

You sat near the entrance, where the tide reached just enough to lap at your legs. The bracelet on your wrist gleamed dully in the dim light, unyielding no matter how many times you tried to pry it off.

Your nails scraped against it, frustration curling deep in your chest.

Phainon had done this.

You did not know how, did not know why, but the truth was undeniable.

You should not have saved him.

Fine.

If you could not remove it yourself, you would find the one who had placed it.

And this time, you would not hesitate.

---

You had tracked him to this place. A hidden inlet carved into the cliffside, shielded from the open sea, the entrance barely visible against the jagged rock. It was a place humans rarely came, yet his scent lingered here, fresh, undeniable.

He had been waiting.

You emerged from the water slowly, deliberately, stepping onto the slick stone with movements far too steady for something that should not belong on land. Your tail had given way to legs, but the shift felt sluggish, unnatural. The bracelet burned against your wrist as if resisting the transformation, as if tethering you to something unseen.

You did not call for him. You did not need to.

You felt his presence before you saw him.

“You came.”

Phainon stepped forward, into the dim light filtering through the cave’s mouth. His clothes were damp, his silver hair still tousled from the ocean air.

“I knew you would.”

Your gaze drifted to his hands, resting casually at his sides.

Slowly, you lifted your wrist, the thing glinting dully in the weak light.

“What did you do?”

“Ah. You noticed.”

“Remove it.”

“I could,” he admitted, his voice light, conversational. “But why would I?”

“You have no power here, human.”

Phainon hummed, stepping closer, unbothered by the threat laced in your tone. “Don’t I?”

You stiffened. A slow, creeping heat crawled up your arm, spreading through your veins, dragging at something within you.

Phainon watched you carefully, eyes gleaming with that same maddening certainty.

“You feel it, don’t you? Now you’re bound.” His fingers twitched at his sides. “To me.”

“You think this will keep you safe?”

Phainon exhaled a laugh “Safe?” He leaned in just slightly, as if daring you to move. “Who said anything about safe?”

“I can take you with me,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “But I didn’t.”

The accessory on your wrist pulsed, a silent reminder of his touch, his claim.

“I gave you your freedom.” He tilted his head, studying your expression, his eyes gleaming like a predator waiting for its prey to realize it had already been caught. “And that’s generous of me.”

His smile sharpened, his chest rising and falling just slightly faster, as if he had been waiting for this—waiting for you to acknowledge him, to see him, to let him stand in your presence.

“Ah…” His voice came quieter, more breath than sound, as if he had to steady himself. “You’re—”

He cut himself off, exhaling a soft, shaking laugh.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped to one knee.

Not in surrender.

In devotion.

You stared at him.

Phainon—kneeling, breathing uneven, staring up at you as if he had finally reached the thing he had been chasing all this time.

This was a human. A creature of land, of fleeting years, of brittle bones and fragile flesh.

You did not take things like this.

You consumed, you drowned, you let them sink into the abyss and never resurface. You did not let them linger, did not let them follow you, did not let them worship you like this.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I?”

“You think you have done something that matters.” You lifted your wrist. “You think this changes what you are.”

His grin widened.

“Oh, I know what I am.” He tilted his head, silver hair falling over his forehead, breath still slightly uneven as he watched you, enthralled. “The real question is—do you know what you are now?”

You did not answer.

Because you did not need to.

You were what you had always been. A creature of the abyss. A hunter that did not chase, a being that did not need to lure, because all things that crossed your path fell eventually.

Phainon was no different.

And yet—he was still here.

Still breathing.

Still kneeling before you.

You lowered your wrist slowly. “You will get nothing from me.”

Phainon’s grin did not falter. “I already have.”

You moved before he could react.

Sharp teeth sank into his flesh, the taste of salt and blood blooming across your tongue. His breath hitched, but there was no pain—no fear—only that same maddening exhilaration.

You ripped yourself away, your eyes locking with his for the briefest moment—one final warning, one final denial—before the sea surged around you.

And then you were gone.

The cold water swallowed you whole, the ocean embracing you once more. You did not look back.

But Phainon—

He remained kneeling, staring at the crimson dripping from the fresh wound on his hand.

Slowly, he exhaled, his fingers flexing as if memorizing the sting.

Then he smiled.

A deep, satisfied grin, as if the pain only proved something he had already known.

You had left your mark on him.

And that, to him, was enough.

----

The land felt unnatural beneath your feet.

It was not the first time you had taken this form, but it had never felt like this before—heavy, constricting, a shape that did not suit you.

Still, you moved without hesitation.

Phainon’s dwelling was easy to find. He had left traces of himself everywhere—the scent of salt and steel, the remnants of blood staining the docks, the unmistakable pull of the thing on your wrist that told you he was close.

He had made no effort to hide.

You entered with ease, silent as the tide, your presence slipping through the space like a current unseen. He would not know you like this. He could not. To him, you were just another figure in the world of men, another stranger walking paths that were never meant for you.

“You should’ve knocked.”

His voice cut through the still air.

Phainon stood just beyond the dim candlelight, leaning against the wooden frame of the room, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He looked... amused.

“Well?” His eyes glinted, sharp and knowing. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”

Your gaze flickered past him, tracing the walls of the dimly lit room.

They were covered in remnants of things that did not belong on land.

Bones, scales, preserved limbs from creatures that had once moved through the depths with silent grace. And among them—stuffed figures, carefully stitched, resembling the very things he had hunted. Trophies. Proof of conquest.

A silent declaration of power.

This was the world he belonged to.

You turned your attention back to him. “I apologize,” you said, your voice smooth, carefully measured. “I did not know this was your home.”

Phainon’s gaze didn’t waver. He was studying you now. Not like when he looked at you in the water. Not like when he had dropped to his knees, breathing uneven, his voice trembling with something unhinged and worshipful.

This was different.

Because he did not recognize you.

You offered the slightest tilt of your head. “My name is—” you paused, giving him a name that was not your own, one that fit the form you had taken.

Phainon didn’t react immediately. He simply held your gaze, as if assessing whether you were worth acknowledging at all.

“Hm.” He pushed off the wooden frame, stepping fully into the dim light. “And what do you want?”

To hunt the monster in front of you. Him.

----

You moved carefully, your steps barely making a sound against the worn floor. Phainon had already gone to sleep—or so you had assumed. His breathing had evened out behind closed doors, his presence heavy but unmoving.

It gave you time.

Your fingers ghosted over surfaces as you searched, slipping between shadows, eyes scanning the strange collection that surrounded you.

The house was decorated with death.

Everywhere you looked, pieces of creatures long lost to the sea were displayed like trophies—monsters pinned to walls, their hollow eyes frozen in expressions they had never worn in life. A cruel mimicry of their existence, preserved only to serve as proof of their defeat.

And among them—

Some were familiar.

The curve of a fin, the shape of a claw, remnants of things that once swam in the abyss where you ruled.

You turned your attention back to your search. You needed something—anything—to break the annoying thing on your wrist.

Eventually, your steps led you into a smaller chamber. The air was damp, cooler than the rest of the house.

A bathroom.

Your eyes flickered toward the tub—and stilled.

The water was filled to the brim.

Strange. Phainon had gone to sleep. Humans did not need water in such quantities.

The liquid was still, reflecting the dim glow of the lantern outside the doorway. But as you stepped closer, a ripple passed through its surface—slow, unnatural, like something unseen had disturbed it from below.

You ignored the faint unease creeping into your chest, instead stepping toward the sink. If nothing else, you would wash your hands, rid yourself of the lingering sensation of this place before continuing your search.

The water ran cool over your skin, grounding you. You let out a slow breath, muscles relaxing just slightly—

Then your gaze drifted back to the tub.

The water’s color was wrong. Dark, shifting. A shade that did not belong in a home on land, thick with something more than just salt. It almost seemed to breathe, pulsing in slow waves against the porcelain edges.

Your brows furrowed.

Push

A force slammed into your back before you could react, knocking you off balance. Your hands caught the edge of the tub for the briefest second before another shove drove you forward—

And then you were submerged.

The second the water swallowed you, your body betrayed you. Pain lanced through your legs, twisting through your bones like an unseen force was dragging you back to what you were meant to be. The shift came violently, your skin splitting, merging, reshaping.

The familiar weight of your tail returned, but—

Your upper body remained unchanged, still locked in its human form, even as the rest of you was forced back into what you truly were. Panic surged, but before you could push yourself free, fingers curled over the edge of the tub.

Phainon. Again.

His grip was steady, his knuckles white against the porcelain as he leaned over you, looking down with something unreadable in his gaze.

This had been planned.

“Caught you.”

"You know," he murmured, flexing the mark of his injured hand, the blood welling where your teeth had sunk deep, "I almost didn’t recognize you."

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over your face, your body—your still-human form above the water, the betraying flicker of your tail below.

"But you should’ve been more careful."

A breath of laughter escaped him, "The way you move. The way you watch." His eyes gleamed, sharp with something close to amusement. "You were always so quiet."

He leaned down, one hand braced against the porcelain, keeping you caged.

"But no human has ever looked at me the way you do."

"No human hesitates before speaking like you do."

"And no human would ever think they could hide from me."

His free hand lifted, trailing over the water’s surface, fingertips barely grazing the liquid that had forced your transformation.

"Now that you’re here…" He hummed, his expression unreadable, but his next words were clear, "I think I’ll keep you."

Water surged as you twisted violently, your tail thrashing against the porcelain. With a sharp flick, you sent a wave straight into Phainon’s face, forcing him to pull back, the liquid splattering against his clothes, his skin.

You didn’t waste a second.

Hands gripping the sides of the tub, you tried to pull yourself free, the weight of the water slowing you down but not stopping you. Your muscles tensed, every instinct screaming to get away, to get out, but a strong hand clamped onto your shoulder.

Before you could react, Phainon shoved you back down.

The force sent you crashing beneath the surface, the water swallowing you whole. It dragged at your skin, the strange substance wrapping around you like a second set of hands, pulling, twisting—

And then the last remnants of your human form shattered.

Your body shifted entirely, the final traces of your disguise ripped away as your tail fully emerged, scales gleaming dark beneath the unnatural light.

You gasped sharply as you resurfaced, claws scraping against the slick porcelain, but before you could lash out, something warm pressed against your shoulder.

Teeth.

A sharp sting bloomed as Phainon’s mouth closed over your skin.

A growl rumbled in your throat, low and threatening, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers dug into your arm, holding you in place, his breath warm against your damp skin.

The pressure of his teeth lingered even as he finally released you.

Then he lifted his gaze to meet yours, and the look in his eyes sent a chill down your spine.

"That," he said, "was for trying to run."

Before you could pull away, his grip on your wrist tightened.

Then, without hesitation, he sank his teeth into your hand.

A sharp sting shot up your arm.

"Let go."

You did what you must, you commanded him to.

For a moment, his fingers slackened, his pupils dilating slightly. His body swayed just the faintest bit forward, caught on the hook of your call, just as countless others had before.

But then—

His breath steadied.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips.

And from beneath his soaked shirt, he pulled something into view.

A dark, worn amulet hung from a chain, the metal glinting in the dim light, etched with carvings you could not immediately decipher.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" His voice was calm, almost amused, his grip tightening once more.

"Why do you think I can hunt other ones?"

Your eyes snapped to the amulet, realization settling in.

That was why he had been able to hunt. Why your kind had never been able to pull him into the depths as easily as the others.

Your attempt to escape was swift—your body surged forward, water splashing violently as you twisted, tail coiling with the force needed to propel yourself away.

But Phainon was faster.

A hand shot out, seizing your wrist with a strength that sent a jolt through your bones. Before you could react, before you could tear yourself free, a sharp yank sent you crashing back into the water.

The tub overflowed, liquid spilling onto the floor, but neither of you cared.

You thrashed, snarling, claws raking against his arm. But Phainon only gritted his teeth, his grip ironclad as he pressed down, forcing you deeper into the water.

The strange substance swirled around you, clinging, binding, warping.

Your muscles locked. A cold sensation seeped into your skin, into your veins—an unnatural weight, something that latched onto the very essence of what you were. Your vision blurred for a moment.

You tried to lurch forward, but your body barely responded.

And Phainon—Phainon only watched.

"You feel it, don’t you?"

You bared your teeth, refusing to acknowledge it. Refusing to let him see the way your chest tightened, the way your limbs felt heavier.

But he already knew.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing the bracelet still bound to your wrist.

"It’s not just some ordinary restraint," he continued, tilting his head. "You thought I was careless, didn’t you? That I just let you slip away before?"

He leaned in, "I was never letting you go."

You hissed, tail lashing, but the motion was sluggish, weaker than before.

"Fight all you want," he mused, fingers pressing lightly against your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "It won’t change anything."

"I told you, didn’t I? If you wouldn’t come to me…"

His fingers trailed down your throat, resting lightly against your collarbone.

"I’d find a way to take you myself."

You had underestimated him.

And now, you were his.

[usedpidemo]

Getting closer (Kang Hyewon)

“All I’m saying is—” Hyewon looks away, drink in hand, taking a little sip, calm and alluring as ever, “if you only want to see me naked, then you could have just said so.”

You widely stare back, silent, indifferent—or at least pretend to be. It’s gotten you a fair amount of awards, after all. It’s not the slightest bit of convincing whatsoever.  

She laughs, softly, as if this was the expected outcome. “So I’m taking that as an admission.” 

Setting down the near-empty wine glass on the bathroom sink, Hyewon attempts to walk away, only to be stopped by a sudden pull. Your hand appears tightly wrapped around her dainty wrist, unwilling to let go. Your eyes aimlessly wander up and down the empty void that is her black dress. There are hardly any thoughts behind that predictably empty head of yours, only the simplest of desires.

You catch the subtlest grin forming on her saccharine lips. You fucking hate how she makes you feel. How she makes your heart race with every exchange.

Despite all the time you’ve spent together, you wish you got to know her better.

—————

The last year and a half of your career has mostly centered around one thing, or in this case, one person: Kang Hyewon. There’s also this drama starring your pairing as co-leads, and you’ve been promoting together, but your names make up more of the headlines than the very show. Your names are synonymously tied together akin to an actual couple.

Unsurprisingly, Hyewon is damn gorgeous. It’s how she’s getting the calls to begin with. Another one of those former singers turned actors looking to be taken seriously within the larger entertainment industry. Most never make it past their first project and fall back on their old careers, with some completely flaming out of the spotlight altogether. She’s an exception. A minor part here, a supporting cameo there—until she’s more than pleasant eye candy. A starlet who knows how to pick what roles would showcase her talents the most. 

She’s the perfect blend of beauty goddess and hotshot young star that the internet can get behind.

So it comes as a surprise when she’s casted as second fiddle to you, the first billing—and everyone comes away talking about her more. The scene stealer. 

(This plucky rival agent, investigating a case your character has been trailing for years, barely scraping by with the thinnest of clues, only for her to uncover the mystery only days after starting the investigation. The writing screams Mary Sue, but she acts convincing and vulnerable enough to escape the scathing think pieces that’s commonly associated with such characters. Not to mention: you both look damn good together on screen and during your public appearances.

It’s a team that sailed a thousand ships—both for your characters and in the real world.)

The consummate professional you are, you don’t think much of it. Your filming experience can only be described as businesslike. Except for the scenes where you’re together on screen, you’ve been separated at arms’ length, only exchanging words between takes to keep any further relationship from developing. It’s only during the press tour where you’ve finally gotten somewhat close.

Perhaps a little too close for comfort. Enough to make video compilations by overzealous fans who think you and Hyewon are really an item. The evidence is everywhere—in interviews, behind the scenes content, and on both your Instagram pages. At least, that’s what they want to believe. Everyone else brushes it off as two hot people being hot together, and not much else.

Here’s the thing: you love Hyewon—that much is true. The question now is: does she love you back?

Thankfully, your duo doesn’t get in the way of the show being lauded, despite making up a majority of its fandom. Positive reviews from both critics and viewers, especially in regards to your chemistry. The connection between you two is one in a million, something that can’t be built over years and years of working together. It also helps your performances sell the dynamic incredibly well—well enough to create those delusional shippers that form the bedrock of your partnership. 

Your names were positioned to go far during awards season. Not the consensus top pick, but as dark horse contenders to steal one every now and then. And while you both won your fair share of accolades, neither of you ended up walking away with the top prize. The conversation during the final ceremony of the year consisted primarily of the media and viewers talking about how your appearances together these last few months—and how you’re a match made in heaven. 

Everyone’s gonna miss this pairing—and so will you.

Now you’re back at square one. Having snuck away from the afterparty currently celebrating the dozen or so awards your show won earlier tonight, you’ve brought Hyewon back to your hotel room. Neither of you cared once you both lost your respective categories. The pundits thought you each only had the slimmest of odds to win, so why bother. Hell, you were both itching to leave as soon as the red carpet concluded. 

It’s all behind you now. You’re finally free from the glitz, glamor, and chaos of these vanity ceremonies and can really focus on what really matters—the pretty girl that you most likely won’t be seeing starring tomorrow. Your careers and interests couldn’t be any further apart: your main focus is movies, while hers are dramas. Both of you remain booked and busy for the next few years with different projects, with not a single one reuniting you two for the foreseeable future.

Back to Hyewon. She’s looking down at her wrist, tightly held by your hand. She allows it. You can feel her pulse. You sense that your hearts are racing in unison, tense and anxious.

“Are you gonna do something?” she questions, daring you to pull the trigger. She knows something you don’t—or maybe you do. You’re blinded by fear to realize it. “The night is fleeting. If not now, then when?”

Her words ring through your head. 

If not now, then when?

The same five words, ordered in the exact same way—etched in tiny letters on her skin.

You still remember everything—frame by frame, down to the last details. On screen, it’s implied. In your mind, it canonically happened. She took her shirt off, exposing herself and the scars of battle, and you were gonna go there. In your characters’ supposed words, ‘Clean’’ in your own unique way.

It was ultimately never shot. Bare minimum of fanservice and completely unnecessary, the director said. 

The tattoo sticks out, not only because of how it's deeply embedded on her otherwise pristine, lithe figure, but also because it represents the last 18 months of your career.

During this period, there are a lot of things that you’ve regret—and will regret. The fact you’ve kept contact with her during filming at a minimum, keeping your interactions strictly between takes and creating a negative air around you in her eyes. The fact it took you so long to exchange numbers, only getting it done during the press tour. The fact that you never return her messages when she constantly reaches out to you, whether through text or on your Instagram. The fact you haven’t thanked her enough times during your acceptance speeches, even when you mention her name in almost every other sentence. If there’s anything you want to admit, it’s that Hyewon is everything.

Most importantly, the fact that you fucking love her, to the point where you’d yearn moments when you’re not beside her—and you still lack the will to confess to her. Even right now. When she’s right at your fingertips.

Perhaps she knows this. The signs were there all along. How she often posts your red carpet photos together and tags you in them. How she also mentions you as much during her acceptance speeches and credits you as a reason for her improvements in acting, even referencing specific advice you’ve given her. The biggest hint, however, are the dresses she’s been wearing to these galas, most evident being tonight. Simple all black, tailor made for her frame, showing off her assets for flaunting to the cameras. 

Earlier, she led you to an empty part of the theater to say something in private. “I wore this just for you,” she said—and from that point, you had to get her alone, whatever it takes.

Really, Hyewon has no intention to leave tonight. She’s just waiting for those magic words. There’s no other logical reason for her to be here, other than for you.

She might as well be holding up a huge signpost with all her requests written in capital letters. 

“If you’re not gonna do anything,” she says, tone casual, slipping one strap of her dress down her shoulder, the one half of the fabric dropping a fair amount. “Then I might as well do it myself. I was hoping you’d take this off me—”

“Stop.” 

You grab her other hand, close to touching the other strap, the dress more than ready to fall down. She raises her eyebrows in amusement. Afterward, she puts the seized hand down, convincing you to release the grip. 

Another win for Hyewon. You’ve lost count as to how many times she’s been messing with you throughout awards season. Probably in the hundreds. Thousands if you count the interviews and little jabs during her speeches. Every mention of your name is an immediate sign of trouble. You can sense she’s enjoying every single moment, relishing the remaining time you have left. Meanwhile, it’s clear on your face that you’re stressed. 

But for what?

“If it hasn’t gotten through your thick skull, then I have no choice but to explain it.” Hyewon climbs atop the bathroom sink, strong enough to lift herself off the ground. She pours the glass with new wine; it’s not meant for you. Her attitude flips instantaneously like a switch, composed and readying herself as if it were another photoshoot. 

Taking a sip of the drink, she pours the rest all over her dress. It serves no purpose anymore. it’s undeniable that she knows what she’s doing. That elegant yet cocky smile is permanently seared into your brain. Someone this haughty shouldn’t be this beautiful and seductive. “You can stand there and waste the night away, or you can do something about it. All up to you.”

You can only sigh. Whether out of wistfulness or annoyance is up for interpretation. You can add taking her back to your hotel room and taking this role in your ever growing list of regrets. When it’s all said and done, it’ll definitely be as long as the career documentary they’ll make about you in 50 years.

What more do you have to lose? 

This will all be behind you soon enough.

You finally stop giving her the cold shoulder. “God, I really wish you weren’t such a tease,” you remark, pulling on the dress strap she previously slid down. “Because otherwise, it would have been so much easier.”

Hyewon seems to have taken your words seriously, because she suddenly kisses you—as in, relentlessly smothers you. Her arms wrap around your neck, slowly pulling you close into an embrace. She smells of alcohol and perfume. An unusual concoction that you can drown yourself in.

“Only if you say the magic word,” she says, gently laughing between kisses. The lower half of your face is full of pale lipstick marks. It was foolish to think she had turned a new leaf, knowing how intentional Hyewon can be with everything.

You’ve really got no other choice.

“I love you,” you confess, but in the smallest audible voice imaginable—hiding that reluctance behind your tone. 

Hyewon pulls herself back, smiling toothily at you, borderline snorting. Her expressions convey the idea that you told her a joke, which it may as well be. 

“That’s it? Doesn’t sound like someone who loves me,” she remarks, tone evidently disparaging.

“Fuck me.” The groan comes out instinctively, as if this wasn’t your first time getting burned like this. Your head is raised to the ceiling, asking the gods for an out.

“That’s my line,” she spouts, her response almost as instantaneous. Wit comes naturally to Hyewon. The countless viewers and interviewers who’ve laughed can speak on her behalf.

“You’re gonna turn everything I say into a joke, are you?” you ask, knowing you’ve willingly fallen for the easiest bait in the entire world.

“You’re gonna turn everything I say into a joke, are you?” she repeats, mockingly imitating your voice, much to your utter chagrin. This isn’t part of some romcom or a sketch. This is real. Everything comes back around to Hyewon. She laughs—basks in your suffering.

It’s the kind of trait that would leave you second guessing whether you really love her or not. As it turns out, the public loves celebrities with a playful sense of humor. Not even you are innocent—you’ve been caught red-handed on camera a few times. Hyewon doesn’t need to reaffirm herself.

But she would love to hear it straight from the source.

“Say it. Say it.” Hyewon is urging you—demanding you—as if it were a matter of life or death. Her hands are everywhere, gripping you by the cheek and the throat like her prized possessions, threatening to choke the life out of you. 

Truthfully, this was coming the moment she stepped through those doors for the first table read. Hyewon’s gravity is inescapable.

“Love you—Hyem, please—” 

Struggling to push back against her hold, you can tell that she’s taking pleasure in every moment she has you like this: wrapped around her finger, so whipped over her that it’s alarming. There’s little use in trying to be coy or subtle. If she wanted you to go down to the afterparty in nothing but your boxers, you’d fold in a heartbeat. She’s the kind of girl you’d happily end up in a scandal with, someone you’d throw your career away in exchange for one timeless night, against the advice of everyone who knows better.

She knows this too. Look at the coy grin spreading on her face. A smile perfect for the front cover of any magazine or commercial. It’s the perfect facade for the attitude hiding beneath.

“I love you Hyem,” you repeat, showing a bit more desperation and sincerity this time. You’re breathing against her neck, the idea of pressing your lips against her skin a dire need. It’s unfortunate you can’t make it look like an accident—as is the idea of your bodies sinking down on the bathroom countertop. “For the longest time, I wanted you, but—”

Only now do you come to the simplest realization: there are no accidents.

Normally, you should feel some shame for being this oblivious. How a girl like Hyewon is giving out all these hints, to the point where she might as well be spreading her legs wide and pointing down at her cunt with a colorful sign. Hell, a thigh is peeking through her dress, pressing on your leg right now. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about working with other actors, it’s that chemistry comes naturally—it can’t be taught.

And your bodies are doing exactly that. The friction between you can’t be any more tense.

“Then show me.” She sighs against your ear, pulling on the topmost button of your suit, pushing down the matching coat. Her leg extends around your limb, goading you to pull away, even though leaving the pretty sight right in front of you is the last thing on your mind. 

You can only breathe. Slow. Hesitant. There's not a lot of hours left, and you’re wasting more by taking your sweet time—resting your gaze on her pale shoulder, admiring all the little details. In essence, you’re doing the complete opposite of what Hyewon wants. She’s showing a little frustration, proving how much better of an actress she is than you. Imagine being in her shoes, beckoning to someone astronomically unaware for months. So much energy and effort could have been saved if she chose to leave you out to dry. If you weren’t so preoccupied with thoughts of her, the many ways this little scene can go, you’d be wondering why she’s this persistent. 

Maybe you’re just as important of a character in her story too, or you’re both stubborn in your own ways. Perhaps both.

None of that is your concern right now. You’re cupping Hyewon’s face, kissing her, nibbling down on her creamy skin, reaching up to her lips by the way of her neck, pulling on the strap of her dress little by little. In response, she’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear, removing your dress shirt one button at a time. It feels like you’re going through the motions, acting under the words of an intimacy coordinator and a director. Slowly but surely, it’s all coming together, until—

“Stop.” 

You pull back, noticing your shirt is nearly undone as you look past her and at the mirror. Both dress straps are halfway down her arms, the fabric a mess, waiting to be swept away. 

You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. “What’s up?” 

Hyewon tilts her head at an angle, unsatisfied. She’s staring at you intently, taking a moment to analyze you like you’re a problem to solve—which you are—before coming to a rather alarming conclusion. “You don’t seem like you want me that bad.”

The remark doesn’t register in your brain. “What do you mean—”

She yanks you forward for a deep kiss, cutting you off. Reciprocating her passion comes naturally—and so does everything else. The movement of your hands, taking lease of her back, tearing through the fabric of her dress, coming back to her cheeks, until you stop feeling cloth and register more flesh. Feeling her skin becomes your new addiction, something you can’t get enough of. 

Watching her other movies—for research purposes—you knew she was well endowed, even when they were not on full display.  Some of her previous gala dresses truly put a spotlight on her cleavage. Part of you thought it was editing trickery, a perfectly taken photo at the right time, or a bra doing the heavy lifting. All three even. But holding them now, with nothing in between, you simply couldn’t believe how well they’ve been hidden from you. 

Her tits fold, go flush, and her nipples stiffen at your touch. They feel so right—as if they were handmade for you.

“God, Hyem—” you breathe out, savoring the sensation of her mounds in your clasp, unwilling to let go. Her taut nipples jerk with every run of your palms. If only you could rest your head between them, but your current position won’t allow you. 

“They feel so good right?” Hyewon moans in response, shedding your unbuttoned shirt off your body and tossing it to the floor, taking lease of your muscles and back. Her dress bunches up around her waist, practically collapsing when she decides to get up from the sink. Although an expected outcome, you’re both surprised that you’ve managed to get each other’s clothes off.

And you’re only getting started.

Pushing you away, Hyewon meets you at your level. Gravity does the rest. She stands before you in nothing but heels. What a mental image to remember her after tonight. She leaves you frozen and trembling, jaw agape, your eyes in a daze, unable to find a place to settle your fleeting gaze on—until she rests her hands around your shoulders. You’re caught up in your own disbelief to meet her lovely gaze and that rather sweet smile, quite the difference from her bare state.

She lifts up a leg, pushing herself onto you for another passionate kiss. Taking advantage, her legs eventually wrap around your waist, bearing all her weight on your grasp. Despite her surprise attack, she’s feathery enough to carry around. It certainly helps that she’s not the heaviest girl you’ve lifted before; you have some experience—mostly unpleasant and usually backbreaking. Still, you’ll treat her like some delicate object that crumbles at the slightest touch. Something—or someone—you can’t ruin, or else you’d be ruined too.

You both end up in the living room, deeply engrossed in a fiery passion that’s too hot for cameras. Lifting her high, your lips find their way to her chest, pressing them in the place where they rightfully belong. Hyewon is stubborn, pushing your head further up to meet your lips in a direct, frantic kiss. Back and forth, you take turns between her tits and her lips, unintentionally slamming her against a wall, eliciting a few yelps out of her. 

It doesn’t bother you both in the slightest. You hold her there, kissing down her abdomen and ribs, coming to the tiny inked part of her figure. The same tattoo that’s been ingrained in your head since you first saw them.

You mutter the very words against her skin. 

“If not now, then when.”

They’ve never been so relevant till right now. You softly kiss the ink, silently thanking her for saving you from a lifetime’s worth of regret.

Hyewon winces, throws her head back, moans up to the ceiling. Her nails brush through your hair, then claw at your nape as you remain fixated on her tattooed rib. She deserves to be adored and worshiped.

“Look at me babe,” she murmurs, gently tilting you up, faint at your touch. Against your desires, you follow. “Put me down. You know why I’m here.”

You oblige without a second thought—and you’re both on a level playing field again.

Still, you can’t help but kiss her right after. She reciprocates the favor. You’re a perfect match. Even as you’re making out, you’re thinking of ways to get messy and get the jump on her while she’s preoccupied. 

It ends up being your biggest mistake.

Both of you wrestle for control over the other, a scuffle that ends up knocking down a few appliances and tableware. The sound of glass shattering rips through the hotel room floor louder than your collective moans ever will. For someone with a lithe figure, Hyewon proves to be much stronger than you were led to believe. It shows when you try to push her onto another table; you both end up crashing to the floor seconds later. 

From there, it’s whoever is the first to get up, and you knew it was all over from there.

Hyewon leads you into the sole bedroom, shoving you onto the mattress. Unrelenting, she slams onto you right after, pinning you down with her bare hands. Surprising her with your own strength, you reach for her raven locks through her ironclad grip of your wrists. Your lips continue to crash like waves against rocks, neither of you willing to back down. There’s a clear disparity between you: she wants you more.

To further prove her point, she presses her palms down on your chest, sitting over you upright, straddled on your lap. She’s never looked better.

Making quick work of your trousers, your cock is freed from its confines, only to be immediately caught up in Hyewon’s hand. Her grip spreads through your groin, turning breathing into an absolute nightmare. The one fear that’s been haunting your mind these last few months, finally realized. 

And it’s staring you down with an innocent yet wicked smile.

“You have no idea how long I wanted this,” she remarks, her sultry voice sending shivers down your spine. Arching down, she presses her tongue forward on your throbbing tip. Combined with the pressure she’s building with her hand, holes puncture through your lungs. And right on command, you’re leaking. She’s lapping your cock in circles, slow and agonizing, taking every little drop of precum seeping. You can only tremble beneath her, utterly defenseless. “Remembering when I was tapping your foot with my heel earlier tonight?”

She leaves you in such a dizzying spiral that you can’t even look directly at her, let alone formulate a reply. Meanwhile, her eyes remain fixed on you, doe-eyed with innocence, yet her actions are cruel. Breathing proves to be a struggle, let alone returning with a response. “What about it?”

“I wanted you to follow me to the bathroom. And I wanted you to fuck me in there.”

Honest to God, that was not the first thought on your mind. If anything, the presence of many proved to be the ideal shield in keeping yourself away from Hyewon. Losing best actor was the greatest blessing in disguise, as it meant you didn’t have to look straight into her magnetic eyes during your theoretical speech and make an embarrassment of yourself in front of hundreds in attendance, and millions watching on television. 

Now that you’re in bed with no way to escape, you can only accept your fate.

“I’m not the best at reading the room,” you comment, sheepishly shaking your head.

“Not surprising, honestly,” she says, rewarding your candor with a kiss—on your tip. Then another. More heartwarming than arousing, if anything. “Anyone ever told you that you’re kind of a dork?”

“Not the first time I’ve heard it from a girl,” you say, in an attempt to show some wit, only to be met with a stiff grip on your cock. “Ah—fuck—”

A bit more force and Hyewon could break you in half with her mere hand alone. She’s cold, calculating, and cruel. Her expression seems apathetic, yet deep down, you can tell she’s having so much fun toying and teasing you, stealing what little semblance of willpower you have. And to think she’s this demure, sometimes funny celebrity with a certain image that’s universally admired by many. 

Behind that gaze, she’s thinking of more ways to further ruin you.

“I don’t think a dork like you has been with other girls,” she remarks, leaning forward to tease a kiss, only to leave you dry. “But looking at this cock—”

She stops to admire your shaft once more. Ultimately, she can’t help herself. She has to give your tip another ceremonious flick with her parched tongue in appreciation. Two, actually. If she doesn’t stop, you’ll soon be deep in her throat, and you know she’s not letting you go. Thankfully, she finally regains sight of what she wants in the first place.

Lifting herself ever so slightly, Hyewon takes a deep breath—then slowly melts into you. 

It’s a car crash you can’t look away from. It’s inevitable, but you’re completely powerless to stop her. You can only groan in agony as your bodies intertwine, creating a union that only she can break. Inch by inch, you helplessly watch as Hyewon slowly takes you into her suffocating heat. The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before: vicious, intense, and painful. 

It doesn’t help that she’s taking her sweet time, keeping you on edge for what may as well be an eternity, bracing for the certain explosion she’s going to leave in her wake. 

“Oh—fuck—it’s so perfect,” Hyewon throws her head back, her jaw dropping slow, every word delivered in a near-inaudible sigh. Eventually, she buries herself in you deep to the hilt—and she keens. “That—that’s it—that’s the fucking spot—”

Your hands cling to her waist, your maw similarly agape, breathing tensely as the pleasure slowly courses through your muscles. “God—you’re fucking tight—”

She hums in return, satisfied by your response, before losing herself in the sensation of your cock impaling her—and she begins to move.

As you fight the urge to cum right then and there, Hyewon slowly lifts herself off your lap, your cock reappearing with a fresh coat of her drenched pussy, before sinking back down. She rips the breath right from your lungs, while you’re forced to shut your eyes. Anything to keep your brain firing as the pleasure rushing throughout your body sends you into overdrive. 

You’re an outlet of ecstasy, a conduit for her to loosen all her pent-up frustration and lust. Her palms grip to your thighs, keeping you in place—as if you’re in any condition to move anywhere except for her whim. She’s crashing into you at a punishing pace as a result of keeping yourself away for so long. And she’s being open about it too: “Why did it take us so long—ugh—”

You can only moan back. Truthfully, you’re wondering the same thing too. 

As your eyes alternate between wide open and completely shut, you catch glimpses of Hyewon using every inch of you to fill her wanton pussy with cock. When she’s not cursing or screaming your name, her moans fill your ears with sweet, sultry music. It’s a sound not of her high class image. She’s riding you like it’s life or death, like her heart will stop beating if her cunt isn’t being stretched out.

With every bounce, so do her breasts. Up and down, settling into a rhythm, forming a hypnotic motion that your eyes get lost in. Your obsession reaches a point to where the movement of her tits stirs you on, reigniting your tired muscles. You can’t lie there and be a helpless viewer any longer.

And so, you meet Hyewon halfway, matching the grind of her hips with your thrust at the apex, setting her alight. This particular stroke. The hot sensation. It utterly shatters her. Her voice cracks. She trembles violently, giving you breathing room to sit upward and lean close to her chest. 

So while she staggers back, overwhelmed by your cock spearing her cunt, you go down on her succulent breasts, squishing your face between them. Despite having Hyewon’s body all to yourself, the friction between your bodies creates this wracking storm that drives you insane. It isn’t enough that you’re feasting on her tits, that her boobs are bouncing so hard it’s downright pornographic, and that she’s screaming her heart out in response to each stroke. This will be headline news tomorrow. Yet, none of that is your concern. You have to pour everything into her. It’s now or never.

“Fuck yes—oh fuck—fucking take me—fuck—” Hyewon’s riding your cock, forcing all the air out your lungs, rendering you speechless. Doesn’t matter, you’re drowning in her slick and her tits, pounding away with twice the effort. She’s swearing through her tongue like she’s a cop in a crime picture, biting down on her lip in a flimsy attempt to restrain herself, but anyone with a good ear nearby could have easily identified her voice through the four walls of this hotel room. Knowing her, it’s intentional. She’s determined to put you through a world of trouble, leaving you with no other choice but to shut her up.

And you’re going to do just that.

You end up yanking her by the waist as your bodies repeatedly collide with each other. Each impact the equivalent of a cosmic explosion, the aftermath echoing through the room. The sound of skin slapping skin fills your ears louder than what it seems in the movies. Sex with Hyewon is much, much better than in your fantasies. Here’s another thing that can’t be found on camera: her soft pleas begging you to keep going, interlaced between harsh whines and airy moans that can’t be faked.

“God, I’m gonna fucking cum, Hyewon.” There you go, your silly side showing at such a serious moment. Everyone knows you don’t proclaim your impending climax. Rookie mistake. You’re not shooting a porno, but you might as well be with how hard you’re fucking her. She can’t help but cackle even as you relentlessly pound into her cunt. What should be a moment of weakness immediately gets brushed aside as you hold her when she slams down, and you finally fall apart.

Impaling your cock hilt deep inside Hyewon, you’re digging your palms deep into her soft flesh, unwilling to let go. She rests her head beside yours as you blast her with thick, warm cum. Her prolonged, saccharine-sounding moan is nothing compared to the loaded groan that ripples through the room. The supplication she makes, demanding you to fill her with every little drop goes through deaf ears. Your dick seems to have heard it loud and clear, though. The amount you’re filling her is enough to rip through her body violently too. She follows with her own peak afterwards, hitting a previously unheard octave higher, your bodies finally melting into one. 

Just like that, she’s clinging to you like you’re her personal life support, completely drained of all her strength. 

The ecstasy lasts for a brief moment. The fall off happens too soon for your liking. Like her, you’re sapped of energy and you fall down to earth with Hyewon in your arms. The end comes—not with grandiose drama or spectacle, but by a calm, uneventful stir.

You should be done at this point. It’s been a long day. You’ve been up as early as sunrise, spent hours behind makeup and measuring tape for a suit you won’t wear more than once. Smiling comes natural, if not downright fake; in front of the cameras, on the red carpet, on screen, and even during the afterparties. Every time you step out in public, there’s an image, a reputation to uphold. You’ve done this a dozen times in the past few months alone, bearing a lifetime’s worth of and it never gets more comfortable or easier. It’s a miracle you haven’t cracked or had a public breakdown, even though your mind is calling for it.

And yet, all that labor and agony is worth it for what you have now. The awards, the recognition, the adoration—but most especially the girl. What are you now, taken out of a story. One that feels all too familiar and done to death, but it never grows old or tired. 

By all accounts, it should be a happy ending. 

Except you’re not done. You’re not satisfied, and so is Hyewon. Even though she’s settling down in your embrace, resting her head against your heartbeats, mumbling these sweet nothings about how much you’ve ruined her and fucked her to shreds, she’s quietly begging for more. It isn’t about keeping a sanctimonious image anymore; it’s about how far you’ll push her and use her. Your throbbing cock buried inside her cunt says it too.

If there’s anything you’ve learned about acting, it’s that one take isn’t enough.

Like a damsel in distress, you scoop Hyewon into your arms. Through what you might consider a second wind, you carry her into the bathroom again on wobbly legs, stepping into the shower, showing that you’re ready to take your relationship a step further. You’ll hash out the details in the morning—if she hasn’t left by then.

The sound of running water serves as background for the airy, lewd noises that quickly fill the shower. 

Hyewon feels incredibly soft to touch. Pliable in your grasp, like a doll to bend, twist, and use at your whim. You’re squeezing her flesh, fondling her mounds tightly till you’re seeing red everywhere. Her tits, her shapely ass, and everything in between. Kissing down her body, giving every little part its much needed attention. You’ve fucked her to pieces, yes, but she’s still housing a divine figure that deserves the same level of praise. 

With two fingers stroking at her cunt, she’s keening, her head tilted up to meet the relentless downpour rushing down over your bodies. Her voice is in tatters after an hour of tireless screaming, in addition to all the mindless chatter from earlier tonight. Part of you wishes to have taken up her offer. Something this good shouldn’t be kept secret, but you’re more than selfish enough to keep Hyewon all to yourself. 

Your raging impulse gets the better of you, and you slap her tits from behind. She yelps a cry of pain and pleasure. The recoil and sound activates something in your brain like a sleeper agent. You do it a second time, then a third. You stop counting after, indulging yourself in the satisfying noise of her mounds smacked over and over, every squeal, every strike equally as gratifying as your cock slamming into her pussy. She’s clinging to the walls as a respite, her body shuddering vigorously, but you don’t give her a moment to breathe. It’s what she would have wanted: to be used and taken like a ragdoll.

Hyewon screams again when you swing her around, lifting one leg around your waist, and slam your cock inside her. No pleasantries, no talking through the process—only a desire to fuck. Burying your face against her neck, growling into her skin like a ravenous beast, you hammer away without care for neither your comfort nor hers. You’re counting the hours, minutes, seconds before she disappears from your life, and you’re gonna make sure that years from now, she remembers this night in particular.

You’re too engrossed to see her expressions twist in impossible ways that average humans can make. But that’s the point: Hyewon is no ordinary person. She’s one actress, something that can be found in others who are more talented and have more resounding qualities, but more than that, to you, she’s everything. The clench of her cunt on your cock continues to invigorate you and push you further. With every thrust, she jumps and sends aftershocks coursing through your veins. God, you love how incredibly well she fucking takes it, and the slightest tilt of her lips struggling to form a grin reinforce this. You’ve got nothing else to say, really; you easily lose yourself in your own lust, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

It doesn’t take too long before you feel it again. The end. It’s approaching faster than you can react. You knew it wasn’t going to be a drawn out affair, but you’re so desperate to reach that high, no matter how brief it may be. It was too good to pass up, and you’re beyond waiting a second more.

You’d give everything up for even a single minute longer, but the period of bargaining has long passed you by.

“Gonna cum again—fuck—” is all you can muster, your first words after a long while. Her pussy feels so good to form coherent words. Lust has utterly consumed your brain more than anything. The entire time, Hyewon’s mewling, keening in every direction, trying to find purchase on the walls or the shower door, only to fall a few inches short. She ends up coming back to you, hanging on for dear life. You’ve never let up, terrified that she’ll magically disappear into nothing at any second. 

Acting fast, as if you’ve got a ticking bomb in hand, you draw your cock out, coated in a thick sheen of your own cum and hers, pumping yourself with a few strokes of your hand until you finally explode. The shower washes down the milky white blot you’re unloading on her skin, never leaving a permanent mark. It does, however, bring you back to the place that began your undoing.

The tattoo on her rib. 

Water wipes the cum blocking the view. Despite those same five words occupying your mind for the last few hours, it still hits like a fresh revelation. You hear her voice repeating them inside your head as you come to your senses, your lust being satiated—for now. Even when Hyewon is completely broken before you, reduced to a quiet pile of flesh. One hand on the surrounding wall, the other in limbo, her leg still coiled around your waist, forcing oxygen into her tired lungs wherever she can. 

With the ‘quick’ shower done, and after hardly any cleaning was made, you carry her back to the bedroom. 

You don’t even make it past the living room before your legs finally give up. You end up crashing onto the floor together before you both finally call it a night.

—————

“This is your fault you know,” says Hyewon, drawing circles on your chest, over your calm heartbeats. “I’m supposed to be in London tomorrow for my table read. And yet I’m still here. My flight was five hours ago by the way.”

It’s already high noon when you finally regain consciousness, your head still spinning despite not taking more than one alcoholic drink the night before. Hyewon’s doing marginally better, having woken up 30 minutes earlier. No wonder it feels so hot; her body is snuggled up on you, your limbs tangled. Despite the urgency she’s speaking about, she doesn’t seem to be interested in moving any time soon.

At least you’re awake and sensible enough to fire back. “Who’s fault is that? I wasn’t the one inviting you to come over and have you fucked senseless.”

She chuckles into your skin, little ripples forming where her lips are gently pressed. “And I wasn’t the one who spent the last 18 months saying we’re just friends.”

You’re already lying flat on the floor, but the rebuttal only makes you want to get up only to fall back down. So you settle with an expressive sigh. 

Hyewon laughs. It’s what won over millions, including you. You’re taken back to that fateful day you first met. Right then and there, you knew there’d be no one else like her. If given an opportunity to go back and change a few things here and there or, you’d do it over again, mistakes included. Last night was worth all the waiting and teasing. 

“So—about that show,” you lean up, pushing her closer to your face, “What was it again? Something about you being a nymphomaniac? Delete what?”

“You mean Delete This? Let’s not.” 

Mention of the premise alone is enough to set her gummy cheeks on fire. For someone whose career has been built up on mostly more general audience friendly programming, leading a sexual soap opera is quite the jump.  

She buries her head on your neck, embarrassed, feeling guilty. “Yeah. I mean, last night was—different, you know? I’ve shown my tits and body already, but I’ve never had sex—on screen before.”

You should have known. She needed a reason to get in your pants without your working relationship only centering around your bodies. And those were clearly stand-ins based on how her face is never shown during her older scenes.

“Jesus, Hyem. If you wanted to have sex, you could have asked anytime. You have no idea how annoyed I was when they scrapped our scene last minute. It was only you taking off your shirt too.”

“On the bright side, we didn’t have an intimacy director getting in the way, right?”

She does have a point. Still, your personal cold war didn’t need to last 18 months before either of you would make the first move.

But with all that tension a thing of the past, the chains are unfettered. Now both of you have the ability to take this little secret in any direction you desire. You could simply be a workplace couple; it’s been the story of your year so far. Or you could take things a step further. The possibilities are truly endless.

Hyewon’s cheeky grin slowly reforms, her hand snaking up to cup your cheek. “Shame we only had one night. I could spend the rest of the day here, but—” she huffs, “I’m running late. Too bad I won’t get to have this cock for a long, long time.”

You lift an amused eyebrow, barely able to keep your new cockiness from showing. “Will you, though?”

She’s taken completely by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Check your phone.”

After rising to her feet, Hyewon walks over to the console table where her purse is set. Fishing her phone from the handbag, she scrolls through the apps, her attention di–vided between the screen and you on the floor, finally getting up as well. 

Her stare then lingers on the phone, as if whatever headline of the day has caught her attention. 

Next thing you know, she’s grabbing you by the chest, dragging you back to the bedroom before shoving you back onto the mattress—right where you belong. Pinning you down and dead to rights, Hyewon mounts herself on your lap, your cock pressed against her aching core, ready to receive a fresh beating.

Some jokes can go a little too far.

“You fucking asshole. You mean that—”

“Yep.”

“And it’s not—”

“It’s not.”

You can feel her hips slowly grinding against yours. You’re gonna love—and hate—the next 18 months with Hyewon.

“I’m going to kill you. And I mean: kill you.”

“No better way to go out.”

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! That Hyewon dress is so ripe for material, and I had to incorporate her tattoos into it somehow. She doesn't show them quite often—heck, she hasn't publicly addressed them even once, I believe. That little nod at the end is for everyone still waiting for Delete this to return. At this point, a reimagining or remake must happen first before the next actual episode because good God my writing back then versus now is night & day. Even comparing the last update from 2022(?) to today is also radically different in style. I'm still interested in reviving it; it's just a matter of when, not if. Thank you for reading!)

[timmydraker]

Tim who has never been good at understanding the words of Shakespeare and Dickens.

He can understand metaphors and knows about philosophy, but he’s always struggle to truely grasp the tragedy and helplessness so may of them hold. The idea of someone being doomed from the start, by the author and the narrative or maybe just the world they were set in, just doesn’t really make sense to him.

Part of him knows it’s because he was born with a vintage silver spoon placed delicately in his hands, but there’s more to it than that.

See, most of the bad things that have happened to Tim have either been consequences of his own action or the fact that his friends and colleagues all have the same dangerous job.

To him it just makes sense that bad things will happen and so he can just… prepare for it. He can do what he can to fix it or move onto something else and push away his own feelings because what else is he supposed to do?

So, no, things like Hamlet and Dorian don’t really click for him

At least… until he thinks about Jason.

Born in poverty with a world surrounding him that would not bother to care or offer help to him purely because of how he looks of his parents.

A mother who loves him endlessly, only to fall into the drugs she tried to protect him from.

Finding out that mother didn’t even give birth to him, but the father that never showed anything other than distain and cruelty was still his own.

Being given Robin, hated by the first one for a time, only to die in the suit by the hands of a mad man all because his real mother sold him out.

Waking up in a coffin, digging himself out and roaming around catatonic and the only thoughts he can actually process is that he must be a ghost.

Being taken by a league of killers, lied to and trick and tormented into thing a perfect weapon.

Realise his mentor, who he once thought the father he deserved to have, has failed him and let his killer free because of something as fickle as a moral compass.

Seeing that mentor seemingly replace him with a perfect rich kid who doesn’t swear or complain or sneak off without permission from what he can tell.

Having no real friends in that time.

Having no one to trust because everyone had an ulterior motive. Everyone uses him.

And through out it all, even with all the hate and the bitterness and injustice he had been faced with, his first course of action is to make the home he first had and the only one he will ever have… safer.

To protect the kids like him from becoming statistics and killers, from the pain he felt and the false promises of the Batman.

Jason keeps honesty and integrity, even when no one else offers it to him in return.

Tim can’t understand Macbeth or Antigone or Othello, can’t see why someone would write something so morbid just to try and entertain.

But he can understand, or at least try to understand, Jason Todd.

Because that is someone who had actually been hurt for no reason. Someone who had been tormented by the universe, by fates and coincidence, with no real lesson being taught other than the world hates him.

Sure Jason has Roy and Biz and Artemis and Kori, but what about a brother?

Dick tried, he still does, but he fails Jason over and over by trying to make him ‘better’.

Damian doesn’t really care too much, not out of malice but there’s just not much of a connection between them.

Cass tries, but Jason is always awkward around her and that’s not his fault, you can’t hide a thing from her.

Duke liked Jason a lot, but again, the newest Bat is trying hard to find his place in the world of vigilantes and can’t quite find it in himself to be too close to Jason’s violence.

But Tim…

He’s morals have always been held together by the simple fact of ‘it’s not really that approved of’ and not much else. He won’t kill, but unlike the others he is happy to leave a Rouge in a sinking ship and not feel a hint of guilt.

He adores Jason’s Robin, he knows to some extent how much he lost with that, and now he knows that Jason might not need much more than a few good things.

Small things, nothing that will trick him into thinking the world is apologising because it won’t, but enough to show him that Tim thinks he’s still worth something.

Tim won’t try convince him to become a better person or to stop killing, he might ask him to be a bit more rational and probably won’t be able to stop himself from giving tips on how to run his business, but he wouldn’t ask for his violent brother to change.

Because unlike everyone else, Tim knows that violence exist for good reason.

If it keeps his Jason alive, Tim will gladly hold onto his blood soaked hand.

[littlespoonevan]

your hand in my pocket to keep us both warm

post 8x08 because i'm SAD in a way that can only be eased with buddie hurt/comfort 💔 title from abstract (psychopomp) by hozier

-

Buck is the one to drive him to the airport because who else would it be?

It feels a lot like deja vu as he approaches the glass doors of Departures but his step only falters for a moment before Eddie’s hand is catching his sleeve at the elbow and leading him through them. It’s further than Abby ever let him get.

Eddie lets him go as far the security line and he almost looks regretful when he turns to face Buck.

Buck would like to think he’s handled this well so far. He’s been supportive, helped Eddie choose his new home, listened to his fears about his parents, reassured him about Christopher, promised to oversee the shipping of the rest of Eddie’s stuff next week. He’s done everything right.

It hasn’t made any of this feel less wrong.

They look at each other now, awkward in a way they never are, until Eddie drops his bag and pulls him into a hug without saying anything.

Maybe because there’s nothing to say. Buck’s heart has been lodged in his throat since he parked the car; he’s not even sure he could say anything if he wanted to.

Eddie’s arms around him are a familiar weight though so Buck allows himself to sink into them. To tuck his chin into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder and to fist his hands in the back of his jacket like if he holds on tight enough he might be able to convince Eddie to stay.

When Eddie does pull back he makes no attempt to leave the circle of Buck’s arms. Instead one of his hands goes to that same spot at the juncture of Buck’s neck – always the same spot – and when his thumb makes contact with the divot in Buck’s throat he seeks out Buck’s gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Buck croaks, the tell-tale burn behind his eyes becoming more pronounced by the second.

“Like I’m Abby,” Eddie sighs. “Or Ali. Or Tommy. I’m not leaving you, Buck.”

Buck tries to laugh but it comes out too hysterical and Eddie’s hand tightens on his neck.

“I’m leaving,” he allows. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you,” Buck says, the words wobbling in the middle. His hands are still twisted in Eddie’s jacket.

“And you think I do?” Eddie asks with a half-laugh. “Who am I gonna talk to when my folks are driving me crazy? Who am I gonna talk to when I do anything? Besides, you think Chris will accept you not visiting at least once a month?”

Truthfully, Buck has no idea what Chris wants right now but he clings to Eddie’s words anyway.

“Everyone at work is gonna find me insufferable. It was bad enough that last time you weren’t there.”

Eddie laughs again, thumb brushing Buck’s neck seemingly absentmindedly. “No they won’t. And I’ll be on Facetime so much it’ll be like I never left.”

Buck ducks his head but nods anyway, gathering up the courage to say what he wants to say next. “I know you have to go,” he starts, steeling himself as he makes himself meet Eddie’s gaze. “But please don’t go forever.”

Eddie’s expression blanks, his mouth parting over nothing. Buck can only stare back, hoping that just this once it might be different. That he won’t get a, ‘Take care of yourself, Buck,’ and a hand to the cheek before the person in front of him disappears forever.

Eddie doesn’t touch his cheek. Instead he presses their foreheads together hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make Buck’s breath catch and rush out of him on a shaky exhale.

“I won’t. I promise,” Eddie breathes and his hand moves from Buck’s neck to the back of Buck’s head and Buck can’t help wondering for a moment what would happen if he closed the distance between them. If Eddie would kiss him back.

It’s not a thought he’s ever entertained before but he’s thinking it now and it feels…like it makes sense. Like an inevitability.

And what a time to have a realisation like that.

Eddie leans back then and Buck forces himself to unclench his hands, attempting to smooth out the back of Eddie’s jacket with trembling hands.

“You should go,” he says because Eddie won’t.

Eddie nods faintly in agreement and it looks like it takes every ounce of effort for him to take a step back. Buck picks up his bag for him, offers it to him, and tries for a weak smile so Eddie will know it’s okay. That he can go and Buck won’t cause a scene.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get to my parents place.”

Buck nods. “Give Chris a hug for me.”

“I will.”

Eddie starts looking towards the security line again and Buck blurts out, “Tell him I love him.”

Eddie looks back to him, a devastating smile of understanding on his face. “He knows already. But I will.”

Buck nods again and then there’s nothing left to say. Eddie turns to go and Buck does the same because he can’t watch until he’s out of sight. It hurts too much already and he can barely hold his tears back as it is.

He doesn’t need to watch himself get left behind again.

~

He’s just unlocking his car when his phone rings. He doesn’t check who it is as he climbs in, just shoves the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he reaches for his seatbelt.

“Keep me company while I wait for my flight?”

He straightens so quickly the phone almost falls into his lap but he catches it just in time. And he tries to laugh but he thinks it might come out more like a sob. “Keep me company on the drive home?”

“Always,” Eddie says like they’re driving home from work after a long shift.

Buck switches his phone to speaker mode and looks down at the keys in his hand, at the keys to the loft, Maddie’s place and Eddie’s house respectively, considering his options before turning on the ignition.

“So there’s the guy at the gate-“ Eddie starts and Buck lets the sound of his voice wash over him. Allows himself just one singular moment where he closes his eyes and holds his hand to his chest before he pulls himself together and drives out of his space.

Eddie is offering him a play by play of the guy at the gate who’s insisting his luggage is not chirping and Buck gets his breath back enough to make a quip about how that made it through the security scanner.

When he reaches the freeway it takes hardly any thought at all for him to take the exit that’ll get him to the Diaz house fastest.

He’s going home after all.

~

[raewritesfiction]

Quiet in the Library [Daryl Dixon]

A/N: okay a prequel to shut up and ride! (Works well on its own too!)

Plot: reader and Daryl are in a bed buddy type situation ship. Prison era. Daryl finds the reader in the prison library and fun ensues…. But they get caught.

Pairing: Female!Reader x Daryl Dixon

Warnings: smut - fingering, oral (m receiving), unsafe sex using the pull-out method (Wear a condom). Minor homophobia (Merle) if you squint??

[[ Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed from tags; no questions asked ��️ likes are amazing however I really appreciate Reblogs to help spread my writing further! Thank you 🌈😘]]

Tag List: @jaseminedenisephotography @iraniq @snewsome756 @vikkikrash @amelia-in-w0nderland @pandaliciouz @crispyimagines17 @marie-is-blogging @bonniebird @nutinanutshell @louise-buchan @differentcatcat @madsadgenius @sycochick @rossieburrow @kcthescreamqueen @phoenix-is-closer-to-the-edge @charlottewatkinsblog @dixondisease

The library was quiet…and a total mess. You had volunteered yourself to sort through the shelves and the books. While there were things to be done and chores around the building and grounds, it was a morale booster to have some other form of entertainment.

Hidden behind an empty shelf, you don’t hear Daryl walk in and quietly step around some piles you had already sorted. You jump when his hands glide around your waist and he has to cover your mouth to stop you making a noise.

“Ssh! We’re in a library..” he smirks at you, feeling you relax against him and put down the books in your hands.

“Thought you were on patrol today?” You whisper.

“I switched with Rick..” he kisses up your shoulder and neck, hands riding up under your top to touch your skin.

“Oh, I see..” your head leans back against his shoulder, giving the man better access to your sensitive neck.

Daryl undoes your well-worn and patched jeans, slipping his hand down the front and curling over your folds. “Been a while since we’ve had alone time..” he whispers.

You swallow thickly and nod; your hips are already moving to his fingers and you’re sure it’s been weeks, if not a couple of months at least, since you had been alone together for any length of time. Nothing that had allowed more than a rushed fumble.

Daryl’s fingers work over your clit in circles then dip into you and curl before going back to your clit. That man knew exactly how to work you up and get your motor running.

“I don’t wanna cum in your fingers this time… I want to cum around your cock..” you whisper into the room and pant quietly.

He hums and nips at your neck just enough to leave a light red mark that would be gone by tomorrow. “We’ll get on yer knees first…” he slips his hand away and turns you around, watching you instantly sink down and work at his belt and pants to release him from the fabric confines.

Daryl licks his lips and watches you wrap your hand around his length, jerking him slow and firm before your lips close around the head. He lets out a quiet moan and closes his eyes as your mouth and hand work in tandem to make him fully hard.

The weight of his cock on your tongue and the stretch of his size in your mouth makes drool run down your chin; a sight Daryl lives for and he’s soon panting out grunts, steadying himself so he doesn’t just thrust into your mouth - there would be time for that another day but right now he wanted your hot wet pussy around him.

“Stop… stop… not yet…” he whispers and pulls you away, looking down into your wide eyes, streaks of tears leaking from them. “Good girl… stand up and turn around…”

You get to your feet and turn your back to Daryl, planting your hands on the table in front of you as he quickly pulls down your jeans and lifts your tee. His rough hands knead your tits, fingers teasing and pinching your nipples; steadily harder and harder until they’re bruised and throbbing from his touch while you’re a whimpering mess.

“Daryl…”

“Ssh…” he reminds you and lines up his cock with your entrance, slipping into you fully with a single thrust that knocks the wind from your lungs. “We don’t got much time…”

You nod and push your hips back, you know this, you never have much time. Daryl grips your hips tight and starts thrusting his hips into you; the table you’re leaning on rocks and wobbles on uneven legs but thankfully doesn’t hit the wall.

Daryl grunts and moans behind you as you pant and bite your lip to stop you from calling out as every thrust hits deep inside you. Your motor was running overtime and you knew it wasn’t going to be long before something would give if Daryl kept up this pace.

Neither of you hear the library door open and Merle step in. Neither of you see him look around for anyone else before continuing to watch Daryl rail you over the desk; pushing you down and gripping the back of your hair to keep you in place - at least this way you could use a nearby book to gag your mouth and muffle the sounds coming out of it.

Merle smirks to himself and shakes his head - now he’s figured out where Daryl has been sneaking off to, who with and why. Secretly he’d always thought Daryl was a gay virgin and would die as one, he was proud to know neither of these things were true and he was in fact getting more than Merle ever had. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was truly happy about the last part of that realisation. Merle takes one last look and heads back out the library, not caring if the door made any noise on his way out.

The door clicks shut and you both look over. “What was that?!” You pant.

“Unless it’s a walker, I don’ care!” Daryl grunts “come on girl… cum for me… lemme feel that pussy pulse!”

Your eyes roll back at his words and your body takes over completely; you bite down on the book you’d been using as a gag, body tensing and that motor finally falls apart inside you. Daryl thrusts a few more times as you ride out your climax then pulls out, wrapping a hand around himself and jerking quickly. You turn and fall to your knees, still panting, you open your mouth and stick out your tongue.

It takes only a moment and Daryl is grunting through clenched teeth as he cums on your tongue and in your mouth. He pants and slows his hand looking down at you. With your wide eyes and hair in a pony, you’d pass as innocent to anyone else - only Daryl knew how much of a slut you could be for him as he watched his seed drip off your tongue onto your bare chest.

“Swallow…”

You close your mouth and swallow his load.

“Good girl.”

You use your fingers to clean off the drips from your chest, sucking them clean for him to watch.

“Very good girl.”

Daryl helps you off the floor and you both redress, making sure you were once again decent before you leave the library. It’s as you’re walking back to the main area that you realise why the door had made a noise.

“Merle… where’s Daryl?” You hear a voice call down the corridor.

“Oh… he’s in the library..” Merle calls back and laughs. “Doin’ some reading’ on the kama sutra!”

-fin-

[revelboo]

Could I beg for a little more Lifeless Ordinary? Pretty please? 🙏🙏🙏

Spin got his turn but what about the rest? I hope that Misfire is last to get some, it would serve him right for being such a little shit.

💜As always, thank you so much for everything you do! Take care of yourself!💜

Sure! 🔞 🌶️

Lifeless Ordinary Pt 24

Scavengers x Reader

• Yawning lazily as you bundle deeper into the blanket Krok had produced from subspace, you smile remembering his attempt to explain how it worked in terms that made it clear he didn’t really know himself. But he was endearingly awkward trying to bullshit his way through it anyway. Turning, you study him as he pours over a datapad looking for jobs or opportunities. And his red optics narrow slightly before he looks at you like he could feel your stare on him. “I’m not much entertainment, am I?” He asks.

• Considering the rest of them are probably still brawling for no apparent reason, his calm probably is more than welcome right now, but he knows he’s not the fun one. “I like the quiet,” you say with a shrug and he clears his vents in amusement. “I love the others, but sometimes this ship reminds me of a frat party,” you add, nose wrinkling and he has no idea what a frat party is, but he nods anyway like he does. “You give serious dad vibes, though. Like you’re everyone’s dad. It’s sweet.”

• “Dad vibes?” He repeats and your face reddens as you weakly shrug. Will he take it as an insult if you call him the responsible one? You’re pretty sure most guys would, equating responsible with boring, but with the chaos of the other four? A little stability is really nice. Optics taking in your flustered smile before dropping back to his work, you relax. “You can call me that if you like, then,” he mutters and you go even redder. You’re absolutely not calling him daddy even if he doesn’t know what it means. At least, you think he probably doesn’t. Do alien robots have daddies? “Why exactly did you agree with Misfire’s little proposal?”

• And your face gets even redder, unable to look him in the optic now. Embarrassed as you fidget with the end of your blanket. Maybe it’s as simple as curiosity. Or you’re just horny. Pretending to be engrossed in his datapad, he waits. “I like you guys,” you mutter, still refusing to look at him. It makes him wonder about your species, about humans and how little they know about you. Maybe social coupling is normal as a way to show affection? Maybe humans don’t form long term mate bonds? Or they just frag as a form of play? It’s not like Cybertronians don’t frag for fun or stress relief, too. Or maybe you go into heat and need to be fragged regularly to ease it? Maybe they’ve been neglecting your needs and you just didn’t want to ask? Swindle had said humans were fixated on fragging, so maybe there’s a reason.

• He’s not even flirting shamelessly like Misfire does, but somehow his questions have you much more flustered than Misfire ever gets you. And you know it’s weird to be interested, to want all of them, but they’re yours. That realization sinking into you as you wonder what exactly is wrong with you that you can’t be satisfied with just Spin, but want to claim them all as yours. “If you need to be fragged regularly for your health and wellbeing, you need only ask any of us. None of us want you to suffer in silence,” he says and you have no idea how to respond to that. Did he somehow get the impression that you need to be fucked to survive? Know you need to correct him, but just like with Misfire’s question about sharing, you can’t make yourself do the responsible thing.

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing a main character who’s a bartender… except I’m a minor with zero experience on alcohol or bars/bartending etc

Do you have any resources that could help me out?

Thanks so much, I love your blog !!!

Writing Notes: Bartender

Bartender - specializes in the art of mixing and serving alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages in bars, restaurants, hotels, or other establishments.

In addition to mixing drinks, bartenders also play an important role in providing excellent customer service.

They engage with customers,

take drink orders,

suggest beverage options, and

create a welcoming and enjoyable atmosphere.

Bartenders must have good communication and interpersonal skills to interact with customers of diverse backgrounds and handle various situations that may arise during their shift.

They may also be responsible for managing the bar area,

ensuring cleanliness,

organizing supplies, and

handling cash transactions.

Types of Bartenders

There are various types of bartenders, each specializing in different areas of the hospitality industry. Here are a few common types:

Mixologists: Highly skilled bartenders who focus on creating innovative and artfully crafted cocktails. They have an extensive knowledge of ingredients, flavor combinations, and mixology techniques to design unique and visually appealing drinks.

Flair Bartenders: Known for their entertaining and acrobatic style of bartending. They incorporate flair techniques such as juggling bottles, performing tricks with bar tools, and creating visually captivating presentations while preparing drinks.

Craft Beer Bartenders: Have a deep understanding of the craft beer industry. They are familiar with various beer styles, brewing processes, and flavor profiles. They assist customers in selecting beers, provide recommendations, and may curate a rotating selection of craft beers on tap.

Tiki Bartenders: Specialize in crafting tropical and exotic cocktails associated with tiki culture. They are skilled in using unique ingredients, tropical fruits, and elaborate garnishes to create visually striking and flavorful drinks.

Hotel/Resort Bartenders: Cater to guests' needs, providing a range of beverages and maintaining high standards of customer service. They may specialize in classic cocktails, signature drinks, or be responsible for managing bars in various areas of the hotel.

Common Personality Traits of Bartenders

Based on a survey of 19,176 bartenders:

They are enterprising and conventional (according to the Holland Codes)

Bartenders tend to be predominantly enterprising individuals, which means that they are usually quite natural leaders who thrive at influencing and persuading others.

They also tend to be conventional, meaning that they are usually detail-oriented and organized, and like working in a structured environment.

They have high levels of extraversion and openness (according to the Big Five)

Bartenders score highly on extraversion, meaning that they rely on external stimuli to be happy, such as people or exciting surroundings.

They also tend to be high on the measure of openness, which means they are usually curious, imaginative, and value variety.

The Workplace

The workplace of a bartender can vary depending on the establishment they work in. Bartenders can be found in a range of settings, including:

bars,

pubs,

nightclubs,

hotels,

restaurants,

resorts, and even

cruise ships.

A typical bar environment consists of a well-equipped bar counter with a variety of spirits, mixers, and bar tools.

The bar area is usually designed to be functional and efficient, with shelves or cabinets to store bottles, refrigeration units for chilling beverages, and sinks for washing glassware.

Bartenders have access to a wide array of ingredients, garnishes, and utensils needed to prepare drinks.

The atmosphere within a bar can vary significantly.

Some establishments may have a lively and bustling atmosphere, especially during peak hours or on weekends, with music playing and customers engaged in conversations.

In contrast, other bars may have a more relaxed and intimate setting, catering to a specific clientele or offering a more sophisticated ambiance.

Bartenders often work as part of a team, collaborating with barbacks, servers, and other staff members to ensure smooth operations. Communication and coordination are essential, as they need to relay orders, share responsibilities, and support each other as needed.

Some previous related posts:

Cocktails ⚜ Literary & Hollywood Cocktails ⚜ Liqueurs

Mixology Tools & Popular Cocktails ⚜ Wine Terminology

Whiskey ⚜ Describing Intoxicated Customers

Words related to Drinking

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Glad to hear, thank you! Sounds like a challenge, but could be quite fun. Choose which of these details you would like to incorporate in your story. For more on the actual drinks, tools, other terms used, and possible behaviour of customers when they become intoxicated, I included some links to older posts. And you can find further information in the sources. All the best with your writing!