#even in a crowd of people she is star among them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saintobio · 7 months ago

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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.

#rafayel x reader #rafayel x you #rafayel x y/n #rafayel angst #rafayel smut #rafayel fic #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace x you #lads x reader #lads x you #lds x reader #lnds x reader #lads smut #lads angst #lads rafayel #l&ds rafayel

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angelfishe · 2 months ago

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# 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃

Genshin man x reader

Character : alhaitham, diluc, zhongli, ayato.

You love them with your heart but why would he love you when he's surrounded with more beautiful and talented people more than you, maybe leaving would be a good option you wouldn't burden them as well they could move on into a much better option than you. Disappearing from their life completely

Warning : The reader has an inferiority complex, as well mention of suicide and self harming.

ALHAITHAM

Among the seas of students of the akedemiya there are always ones that shine brighter than the others and alhaitham is no exception, one of the most shining stars that would live brighter than the others. While you are by far a regular spantammad student the only difference is that both of you and him are childhood friends.

Unfortunately for you to fail to see the worth for yourself in his life, he would live a much better life without you interrupting his journeys. So when you hear that there's gonna be an expedition towards outside of sumeru you take it, planning on staying out of his life as much as long as possible even meaning being away from your homeland.

You prevent him from knowing about the expedition, knowing that he would try to convince you to quit it as well making him stress about you leaving making sure you would go unnoticed. Soon he realizes every time you visit your house it becomes less crowded and stuff is neatly packed in a box. He started to be suspicious of what was going on.

So when you invite him towards the bar to hang out, he had a bad feeling this would be the last time seeing you. But he pushed it aside because you're here right now not knowing that the goodbye you wave to each other was the last one. Your presence disappears and when he visits your place it is dead silent not a single thing of your stuff.

DILUC

Coming from a lesser noble clan on mondstat your duty was to be served to someone as wife or decorations. And diluc was the one you were destined to be with on the paper agreement with the previous lord of dawn winery.

It's confusing honestly out of all the options of the daughter of another noble family they chose to be his betrothed. You and him would have play dates together to make you two grow closer but sometimes these playdates would include other noble children like jean from the gundihir clan another noble clan as the ragdnivir. To be honest you understand why he would choose jean in the future she's beautiful I mean if you were in his position you would choose Jean.

Unknowningly diluc was the one that chose you when he took a look at the picture of future spouse for him and when he took a glimpse at your portrait it was love first sight you were the one he dreamed to be with and grow a family. Unfortunately you are unable to see that just like a butterfly is unable to see their own beauty.

When he was at snezhnaya you took this opportunity to finally leave for good packing up your stuff without telling anyone even your parents, so when he returned you were nowhere to be found everyone couldn't find you, you were gone. You believe he would be better without you but in truth he was miserable The world was dark and grey and you were the color and now you're gone and he will use anything to find you.

ZHONGLI

Being a minor goddess that joined alliance with him, you didn't expect he would go infatuated with you. He would willingly risk his life for you rescuing you from a monster that was threatening to kill you and when you saw how injured he was after the fight you realized you were a burden to him.

You fully know your weak compared to the other adepti or gods, your domain is small similar to harvia your best friend and you see your fate will happen similar to her being too weak and your people or your close will kill you if you keep being like this. Seeing you as a weakness for rex lapis and if you die his weakness will die. His people and the other need him more than you.

One day, you hear that a new monster has been rampaging and you believe this would be a good way to finally rid of yourself so people won't question your intention. You grab your weapon and ready to the battlefield, when rex lapis got word he arrived you were unfortunately dead watching your body being devoured by the beast.

From that day he blamed himself for your demise as well asking why would recklessly charge yourself to battle after knowing your weakness, in modern liyue he felt a sense of familiarity and saw you walking maybe it's not too late to love you this time he shows you how much he loves you.

AYATO

You couldn't blame him for hiding you from the world knowing a relationship with a master and a servant would be heavily forbidden by the public as well being one of his weaknesses, he needs to appear untouchable in front of the public as well as his enemies to protect you and the clan.

In close door he loves you and showers you with gifts and affection while on the outside he treats you as if you were just a normal servant under his orders another disposable chest piece.

When you were poison, hes eyes would instantly went towards your form but unable to reach you because people were dragging you away and he need to show face of a composed person but how can he act when the love of his eyes was dying in the other room.

One day a resignation letter appeared at his office when he was not at home and thoma informed him you left a day before leaving a letter telling him to move on and love another person and not you. He track your footprints and found you at sumeru studying there as a new student and new alias he ready a ship because he's gonna need explanation from you what you mean move on. Come back to his arms please if you won't he's gonna die without your touch

#genshin fanfic #genshin headcanons #genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin diluc #genshin ayato #genshin zhongli #genshin alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #ayato kamisato x reader #diluc x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact zhongli

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joemama-2 · 3 months ago

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a dead end | chap. 1

༺♰༻ gojo x fem reader

𓉸♱𓉸 synopsis: you were a star under stadium lights, gojo satoru a savior in sterile halls. now, the world rots, and survival is your only stage. amid the relentless dead and the horrors of the living, an unsteady bond forms—but trust is as fragile as life itself. in the shadows of ruin, love and death walk hand in hand. which will claim you first?

༺♰༻ wc: 9.6k

༺♰༻ tags/warnings: death, angst, violence, smut, cannibalism, murder, blood, gore, zombie apocalypse, crazy people, reader is a little bitchy at first, character development, torture, guns, weapons, alcohol, drugs, medical talk here and there, research talk, mentions of a leaked sextape, bullying, betrayal, lying, love, surgeon! satoru, cheerleader! reader, small age gap

༺♰༻ series masterlist < next chapter

“And nooooow, everyone put your hands together for our lovely girls in orange and black!”

The announcer's voice over the stadium causes a roar of applause and shouts to erupt, most of course being male. Stepping onto the cleared out baseball field are a group of lively young women. Wearing small black skirts with black safety shorts underneath, their jerseys that read ‘GIANTS’ in the center in black, patched lettering are tied at the bottom; showing off their midsections. Wearing long, black socks and with the Pom-Poms to finish the job off, their smiles are the brightest thing.

The girls take their places on the field, their synchronized movements and high-energy smiles lighting up the crowd. Among them is you, standing in the middle of the formation, the natural leader of the group. You glance toward the stands, where a sea of orange and black waves back at you. For a moment, you’re lost in the energy of the game day atmosphere—the cheers, the crack of a bat, the announcer’s voice booming through the stadium.

“After a brief hiatus, we finally have our star back on the field with us. Another round of applause for the beautiful Y/N L/N!!!”

You chuckle to yourself at the heightened tone of cheers that are directed solely to your presence. You give a few waves, seeing the people in the front rows of the stadium excitedly wave back, shouting things you can’t really hear. You can only assume they go along the lines of how much they love you and miss you, and of course, how they wish you would give them a single chance.

It’s moments like these that make everything worth it. The endless rehearsals, the physical exhaustion, even the occasional jeers from rowdy fans.

The music soon starts, a familiar upbeat track that gets the crowd clapping in rhythm. The routine begins, and you lose yourself in the movements. You all cheerleaders spring into action. Your body responds instinctively—jumps, spins, high kicks—all in perfect unison with your squad. Your Pom-Poms catch the sunlight as they move in perfect unison.

You’re at the center of the formation the entire time. As the group's captain your eyes constantly dart around in quick motion, ensuring that every movement is sharp and precise. A high kick flows seamlessly into a spin, your Pom-Poms arching over your head as you beam at the crowd. Your heart pounds, not from nerves, but from the sheer adrenaline of performing in front of tens of thousands of people.

It's from the fact that you’re finally back out here, shining in the spotlight. Oh, how you missed it so much.

Yui, on your right, flips her hair dramatically before breaking into the next move, her grin as radiant as ever. “You’re killing it out there, Y/N,” she says during a brief pause in the routine, her voice barely audible over the crowd.

“So are you,” you reply, breathless but smiling.

The routine shifts, the squad breaking into smaller groups for a series of flips and stunts. The girls lift a smaller woman into the air; one of the newer girls on the team. Her petite frame soaring gracefully as she executes a flawless toe touch. However, she lands a little off point, which wouldn’t be noticeable to the crowd, but to you…it is. She stumbles to her right for a second before swiftly regaining her footing once more, getting back into her required position.

Your smile stays constant on your face, but your eyes and the look you send her tells an entirely different story. Moving behind her, you deliver a nudge to her back that borders the line of a shove.

Finally, the crowd roars as the squad transitions into its finale. You leap into the air for a perfectly timed toe-touch split jump, the audience’s cheers fueling your energy. As your feet hit the ground, you and your squad strike your final pose, arms extended high, Pom-Poms shimmering in the sunlight.

The announcer’s voice booms again, barely audible over the deafening applause. “Let’s hear it for the Tokyo Yomiuri Giants Cheer Squad!”

You all stay in position for a few seconds for the photos, before finally waving at the large stadium. When you steal a glance at the dugout, where a few of the baseball players are clapping along with the crowd, you notice a particular someone staring longer than necessary. Ren Yamamoto, the team’s star pitcher, gives you a wink from his spot on the bench. Your smile falters for a split second before you quickly look away, focusing on Yui as she nudges you with her elbow.

“He’s been watching you all day,” she says, her voice teasing.

“Focus,” you mutter, but the heat rising to your cheeks betrays you.

The squad retreats off the field, giggling and chatting as the next act takes the stage. The roar of the crowd fades behind you as you make your way to the locker room, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

Some of the team takes this moment to sigh in exhaustion and relief now that it’s over, wiping away remnants of sweat on their foreheads. Setting the Pom-Poms down and touching up their makeup, while others take the liberty for some water and a rest.

The girl from before exhales quietly to herself, rolling her shoulders in and out. Sipping on her water bottle.

“Nice job out there, Sayo!” Her teammate congratulates her with a smile and a side hug. “You’re getting better. You’ll be the best in no time!”

Sayo smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of the back with a shy chuckle. “Thank you, I worked really hard…”

Another girl perks up next to Sayo. “I think we can all see that. You’re progressing faster than we all did when we were in your shoes.”

“Maybe,” the first girl leans into Sayo’s ear, whispering. “You’ll even be like Y/N, probably better.”

Sayo’ eyes widen a bit but calm when she notices the two girls laughing. She joins in, feeling at ease for her prior mistake. Looking down at her hands with a soft gaze. “Do you really think s—”

“Giving her false hope, huh? How cruel.”

Sayo and the two girls’ expressions change quickly, whirling around as they come face to face with you. Standing there with a raised eyebrow, a tilted head and crossed arms. Your sight hyper focused on the new girl. “You know, I expected more from you. Do you just have it in your genes to consistently disappoint people around you?”

The two girls who were just praising Sayo step back, muttering small apologies to you. Their quickness to back off reminds Sayo that everyone here is a sneaky bitch, that she can really trust no one. Not when everyone practically cowers under your gaze like a bunch of sheep.

Sayo stands frozen for a moment, her wide eyes not meeting yours. The silence hangs in the air, thick with the tension you’ve so effortlessly created. You keep your arms crossed, your gaze unyielding, watching the way the two girls seem to shrink back, unsure of whether to speak up or stay quiet. Sayo’s heart races, her breath catching in her throat as you approach them, your eyes narrowing with a cold intensity. She could feel the tension rise in the room, thick enough to cut through. The playful atmosphere from earlier now feels like a distant memory, replaced by something more ominous.

“Y/N, I—” Sayo begins, her voice shaky, but you cut her off with a cold laugh.

“Don’t start with your excuses,” you say, voice smooth and dismissive. “You don’t belong here if you can’t keep your feet straight. This isn’t some playground, Sayo. Didn’t we already practice this a thousand times? And you still can’t do it.” You let out a condescending scoff.

Sayo’s throat tightens, and the small voice inside her, the one that once told her she could be something great, starts to waver. The praise from the others had felt so nice, and for a moment, she allowed herself to believe it. But now, it seems that belief was fragile. You had shattered it in an instant.

One of the girls behind her mutters a low “Ouch,” but doesn’t dare speak up. They know better than to challenge you.

Sayo nods slowly, not trusting her own voice to speak, and her gaze flickers to the ground. She can’t bring herself to look at you anymore. You always had a way of making her feel small, and now it’s like you’ve stripped away every ounce of confidence she’d managed to build in herself. For the briefest moment, she considers quitting, but then she remembers how badly she wants to prove herself.

“I…I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, I covered it up pretty good, didn’t I?” She asks with hopefulness in her tone, eyes practically pleading with you silently.

Your jaw clenches in response. “So mistakes are okay as long as you cover them up? How pathetic.” You step closer, pushing her back by her shoulder. She lets out a tiny gasp, stumbling back a few inches. “One bad move on you is a bad one on all of us. Haven’t you understood by now that you represent the team? You represent what I teach you.”

Sayo’s eyes blow wide in shock, her breath catching as your words hit her like a slap. She tries to steady herself, but her legs feel weak, her heart pounding in her chest. She looks down at the floor, trying to escape the intensity of your gaze, but your words keep cutting through her, each one a fresh wound.

“I—I didn’t mean to mess up,” Sayo stammers, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “I was just trying to keep up. I—I thought I could fix it without anyone noticing.” She raises her head, her eyes searching for any sign of mercy, but your face is cold, unwavering.

“Don’t you dare give me that excuse,” you snap, your voice sharp and unforgiving. “No one here cares about how well you cover up your mistakes. What matters is that you did make them. And that’s something you can’t hide from. It’s a reflection of you, and it’s a reflection of the entire squad.”

Sayo bites her lip, her thoughts racing. She feels her hands shaking, the reality of the situation settling in like a weight on her chest. This wasn’t just about one misstep—it was about the pressure of constantly being under your thumb, of never being good enough, of always being measured against your impossible standards.

“You represent me, Sayo,” you continue, your voice now lowering, but still carrying the weight of authority. “You represent us. Every move you make, every breath you take, it’s not just for you anymore. You’ve crossed that line. You chose to be here, and that means you carry the burden of what comes with it.”

The room is silent, the tension suffocating. Even the other girls, who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, now seem to shrink away, their faces uncertain. No one dares to speak, not with you in the room. Not when you’re in this kind of mood.

Sayo feels the sting of your words deep in her gut. She wants to defend herself, to explain that she didn’t mean for it to happen, but the words feel stuck in her throat. Her head swims with doubts, and she wonders if she’ll ever be able to live up to your expectations, or if she’s destined to fail every time.

“Get it together, Sayo,” you murmur, the threat hanging behind your words. “The next time I catch you slipping like that, I won’t be so nice.”

With a final glance at the two girls, who are now avoiding eye contact with you, you turn and walk away. Your shoes click against the hard floor, each step a reminder that in this world, there’s no room for weakness. You’ve clawed your way to the top, and anyone who doesn’t keep up will get left behind.

Sayo watches you walk away, a sick feeling in her stomach. The girls who had once tried to offer her encouragement remain silent now, the weight of your words still heavy in the air. She’s not sure if it’s fear of you, or fear of failure, but she suddenly feels more isolated than she ever has before. And before she knows it, she’s chosen her own fate.

“W-well...at least my mistakes don’t break apart families.”

That single sentence causes hushed gasps to sound out through the room, you freeze in your tracks. The room falls utterly still, like a vacuum has sucked out all the air, leaving nothing but the crushing weight of silence. Sayo’s breath hitches, and the girls around her instinctively take a few steps back, almost as if trying to distance themselves from what’s about to unfold.

Immediately after, Sayo realizes she said the worst thing known to man. She wishes she could go back in time a few seconds and stop her stupid mouth from opening, from speaking such a cursed sentence. It was like an unwritten, unspoken rule that everyone knew.

Don’t bring the scandal up.

Oh, I’m really in for it now, Sayo thinks to herself. Almost audibly whimpering in fear when you turn back around. It’s like your eyes have gotten darker—if that was even possible. But the smile on your face juxtaposes the anger you wave off. In some way, it feels more dangerous than any frown could ever be.

You turn on your heel with a slow, deliberate motion, taking calculated steps back toward Sayo. Each click of your heels against the floor sounds like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until she realizes just how badly she’s fucked up.

“Excuse me?” Your voice is calm, too calm, and it sends a shiver down Sayo’s spine.

“I—I—I didn’t…” Her voice is shaky, barely even getting a stable word out. Hands trembling in front of her. Her eyes dart around—a silent plea for help. But nothing, every girl there is looking anywhere but her. The other girls step back even further, all too aware of the volatile atmosphere. No one dares to step in, no one dares to speak. They all know how this ends.

You hum in faux thought. “Your mistake…” you utter, your voice low—almost amused, “is that you have no idea who you’re dealing with.” You take another step closer, forcing Sayo to look up at you. “You think just because you’ve been here for a few months, you know enough to throw a comment like that around?”

Sayo’s face pales. She wants to apologize, to take back the words that slipped from her mouth, but she can’t. She’s paralyzed, caught in the web of her own stupid mistake. And worse, she can feel the heat of your anger radiating off you, and it scares her more than she’s willing to admit. “I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, Y/N, I swea—”

You push her back again, softly laughing. Another push, one more, and another and she’s fallen back on her ass. Head tilting down at her in a way that makes her want to shrivel up and die. “Still clumsy with your feet, aren’t you? We’ll have to do something about that.”

You bend down in front of Sayo, your eyes cold and calculating. The slight tremble in her voice only fuels your frustration, but you can’t afford to show weakness now. You grab her by the collar of her jersey, pulling her up to meet your gaze, your fingers tightening around the fabric with a force that makes her breath hitch.

“Apologizing won’t change anything,” you murmur, the threat in your voice clear. “But since you think you can talk back, let’s see how well you handle a little correction.”

You give her a harsh shove, making her stumble to her feet again. As she regains her balance, you bring her over to the nearby wall. “Since you have issues with stability, we’ll start easy. Squat and hold your arms up.”

Sayo’s heart hammers in her chest as her legs shake under the pressure of your command. She wants to fight back, to argue, but the fear in your eyes and the coldness of your tone make her freeze in place. She can’t seem to find her voice, her mind scrambled by the confrontation. The air between you two is heavy with the tension, suffocating, and she can almost feel the weight of every single moment she’s ever disappointed you. “Now,” you press, your voice sharp, “squat. And hold your arms up like I said.”

Sayo gulps, her breath shaky as she lowers herself into a squat, her muscles trembling with the effort. She raises her arms above her head, trembling beneath the strain. Her body protests with every second, but she doesn’t dare stop. The last thing she wants is to show any more weakness. You watch her with an icy expression, your gaze unwavering. The seconds stretch into an eternity as she holds the position, your eyes never leaving her. The sound of her breathing, soft but desperate, fills the silence.

“Pathetic,” you mutter, your tone dripping with disdain. “Is this really the best you can do? I thought you were supposed to be better than this.”

Sayo bites her lip to hold back the tears, the weight of your words pressing down on her like a boulder. She tries to push through the pain in her legs, but it’s getting harder, the burn intensifying with every passing moment.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you warn, your voice now sharp with annoyance. “Hold it. You wanted to challenge me, so deal with the consequences. And maybe next time, think before you speak.”

The room feels insanely colder now, the lights above casting a harsh, unforgiving glow on the scene. Sayo wonders if she’ll ever recover from this—if she’ll ever be able to stand in front of you again without feeling like she’s on the edge of a breakdown.

You lean closer to her. “You want to talk about breaking families?” you ask, your voice dangerously quiet. “Let me remind you of something. That scandal you’re so eager to bring up? It’s not a mistake. It’s not a slip-up. It’s the reason you’re standing here, in this locker room, with a team that barely tolerates you. If I were here, I would’ve never accepted someone of your caliber. And yet, you think it’s something you can just toss into conversation? Like it’s some kind of joke?”

She doesn’t respond, barely holding eye contact with you before focusing down at her feet.

And then, after what feels like way too long, you step back, nodding with a cold satisfaction. “Good enough. For now. But don’t expect me to be so lenient next time.”

Sayo collapses to the floor as soon as you turn away, her body shaking from the effort, the adrenaline, the sheer humiliation of it all. She can still feel the sting of your words like they’re etched into her skin, a constant reminder that one mistake could unravel everything, unravel you.

You don’t look back as you leave the room, your footsteps echoing in the silence left behind. And as Sayo breathes heavily on the floor, she wonders just how much more she can take before she completely breaks.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you realize just how heavily you’re breathing; just how hard your nails are digging into your palms. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear your jaw creaking. Your feet carry you to a certain room, opening it and stepping in—despite the surprised shriek.

“That bitch.” You snarl, plopping down onto the small sofa.

“Hey! Lock the door!” Yui exclaims, climbing off the man’s lap and doing it herself. She’s topless, the man who she was just on top of has his belt unbuckled. With a look at you, she can tell something just happened while she was in here messing around with the baseball team’s manager. “What happened?” She asks, finding her cropped jersey and putting it back on.

You lean back on the couch, closing your eyes for a moment to steady yourself, trying to shake off the wave of anger that still lingers in your chest. Exhaling sharply, the frustration bubbling over as you run a hand through your hair.

A frustrated breath falls from your lips, the anger still simmering beneath your skin. "Sayo happened. That little brat thinks she can talk back to me," you mutter, running a hand through your hair. The thought of her words still gnawing at you, twisting in your gut like a thorn.

Yui raises an eyebrow, her gaze flickering to the man in the room who seems to be trying to salvage his dignity, pulling his belt back into place. "You went off on her, huh?" She sits back down on the sofa next to you, her tone light but with an undertone of amusement. "What’d she say?"

You can feel the tightness in your chest, the anger still pulsing through your veins. "She said something stupid about...about me breaking apart families." You glance at her, your eyes narrowing, as if the words themselves are still fresh in your mind. "It was a low blow."

Yui's face changes, a flicker of something like sympathy crossing her features. "Well, that's a dumb thing to say. I guess she doesn’t know the rules." She takes a moment, her eyes flicking to the man for a second. "If she doesn't know when to shut her mouth, she deserves what she gets."

You shake your head, leaning back into the couch. "I’ve put everything into this team, and she—" You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. "It’s not even just about her anymore. It’s about respect. She doesn't get it."

Yui leans back, her arm stretching over your shoulders to bring you in. "You’re letting her get to you. That’s your problem. You’re too damn invested in making everyone respect you. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about what you actually want, for yourself. Or you’ll burn out, and it’ll be for nothing."

You meet her gaze, a flicker of doubt creeping into your mind. But you push it away, clenching your fists. "I don’t have the luxury of burning out. Not yet."

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with the weight of everything you’ve said. Yui’s lips curl into a smile, the kind that says she’s not quite convinced by your words but is willing to let you believe them for now.

"Do you need me to handle it?” Tatsuo asks, his gruff voice making your peer at him.

With a small scowl, you scoff out. “You’ve handled enough, thanks.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. I introduced you to Ren, sure. But I’m the only one who spent thousands cleaning up after the mess, wasn’t I?”

You stand, arms crossing at the older man. “I don’t care for how much money you spent.”

Tatsuo raises an eyebrow at your sharp tone, clearly unfazed. “Yeah, I can tell,” he mutters, leaning back against the doorframe. “But you care when the mess threatens everything you’ve worked for. Believe me, Y/N, I’m the one who saw this shit from the start. You think Ren’s got your back? He’s too busy screwing around with his own agenda to even notice what’s going on most of the time.”

Your eyes narrow at his insinuation. Tatsuo may not be wrong, but hearing it from him only makes your skin crawl. “Don’t start. I can handle that son of a bitch. I’ve got this under control.” You step toward him, your voice low but firm. “You don’t need to clean up my mess anymore.”

Tatsuo chuckles, shaking his head. “Keep telling yourself that. I’m just saying, you’ve got a lot more to lose than you think. And when it all falls apart, don’t come running to me.”

You freeze for a moment, the burden of his words settling on you like a dark cloud. But you won’t show any weakness. Not here, not now. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ll clean it up myself.”

Tatsuo shrugs, turning to leave. “Fine. Just remember, I’m the one who warned you. Don’t say I didn’t have a hand in this.” The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left in the silence of your own thoughts.

Your lips thin into a fine line, looking at your best friend. “Remind me why you’re screwing around with that pig? He’s like almost twice your age.”

Yui scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pulls her shirt back down. “Don’t act like you’re the moral authority, Y/N. Besides, you were the one who told me to get close to the manager.” She gestures vaguely, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “What’s the difference between Ren and Tatsuo, huh? At least Tatsuo knows how to get things done. He’s useful.”

“First of all, I didn’t tell you to get close with him. I said why not since he’s not married and you need some fun in your life. And second of all, stop mentioning that dick.”

Yui sighs, coming close to put her hands on your shoulders. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t bring him up anymore. Did what Sayo say really mess with your head like that?”

You bite your lip, fixating on her eyes. “…of course it did, Yui. I’ve only just come back and now she—she thinks she can say that to me without any consequences. I already faced enough hate from everyone else. And people still think it’s my fault, it’s not. He told me they were divorced, he didn’t have a ring on, he showed me the papers and I—”

Yui interrupts, her hands gripping your shoulders a bit tighter. “Y/N, stop. I know what happened. You’ve told me a hundred times, and I’m not going to sit here and let anyone drag you down over something that wasn’t your fault. You’re not the one who caused the mess, and you certainly don’t owe anyone any explanations. Sayo’s just trying to get under your skin, don’t let her.”

You exhale sharply, trying to steady your breath. The anger still simmers just beneath the surface, but you’re starting to feel the weight of the exhaustion too. The constant pressure of maintaining control, keeping your reputation intact, and now dealing with Sayo’s words... it’s all too much. “Then why does it feel like everyone’s still blaming me?” you mutter, rubbing a hand across your face. “I can’t escape it. Every time I think I’m past it, someone brings it back up. And it’s always the same thing. ‘Y/N ruined everything.’ I’ve been in more shit than anyone else on the team. It brings me back to when…when I first joined.”

Your voice lowers as you bring up the incident that happened just a year within you being recruited. Yui softens, her expression gentle but firm. “Because people are stupid, and they want someone to blame. That’s how it works. You’re stronger than this. Don’t let their ignorance drag you down. You know the truth, and so do I.”

You nod, but the knot in your stomach remains. Yui’s words help, but they don’t erase the sting of Sayo’s and everyone else’s accusations. It’s hard not to feel like everything’s been building up to this moment where everything you’ve worked for could come crashing down. Still, you’re not one to back down. Not now.

“I know,” you finally say, your voice steady, even if it’s shaky underneath. “I won’t let it break me. But Sayo needs to understand that there are consequences when you cross me.” Your eyes narrow, a flicker of something dark passing through you. “She’s going to regret it.”

Yui raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling up in a small, knowing smile. “I’d say be careful, but you’ve got this. Just don’t get too carried away, alright?”

You chuckle dryly, the tension momentarily lifting from your shoulders. “Don’t worry, I know how to handle myself.”

With that, the conversation shifts, but the weight of what Sayo had said still lingers in the back of your mind. You’re determined to prove that no one can mess with you and get away with it. The world may want to blame you, but you know the truth, and that’s enough to keep you standing tall.

“See?! See! Right there! That one!”

A sigh in response. “Takuma…”

“She’s so pretty! Do you think I have a shot, Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

Takuma frowns, removing his pointer finger from your figure on the small TV in the break room. The camera had given you specifically a close up. Nanami’s used to the younger man raving about sports and whatnot. And while Nanami sometimes partakes in watching them himself, he’s not a mega fan like the other one. And he especially doesn’t have a favorite cheerleader.

“You’re so mean, Nanami…” Takuma grumbles, slumping back in his seat with a dramatic huff.

Nanami rolls his eyes, his annoyance spiking up even more when an intruding voice enters the room. “Nanami? Being rude? Who would’ve thunk.”

“Don’t start, Satoru.”

Gojo chuckles, patting his co-worker on the shoulder as he passes by him to slouch onto the sofa provided. Laying down on it like it is his own, sighing wistfully with a content smile. Takuma jolts back up. “Gojo! Please, tell Nanami I actually have a shot with Y/N L/N!”

“Who?” Satoru casually asks.

Takuma gasps, gesturing wildly at the TV where the replay of the game is still playing. The camera pans to the cheerleading squad again, and there you are, beaming brightly and waving your pom-poms. “Her! Y/N L/N! The most beautiful woman ever!”

Satoru peeks an eye open, looking over at the screen. For a few seconds, he watches quietly. Finally humming softly and nodding his head briefly. “She’s cute, sure. You got a crush, Ino?” His lip curls up in a teasing grin. Arms rested behind his head.

Ino blushes furiously, rubbing the back of his neck in a sheepish manner. “I-I mean, yeah. Who doesn’t?”

“Didn’t she homewreck a fam—”

“No.” Ino cuts Nanami off with a sudden firmness, lips down turning into a frown. “She said they were divorced. I believe her.”

Nanami sighs and rubs his forehead, disengaging from the stupid conversation and drinking his tea. Satoru, from his position on the couch huffs, “She’s probably lying to save face, man.”

Ino shakes his head. Sighing heavily and switching the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Look, I think she’s innocent and many other people do. But anyway, that’s not what I asked. Do you think I have a shot with her?”

Satoru squints back at the TV, conceding with a small shrug. “Sure, why not?”

“See?! Even Gojo thinks so!” Takuma declares triumphantly, pointing a finger at Nanami.

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Gojo smirks, tilting his head back to look at Takuma. “But here’s the thing, kid. Y/N probably gets hit on by a hundred guys a day, especially with that smile of hers. You’re gonna need more than ‘cute resident’ vibes to catch her attention.”

Takuma frowns, his enthusiasm deflating slightly. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Well, for starters,” Satoru says, sitting up and giving Takuma a knowing eyebrow raise, “you could try, I don’t know, actually meeting her instead of gawking at her on TV like a lovesick puppy?”

“Easier said than done,” Takuma grumbles.

“Or,” Nanami cuts in, despite not wanting to, with his usual no-nonsense tone, “you could focus on your residency and stop wasting time on unattainable crushes.”

Gojo snickers, reaching over to clap Nanami on the knee. “Ah, Kento, always the voice of doom and gloom. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Anywho,” Satoru starts, looking over at Nanami. “Heard the surgery went well. Some older woman, right?”

Nanami adjusts his glasses and nods, his tone matter-of-fact. “Yes. A cerebral aneurysm. It was delicate, but everything went according to plan.”

“Of course it did,” Gojo says, stretching lazily on the couch. “If anyone can handle brain stuff, it’s you, Mr. Neurosurgeon Extraordinaire.”

Nanami rolls his eyes, clearly unamused by the flattery. “It’s called doing my job, Satoru. You should try it sometime.”

Satoru feigns offense, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. “I do do my job! Saving lives, bringing people back from the brink—it’s what I do best.”

“Yeah,” Takuma pipes up, eager to chime in. “Dr. Gojo is one of the best trauma surgeons around. Even if he doesn’t act like it half the time.”

Satoru grins smugly, pointing at Takuma. “See? The kid gets it.”

“I’m only twenty-eight…”

“Semantics, semantics.”

Nanami shakes his head. “Well, being ‘the best’ doesn’t excuse your constant lack of decorum.”

“Decorum is boring,” Satoru replies with a shrug. Then, his gaze shifts back to Takuma, his grin turning mischievous. “Speaking of boring, you gonna do anything about that cheerleader crush of yours, or are you just gonna keep mooning over her from afar?”

Takuma flushes, throwing his hands up defensively. “I’m working up to it, okay? It’s not like I can just walk up to her and say, ‘Hi, I’m a doctor, wanna date me?’”

“Why not?” Satoru quips. “Worked for me a couple of times.”

Nanami murmurs under his breath, “God help us all.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, checking the time of his wristwatch. “I’m hungry, Nanami, are you buying my lunch again?”

Nanami raises an eyebrow, his voice flat. “Why on earth would I buy your lunch again? You already owe me for the last three meals.”

Satoru sits up, feigning surprise. “Three? That doesn’t sound right. Two, tops.”

“Three,” Nanami deadpans. “The ramen, the sushi, and that overpriced café you insisted on last week because you had to have their truffle fries.”

Satoru leans back, giving him an exaggerated pout. “Come on, Nanamin, you know I don’t carry cash. And who can resist truffle fries? You were technically doing me a favor.”

“It’s always a favor with you,” Nanami grits, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Takuma chuckles nervously, trying to diffuse the tension. “Uh, maybe I can chip in this time—”

“No, no,” Satoru cuts him off, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re a resident. Save your pennies, kid.” He turns his attention back to Nanami, his grin widening. “So, what do you say, pal? Treat your favorite coworker to some lunch?”

Nanami stares at him for a long moment, then sighs heavily. “Fine. But it’s the last time.”

Satoru claps his hands together triumphantly. “Knew I could count on you, Nanamin! Let’s go. I’m thinking something Italian today. Pizza, pasta, maybe both…”

Nanami mumbles under his breath as he stands, “I should’ve gone into private practice.”

In a familiar routine, the three begin making their way down to the first floor where the cafeteria is. The entire time, Ino and Satoru chatter away. All the while Nanami is silently strangling them in his head. As they reach the elevator, Satoru’s voice rings out, a little too loud for Nanami’s taste. “So, you guys see the latest game? That last play was wild. I’m telling you, Ino, the guy has potential for the pros.”

Ino nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing on his heels. “I know, right? It was insane. You think I could pull off those moves? Maybe not on the field, but definitely in the ER.” He chuckles, clearly imagining himself doing something ridiculous on the job.

Nanami’s eyes narrow, his hands slipping into his pockets as he grits his teeth. Every day... I’m stuck with these two.

When the elevator dings, they file in, and Satoru continues to chatter away. “Honestly, Nanami, you need to loosen up. It’s just sports talk. No need to look like you're about to cut someone open with your eyes.” He flashes his signature grin, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s causing.

Ino perks up. “Yeah, seriously, you look like you're ready to—” He quiets down with a single look from his senior, awkwardly clearing his throat and looking away; whistling a little tune.

Nanami clenches his jaw but remains silent. His usual frustration is there, but he’s too tired to engage. He just wants his lunch without these two constantly yammering in his ear. His only hope is to get through the day without strangling anyone in his head.

Satoru, however, seems unfazed by the cold silence that falls between them as the elevator descends. "But seriously, Nanami, you gotta get out more. You never know, you might find someone who actually enjoys sitting through a three-hour sports game with you."

Nanami replies, "I don't have time for games."

Satoru looks at him with mock concern. "You're missing out, old man. At this rate, you’ll be sitting on a rocking chair before you know it."

Ino snickers, clearly amused at the banter. But he soon stifles it with his arm. Nanami only sighs deeply, already regretting his decision to go to lunch with them.

When the doors finally open, Nanami practically darts toward the cafeteria, hoping for some peace and quiet—or at least some decent food. Satoru and Ino continue their back-and-forth, oblivious to the trail of frustration left in their wake.

Grabbing their own trays of lunch and finding a little table in the back. With Ino ahead, Nanami takes the time to peer at Satoru from the corner of his eye. “So, have you talked to Suguru? Shoko says he’s been talking to her about you too now. Maybe you shou—”

“Who?” Satoru cuts him off, a small—but noticeable tick to his jaw.

Nanami, ever the perceptive man, looks forward again. Stopping in his tracks. Satoru does the same, glancing over at the other man. Nanami stands there for a moment, considering the situation. He knows he shouldn’t push, but he can’t help himself. He’s seen the way Satoru reacts when certain names come up. Suguru is one of those names. “It’s just…” Nanami slowly trails off, his tone casual but laced with a hint of something unspoken. He watches Satoru closely, noting the tightness around his eyes, the subtle twitch of his fingers gripping the tray.

Satoru’s smile falters, just for a split second, before he masks it with a shrug. “I don’t know any Suguru, Nanami. Not anyone worth mentioning, anyway.” His words are smooth, but the undercurrent of discomfort is there, almost imperceptible.

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately, but his gaze sharpens. He’s seen Satoru like this before—this mask he wears whenever someone mentions his ex best friend. It’s a name that stings for more reasons than one to Satoru. And he doesn’t want to talk about it, but Nanami knows better than to push further in public, especially with Ino prattling on ahead of them. Still, there’s a gnawing feeling in his gut, and for once, he chooses to let the silence hang between them.

Eventually, he chooses his usual silence, nodding in understanding and resuming his walk. Once they sit, it seems as if any prior emotions have been tossed out the window as Satoru continues his ramble with the resident.

His mind tells an entire different story. Satoru is great at multitasking, he has to be. He can physically be in one place, but his mind is across the world—in another dimension.

Stabbing his fork a little too hard, munching just a bit too furiously. It’s been about three years now since he last spoke or saw Suguru.

Sure, time has passed, but it’s felt dreadfully slow all the while.

He can remember their last conversation all too well, it invades his mind at times when he feels particularly lonely. The last time they spoke, Suguru had been different, but so had he. They were changed in ways Satoru wasn’t ready to face. The familiar bond they once shared had fractured, leaving Satoru with no answers, an aching void, and a dead sister.

And he can’t deny the fact that there’s still that miniscule, hidden part of him that blames Suguru for it all. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself.

Suguru’s final words ring in his head even as he cleans up and heads back to the elevator for his surgery at two.

“I’ll fix this all, I promise.”

He still scoffs at the reminder. What a pile of shit. It’s quite obvious that the cracks are still there, hidden just beneath the surface, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before they break open.

The sterile white walls of the VitaCore lab hum quietly, the low buzz of machines and the soft clicking of keyboards filling the otherwise empty space. Scientists in crisp white coats move methodically, their eyes focused on their work, unaware of the dangerous precipice they are teetering on.

At the center of the room, Dr. Akira Saito. Beside him, Suguru Geto.

The glow of the fluorescent lights above casts a sharp reflection off the polished surfaces, their harshness juxtaposed by the serene, almost clinical atmosphere. On the countertop beside them sits a collection of vials, each containing a liquid that glows faintly—a shimmering promise. CerebraX-12. The very thing that had kept Suguru up through countless sleepless nights, the catalyst of his obsession.

Suguru taps the vial with a gloved finger, his expression a mask of quiet confidence. “It’s working,” he says, as though speaking to himself, but loud enough for the doctor to hear. “Increased neural activity. Clearer cognitive function. This will change everything.”

Suguru’s fingers hover over the vial, his gaze fixed on it with a mix of reverence and guilt. He had been here from the beginning, and now, he never felt more inextricably linked to the project. The drug had started as a way to help those lost, broken, unable to heal—what it had the potential to become… He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t look away.

“If it works…” Dr. Akira starts, but his voice falters. He doesn’t even know what it is anymore.

Suguru glances up at him, his eyes sharp, too focused. “What do you mean?” His tone is clipped, dismissive of any hesitations. “This is progress, Dr. Real progress. You’re seeing it, aren’t you? What’s happening in their brains? They’re improving.”

Dr. Akira Saito shifts uncomfortably, his hands twitching at his sides. The bright fluorescence seems to hum louder now, almost drowning out his thoughts. He looks at the vials again, but his expression is uncertain, as if the sheen of success had somehow dulled in the wake of what he’s witnessed. His voice drops, cautious. “Yes, but there are… side effects. We’ve observed them in the last batch. It’s escalating faster than we anticipated.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens at the words, his fingers tightening around the vial as though it might shatter under the pressure. “Side effects are a natural part of early trials,” he counters, his voice low, almost irritated. “This is revolutionary. Of course, there will be some issues to iron out. But we’re getting closer. You can see that. You know how many lives we can save with this.”

Dr. Saito looks away, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone else to step in, someone to reaffirm his doubts. But no one does. He’s alone with Suguru, alone with the weight of the decision.

“You’re not seeing what I’m seeing,” Dr. Akira murmurs. “The rage. The strength. The changes… They’re not just physical. It’s like they’re losing themselves. Their minds are crumbling under the pressure of the drug. We don’t understand it yet.”

Suguru shakes his head sharply. “You’re too focused on the immediate. We’re talking about long-term potential. Neural regeneration. Reversing damage. Erasing depression. You think this is an issue? This is a breakthrough.” His voice rises, as if to drown out the undercurrent of fear creeping into the room. “Every great discovery has its hiccups. Edison didn’t stop after a few failed bulbs.”

The words hang in the air, thick and heavy. But Dr. Akira doesn’t seem convinced. Instead, his gaze drifts to the monitors in front of them, displaying data he can no longer ignore. The neural scans are clear, but the patterns… they shift unnervingly. Suguru leans over the screen, his eyes narrowing. “It’s working. You’re just too caught up in the symptoms. We can handle that. We will handle that.” His hand moves swiftly, tapping a few commands on the keyboard. He pulls up a graph showing the improvements in cognitive function. The green bars are steadily rising. It’s perfect. Almost too perfect.

But Akira can’t look at it the same way anymore. The numbers might be right, but the faces of the test subjects in the other room—pupils dilated, shaking violently, uncontrollable aggression—linger in his mind like ghosts. He swallows hard. “I don’t know, Suguru. I can’t ignore the risks anymore.”

Suguru stands taller against the older man, his eyes burning with determination. “Then we move forward. We test on more subjects. We refine it, together. The world needs this.”

The tension in the room deepens, thick like a storm on the horizon. Suguru’s voice fills with a quiet intensity as he lowers his gaze to the vials again, almost hypnotized by their glow.

“Think of it, Akira. A world where depression is eradicated. Where no one has to suffer like she did. We can fix this.”

Akira hesitates, his mind torn between the growing sense of doubt and the promise of Suguru’s unwavering conviction. His eyes flicker back to the glowing vials, the temptation pulling at him, but something deep within him whispers that this isn’t the cure he thought it was.

But Suguru is already moving, already deciding. “Prepare the next round of trials,” Suguru commands, the finality in his voice settling like concrete. “We can’t afford to back down now.”

The words are no longer just a command, but a warning. He’s learned from his last mistake not to go against Suguru. Still, the memory from the last time causes his mind to plague with doubt and worry for what could sprout from this. The way the sedatives just barely flamed Subject 14, the utter strength that man had, and a junior scientist almost losing her life.

He never signed up for this when he decided to help Suguru that one day three years ago. But now, he’s stuck. Completely stuck.

The night patrol is easy, as some would say. The lab floor is quiet, save for the soft whirring of machinery and the distant flicker of security monitors. Two guards sit at the main security desk, their uniforms slightly wrinkled, their posture relaxed. They’re not scientists, and the weight of the research happening beyond the reinforced doors means little to them.

And in one of the dimly lit holding areas, Subject 37 sits in his reinforced cell, his body slack against the wall. A faint sheen of sweat glistens on his pale skin, his breathing uneven, almost labored. The once-promising patient now looks more like a feral animal: his eyes bloodshot, his muscles twitching involuntarily, and his nails clawing at the concrete floor. The cameras in the corner of the room track his every movement, though tonight, the guards monitoring them are far from vigilant.

Where they sit is also adjacent to the holding cells, their post illuminated by the strong glow of multiple screens. The sound of static fills the air as one guard—Tanaka, a lanky man in his late thirties—scrolls through his phone, his feet propped on the desk. Beside him, the younger guard, Matsuda, barely pays attention, lazily flipping through a magazine.

The repetitiveness of it all is another tier of boring. It makes the guards themselves wish they could trade places with the subjects just for a little more spark in their everyday shifts.

“This is the easiest gig I’ve ever had,” Tanaka mutters, glancing up briefly at the monitors before returning to his phone. “Just sit here, make sure nobody freaks out too much, and we’re golden.”

Matsuda snickers. “Yeah, because these lab rats are so terrifying.” He leans back in his chair, flipping a page. “You ever wonder what they’re actually testing on them?”

“Don’t care,” Tanaka replies, kicking his feet higher. “As long as the paycheck clears. Besides, it’s some top secret bullshit only they know about.”

“Maybe it’s a secret weapon for an upcoming war.”

The two chuckle to themselves. On the monitor, Subject 37 suddenly jerks upright, his movements sharp and unnatural. He tilts his head, as though listening to something only he can hear. His breathing grows rapid, erratic. His hands clench into fists, and he begins to bang them against the walls of his cell, the dull thuds growing louder with each strike.

The guards glance up at the sound, faintly audible through the thick walls.

“Looks like 37’s having one of his tantrums again,” Matsuda says with a smirk. “Probably needs another sedative.”

Tanaka yawns, waving a dismissive hand. “Let him tire himself out. The reinforced glass can handle it.”

Subject 37 continues his assault on the cell walls, his fists leaving faint cracks in the reinforced concrete. The sound grows louder, reverberating through the otherwise silent lab floor. On the monitors, his movements become more erratic, his body contorting unnaturally as though something inside him is trying to claw its way out.

Matsuda frowns, lowering his magazine. “He’s really going at it tonight. You sure that glass can hold?”

Tanaka waves him off again, his gaze glued to his phone. “Relax. We’ve seen worse. The glass is four inches, these cells are built for freaks like him.”

But Matsuda’s unease doesn’t fade. His eyes remain fixed on the screen as Subject 37 suddenly stops, his body freezing mid-motion. His head tilts toward the camera, and for the first time, Matsuda feels like the subject is staring directly at him. It’s an unnerving sight—those bloodshot eyes filled with something primal, something unnatural.

“Uh, Tanaka?” Matsuda’s voice trembles slightly. “He’s looking right at us.”

Tanaka glances up, sighing. “So? Creepy stares don’t mean shit. The guy’s fried—probably doesn’t even know where he is.”

Before Matsuda can respond, the lights in the lab flicker for a second, before the entire block plunges into darkness. The sudden shift jolts Matsuda upright. Tanaka sighs and locks his phone, standing up, adjusting his gearbelt around his waist. .

“What the hell was that?” Matsuda asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Probably just a power surge,” Tanaka mutters, though the annoyed edge in his tone betrays his attempt at calmness. He grabs the radio on his belt and presses the button. “Control, this is Lab Security. We just had an outage down here—everything okay on your end? Are the backups now working?”

Static greets him on the other end. He frowns, pressing the button again. “Control, do you copy?”

Still nothing.

“Great,” Tanaka grumbles, setting the radio down. “Looks like the comms are fried too.”

On the monitor, Subject 37 begins moving again. This time, his motions are slow and deliberate, his head tilting side to side as if testing the limits of his body. His breathing grows heavier, audible now even through the thick walls. The cracks in the concrete behind him spread wider with each exhale.

Matsuda swallows hard. “We should call someone. A supervisor or—”

“We’re not calling anyone,” Tanaka snaps, though his eyes remain locked on the screen. “This is probably just another glitch. They’ll chew us out if we overreact.”

But Matsuda doesn’t share his confidence. His gaze darts between the screen and the reinforced door leading to the holding cells. A deep, guttural growl echoes through the lab, sending a chill down his spine.

Tanaka, gritting his teeth and grabbing his flashing along with a taser, heads over to the cell that houses the subject. “Fuckin’ freak.” He huffs, hand reaching out to unlock the cell.

However, Matsuda stops him before he can do so. “W-what the hell are you doing?”

“Shuttin’ him up for now.”

“Tana—”

“Move,” the younger man is shoved out the way as Tanaka enters the cell with a wave of authority. Clicking the flashlight on, surveying the room. “Alright, freak. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

The cell feels colder than it should. The fluorescent light flickers weakly, casting long shadows across the stark walls. Subject 37 is nowhere to be seen at first glance, the reinforced glass door sliding shut behind Tanaka with an ominous hiss.

“Real brave, aren’t you?” Tanaka mutters, his voice bouncing off the walls. He adjusts his grip on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the dimness. “C’mon, don’t make this harder than it has to be. We both know how this ends.”

Matsuda stands frozen just outside the cell, heart pounding in his chest, biting his lip anxiously. The sound of his breathing feels too loud, competing with the quiet hum of machinery and the faint, unsettling growl that seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Tanaka,” Matsuda calls out, his muffled voice cracking slightly. “Don’t be stupid. Just get out of there.”

But Tanaka doesn’t answer. His attention is drawn to the far corner of the cell, where faint scratches mar the pristine walls. He steps closer, his flashlight illuminating deep gouges carved into the concrete. They form no discernible pattern, just chaotic, violent marks that make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Cheap walls,” he mutters, though the tremor in his voice betrays his unease.

Suddenly, the growl grows louder, almost vibrating through the air. Tanaka spins around, flashlight beam whipping across the room. His taser hums to life in his other hand, the crackle of electricity a sharp contrast to the oppressive silence that follows.

“Alright, freak!” Tanaka yells, trying to mask his growing panic. “I’m done playing games.”

A shadow shifts in the corner, just outside the flashlight’s reach. Tanaka squints and whirls around to see better. Leaning forward slightly, and the growl morphs into a low, guttural chuckle. It’s a sound that doesn’t belong in the realm of the living, a sound that makes Matsuda take a step back even behind the door. “Tanaka, get out of there!” Matsuda shouts now, his voice trembling.

But it’s too late. Subject 37 lunges from the shadows with unnatural speed, his twisted form illuminated for a split second as he crashes into Tanaka. The flashlight clatters to the ground, its beam spinning wildly across the walls, casting brief glimpses of the chaos.

Tanaka screams, a raw, visceral sound as Subject 37’s claw-like hands dig into him. The reinforced glass shakes as Matsuda’s eyes grow wide like saucers. “Tanaka! TANAKA!”

Inside the cell, the flashlight finally comes to a stop, its beam resting on Subject 37’s face. His bloodshot eyes gleam with a horrifying mix of rage and something almost... gleeful. His mouth, stretched into a feral snarl, drips with blood as he turns his gaze toward Matsuda.

Matsuda gulps harshly, his hands trembling as he fumbles with his walkie-talkie. His breath comes in short, uneven gasps, the faint static of the device the only sound in the suffocating darkness. “Control,” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “This is Matsuda. Emergency in the holding area—Subject 37 has breached containment! Repeat, Subject 37 is loose!”

Nothing but static answers him. His hands tremble more violently as he presses the button again, his voice cracking. “Control, do you copy?!”

The distant sound of something heavy dragging across the floor makes his blood run cold. Matsuda freezes, his eyes darting around the pitch-black lab. The reinforced glass of the cell door is now a dark void, hiding whatever is happening within. A wet, deep crunch echoes from the cell, followed by a sound that Matsuda can only describe as chewing. His stomach churns as bile rises in his throat, his knees threatening to give out. His lip curls, sweat dripping down his cheeks.

“No, no, no,” he mutters under his breath, backing away from the door. His mind races, the primal instinct to run warring with his fear of what might happen if he turns his back.

Then, the chewing stops.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the faint buzz of the broken walkie-talkie. Matsuda’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest he’s sure it will give him away. He takes another step back, his eyes locked on the cell door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.

A single tap comes from the glass.

Matsuda’s breath hitches. Another tap follows, louder this time, deliberate. His flashlight shakes in his hand as he grabs it— raising it toward the glass, the beam cutting through the darkness to reveal… nothing.

The cell is empty.

“Shit,” he whispers, his voice cracking. He takes another shaky step back, his body screaming at him to run, but his legs feel like lead. He attempts to reach for his pistol.

But before anything else, the reinforced glass splinters in an explosion of force, shards flying in all directions. Matsuda raises his arms to shield his face, the flashlight clattering to the ground and spinning wildly. “Gah!”

When he lowers his arms, Subject 37 stands before him, blood dripping from his teeth, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim emergency lighting.

“…pots…t’nac…t’nac I .em pleh.…esaelP,” the creature growls, its voice distorted, guttural, and impossibly human. However, it sounds like there’s the smallest hint of remorse in the subject’s voice.

There’s a suffocating second of stillness, Matsuda staring at what once Subject 37 in utter horror. Limbs shaking, stumbling back until he falls on his ass. Matsuda doesn’t think. He stands up in a rush—turns and bolts, his scream echoing through the lab as Subject 37 lunges after him.

Gunshots are followed by a resounding squishy noise.

a/n: very introductory ik. next chap is when it gets goooood

taglist: @sukuxna0 @heartsteelkaynconsumer @myahfig4 @kirachuyuu @sypnasis

@ducky1232 @oromanticism @2late4breakfast @beabamboo @boothillglazer

@sleepyyammy @tbzzluvr

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novaursa · 7 months ago

Text

Valyrian Bride (Final Chapter)

- Summary: When your older brother, Jacaerys, promised you to Cregan to be his bride, the Lord Stark did not expect what he got - a trueborn dragon.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: continuation

- Next part: dragon eggs

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @ferakillia

The dawn of their wedding day broke with a rare warmth for the North, the sky a deep, endless blue above Winterfell. Snow clung to the castle’s ancient stones, but the air was still, as though even the wind itself held its breath in anticipation. The entire stronghold seemed to hum with energy, its people gathered from every corner of the Stark lands to witness a union that had already become the subject of countless whispered tales.

Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, the grey furs of his cloak draped across his broad shoulders, his usual starkness softened by the weight of the day. His heart, so often steeled against emotion, was lighter today, a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. He had faced battle, the harsh winters of the North, and the endless responsibilities of leading his house, but nothing felt quite like this. Today, he was not just Lord of Winterfell—he was a man about to be wed.

The courtyard was bustling with activity. Banners of House Stark and House Targaryen fluttered side by side, their sigils sharp contrasts—wolf and dragon, winter and fire. His bannermen, all garbed in their finest, stood near the towering trees of the godswood, while the castle’s women prepared the space for the ceremony that was to take place beneath the Heart Tree.

The great Weirwood loomed tall, its ancient face carved into the pale bark, its red leaves fluttering like the blood of old gods. This was where Cregan had wanted to wed her, beneath the watchful eyes of the gods of the North, and though she had been born to the faith of the Seven, the princess had agreed without hesitation. She was to become a Stark, after all, and she would take her place among their traditions.

The quiet murmur of the crowd hushed suddenly, as a figure appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Cregan’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

She stood at the threshold, wrapped in rich silver and deep crimson. Her gown was a marvel of southern craftsmanship, its fabric shimmering in the morning light like molten fire. The silver thread that wound through the delicate embroidery reflected her Valyrian heritage, its designs reminiscent of the ancient sigils of her forebears. Her hair, like strands of spun moonlight, was woven into intricate braids, entwined with tiny pearls and rubies that caught the light, making her appear as though a crown of stars rested upon her head.

And yet, for all the beauty of her attire, it was her bearing that stole Cregan’s breath. She moved with the quiet confidence he had come to admire, her violet eyes focused on him as though there was no one else in the world. There was no trace of nervousness, no hesitation—she was every inch the dragon’s daughter, proud and regal, yet today, she walked toward him as his bride.

The crowd parted for her, whispers trailing in her wake, but no one dared to speak aloud. Even Cregan’s bannermen, hardened men of the North, stood silently, as if afraid to disturb the moment. He heard the faint murmur of the word Valyria pass between them, a reminder of the ancient blood she carried, blood older than any in Westeros.

As she reached him beneath the Heart Tree, Cregan felt the weight of the moment settle over them both. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto his, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. The godswood, the crowd, the banners—all of it was distant, insignificant. There was only her, and the promise they were about to make.

Maester Kennet, chosen to officiate the ceremony, stepped forward, his voice strong but reverent. “We gather here beneath the eyes of the Old Gods, to witness the union of House Stark and House Targaryen. Winter and fire, bound together.”

Cregan turned toward her, taking her hands in his. They were warm despite the cold air, her skin soft against his roughened palms. As they stood there, so close, he could see the faintest flicker of emotion in her eyes—a softness that she seldom let others see.

“I, Cregan Stark, take you, Y/N Velaryon, to be my wife,” he said, his voice firm but laden with meaning. “From this day until my last. I will stand with you, through fire and snow, through war and peace. I swear it before the gods, before my people, and before you.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly, her voice steady and clear when she spoke her vows in turn. “I, Y/N Velaryon, take you, Cregan Stark, to be my husband. I pledge my fire to your winter, my strength to your cause, my loyalty to your heart. From this day until my last breath, I will stand with you. This I swear before the gods, before your people, and before you.”

The words hung in the air, tangible and full of weight. Cregan felt them settle into his soul, binding him to her in a way that was more profound than he had anticipated. There was a finality to it, but it was not a burden—it was a promise he wanted to keep.

Maester Kennet raised his hands. “By the old gods and the new, I declare you husband and wife.”

Cregan didn’t wait for the maester to finish. He pulled her to him, his hands still wrapped around hers, and kissed her. It was not a show for the crowd, nor was it born out of any sense of duty—it was a moment just for them, filled with the raw certainty of the vows they had exchanged.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound filling the courtyard and echoing off the ancient walls of Winterfell. Cregan, for once, did not care who was watching. When he pulled away, the smile on his face was genuine, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of the same emotion reflected in her eyes.

They turned to face the crowd, and as they walked through the throng, hand in hand, Cregan caught the glances exchanged between his bannermen and the ladies of Winterfell. His bannermen, who had known him since boyhood, seemed almost astonished by the expression on his face. They had rarely, if ever, seen him smile like this.

Later, the maesters would record that no one had seen Cregan Stark smile more than on this day, save for the birth of his first child with the princess. But in that moment, as they walked through the people of Winterfell, his heart felt as though it might burst with the weight of the joy he carried.

As the newlyweds entered the great hall, the feast that awaited them was grander than any Winterfell had seen in years. Tables were laden with food, goblets filled with wine and ale, and laughter already filled the room. But even amidst the celebration, Cregan’s focus remained on her—his wife.

He leaned in close, his voice low enough for only her to hear. “You make Winterfell warmer, princess.”

She tilted her head to him, her smile soft but knowing. “Perhaps it’s not just the fire in me, but the wolf in you.”

He chuckled, a deep, content sound. “A wolf and a dragon. We’ll see what kind of legends they make of us.”

“They will make legends of us, Cregan Stark,” she whispered. “That I promise.”

And as the night wore on, with the fire roaring in the hearth and the joy of the wedding spreading throughout Winterfell, Cregan knew she was right. This day, this union, would be remembered long after both of them were gone. And the legends would speak of the dragon that brought fire to the North, and the Stark who stood beside her, unflinching and steadfast.

The cold air of Winterfell’s courtyard bit at Cregan’s cheeks, the chill seeping through even his thick furs as he stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the great dragon Vaetrix. Her crimson scales glinted in the pale northern light, each one like a shard of polished ruby set against the stark white backdrop of snow. Even at rest, her massive wings were tucked tight against her sides, a vast stretch of membrane that flickered like flame when she shifted, the tips of her talons sinking into the frozen earth.

To say Cregan Stark was a man comfortable on solid ground would have been an understatement. He was born of stone and ice, a wolf bound to the earth, as much a part of the North as the walls of Winterfell itself. But today, as he stood beside his wife, watching the dragon’s great form settle before them, he felt that comfort slip away, like snow melting beneath an unexpected spring sun.

She had offered—no, insisted—that he take to the skies with her, on the back of Vaetrix. Cregan had held his ground through worse. He had fought battles, endured the harshest winters, but none of that prepared him for this. He could handle swords and shields, but flying? That was a different beast entirely. Quite literally.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, casting a skeptical glance at his wife, who stood beside him looking perfectly at ease, even amused.

Her silver-gold hair, tied back to keep it from whipping in the wind, gleamed in the cold sunlight. There was a mischievous glint in her violet eyes, and a faint smile played at her lips as she regarded him. “You’re not afraid of a little flight, are you, my lord?” she teased, her tone light but carrying just enough of a challenge to make Cregan’s jaw tighten.

He looked back at Vaetrix, the dragon’s head lowering to the ground with a snort that sent a puff of steam curling into the air. The dragon’s golden eyes—deep, intelligent, and unsettlingly aware—fixed on him with what he could only describe as amusement. As if the beast knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Afraid? No,” Cregan grumbled. “But I’d be a fool to not be cautious of flying on the back of a creature who could swallow me whole.”

She laughed then, a bright, musical sound that carried over the stillness of the courtyard. “Vaetrix isn’t interested in eating you. She’d much prefer a herd of sheep over a Northman. Too much wool, not enough meat.”

Cregan raised a brow. “Comforting.”

She placed a hand on his arm, her touch warm despite the cold. “Come, Cregan. You’ve fought in battles, faced down far worse than this. Flying will be nothing. Trust me.”

It wasn’t the flight that unnerved him, but the idea of relinquishing control. He was used to being on solid ground, where he could command his surroundings. The sky was unknown territory, one he had no desire to claim. But as he met her gaze, the playful challenge there mixed with something deeper—her faith in him, and perhaps a desire for him to share in her world. He couldn't refuse that.

With a deep breath, Cregan nodded. “Very well. I’ll fly with you. But if we fall, I’ll haunt you from the afterlife.”

Her smile broadened, and before he knew it, she was pulling him toward Vaetrix. The dragon lowered her massive form even further, folding her legs beneath her to allow them to mount. Up close, Cregan could truly appreciate just how enormous the beast was—her scales, tough and unyielding, were the size of his hand, and her wings, even at rest, stretched out like the sails of a great ship. Each breath she took seemed to rumble through the earth, and the heat radiating from her was enough to melt the snow in a wide circle around her.

He watched as his wife climbed effortlessly onto Vaetrix’s back, her movements fluid and graceful, as though this was second nature to her. It probably was. When she looked back at him, the challenge was still in her eyes. Cregan sighed, grumbled something under his breath about never being able to say no to her, and climbed up after her, though with significantly less grace.

Once he was seated behind her, his hands gripping the edge of the saddle far tighter than he’d ever admit, she glanced back over her shoulder, her smile still firmly in place. “Hold on, my lord.”

“I already am.”

“Good. You’ll want to hold on tighter.”

Cregan opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but before he could form the words, Vaetrix gave a mighty heave and pushed off the ground. Cregan’s stomach lurched as the world dropped away beneath them, the courtyard and the walls of Winterfell shrinking rapidly as the dragon’s powerful wings unfurled and beat against the sky.

He swore, loudly and without shame, as the icy wind whipped against his face, stinging his skin and making his eyes water. The ground, which he had spent his entire life firmly planted on, was suddenly nothing more than a distant blur of white and grey far below them. The sensation was like nothing he had ever experienced—wild, untethered, and completely out of his control.

His wife laughed, the sound carried back to him on the wind. “Are you alright back there, my wolf?”

Cregan, still clinging to the saddle for dear life, managed to mutter something that sounded vaguely like, “I’ll kill you for this.”

She only laughed harder.

As Vaetrix rose higher into the sky, her wings beating with a steady rhythm that shook the air around them, Cregan forced himself to breathe. Slowly, the initial shock gave way to something else—a sense of awe. The land stretched out beneath them in all directions, a vast expanse of snow-covered wilderness that seemed to go on forever. Winterfell looked impossibly small from up here, just a cluster of grey stones nestled against the white of the North.

The sky itself was a wonder—endless, clear, and so achingly blue that it made him forget, for a moment, the biting cold of the wind. Up here, the world was different, quieter, as though they had left the cares of the earth behind.

“This is what it’s like,” she said over her shoulder, her voice softer now, no longer teasing. “To be free in the sky.”

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, still adjusting to the sensation of being so far above everything he had ever known. But as he watched the vastness of the North unfold beneath them, he began to understand. Up here, there were no boundaries, no limits. It was just them, the wind, and the dragon’s wings.

“It’s…” he started, struggling to find the right word. “Incredible.”

She glanced back at him, her expression softening. “I knew you’d like it.”

“I didn’t say I liked it,” he shot back, though the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

She smirked. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m cold,” he retorted, though he was no longer holding on to the saddle quite so tightly. In fact, as they soared above the snow-covered forests, he realized that his fear was ebbing, replaced by something closer to exhilaration. The wind roared in his ears, but instead of dreading it, he felt alive—more alive than he had in years.

Vaetrix let out a low rumble as if sensing her riders’ mood. The dragon's massive wings tilted slightly, adjusting their course, and Cregan felt the shift as they glided smoothly over the treetops. The ground below seemed distant now, almost irrelevant.

Cregan glanced down again, marveling at how small everything appeared. "I’m still not sure how you trust her to do this."

His wife’s voice was warm as she replied, “Vaetrix is my partner, not just a mount. She flies because I trust her, and because she trusts me. It’s not about control—it’s about the bond.”

He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. Perhaps that’s what made the Targaryens so different from anyone else—their bond with these creatures was deeper than a rider and a horse, deeper than any earthly connection. It was fire, blood, and something more.

Vaetrix’s wings beat steadily as they soared toward the horizon, and for the first time, Cregan let himself relax, loosening his grip just a little. He even allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Alright," he said, leaning in slightly toward her. "Maybe I don’t hate this as much as I thought."

She smiled, her laughter carried on the wind, and as they flew together—wolf and dragon—Cregan knew that he had just crossed a threshold. This, too, was part of the life he had chosen with her, part of the legend they were creating together.

And despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy it.

The chill of winter had wrapped itself around Winterfell like an old, familiar cloak, but inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. The hearthfires burned fiercely, their flames casting flickering shadows on the ancient stones, but it wasn’t just the fire that made the air feel so stifling. It was the weight of the moment, the hush that had fallen over the great hall, the tense waiting, and the murmured prayers to both the Old Gods and the new.

Cregan Stark paced the floor just outside the chambers where his wife labored. His usually composed demeanor was gone, replaced by a restless energy that he couldn't shake. His boots scuffed against the flagstones with each turn, and though the men around him—his bannermen, his household retainers—watched him with a mixture of concern and amusement, no one dared to speak.

It wasn’t that Cregan feared what was happening behind the door. He had seen battles, endured the harshest winters, and ruled his people with a steady hand. But this—waiting for the birth of his first child—this was different. This was something far beyond his control, something that stirred a deep, primal worry in him.

He had been kept from the birthing chamber, of course, as was custom, but the muffled sounds of his wife’s labored breathing reached him even through the thick door. It was agonizing—knowing she was enduring such pain, and yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

One of his bannermen, Arnolf, an older man with a long, weathered face, stood beside him, watching the young lord with a hint of a smile. “My lord, pacing a trench in the stone won’t bring the babe any faster,” Arnolf said, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation.

Cregan stopped mid-step, shooting a half-hearted glare at his bannerman. “If I don’t keep moving, I’ll go mad.”

Arnolf chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Ah, the first child is always the hardest. You feel as though the world is on the edge of changing forever—and you’re right, it is. But trust me, my lord, it will all be worth it.”

Cregan nodded, though his jaw was still tight with worry. He knew the risks of childbirth, even for a woman as strong as his wife. She was no fragile southern lady—she was a dragon rider, fierce and unyielding—but still, childbirth had claimed queens and common women alike. He had never feared for her before, not when she flew on Vaetrix, not when she faced down the dangers of the North, but now...

Another sound, a sharp intake of breath from behind the door, sent Cregan’s heart racing again. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to burst through and be by her side. He hated this helplessness. Hated that he could do nothing but listen.

“Cregan,” came a voice from the shadows. It was his half-sister, Sara, stepping forward, her dark hair pulled back from her face, her expression soft but commanding. “She’s strong. She’ll make it through this. You know she will.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for reassurance. “I know. But it doesn’t stop the worry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “It never does. But trust in her strength. She’s born of dragons, after all. And you’ll see your child soon enough.”

Before Cregan could respond, a cry pierced the air from beyond the door—a new, sharp cry that did not belong to his wife. It was the cry of an infant, high-pitched and insistent, as though the child had already inherited the fire of its mother’s blood.

Cregan froze, his heart thudding in his chest as the door creaked open, and the midwife stepped out, her apron bloodied but her face bright with a smile. “A son, my lord,” she said, her voice warm. “A strong, healthy boy.”

For a moment, Cregan couldn’t move. The words washed over him, sinking in slowly. A son. His son. He felt as though the ground beneath him shifted, like his world had just expanded in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

“A son,” he repeated, his voice almost reverent. He had dreamed of this moment—had imagined it a hundred times—but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it.

The midwife nodded. “Your wife wishes to see you. She’s tired, but well.”

Cregan didn’t wait for more. He strode through the door into the chamber, his heart still hammering in his chest. The room smelled of blood and sweat, but it was warm, almost stifling, and lit by the soft glow of candles. His eyes immediately found her—his wife—reclining in the bed, her silver-gold hair damp with sweat, but her face flushed with triumph. In her arms, bundled in soft furs, was their child.

She looked up as he entered, and the faintest smile touched her lips, though exhaustion lined her face. “Cregan,” she breathed, her voice soft but steady. “Come meet your son.”

He moved toward her slowly, as if in a dream, his eyes fixed on the small bundle in her arms. As he reached the bedside, she shifted slightly, lifting the child toward him.

Cregan gazed down at the infant—his son. The child’s skin was soft and pale, his tiny fists clenched tightly as he wailed, his little face scrunched in displeasure at being so new to the world. But what struck Cregan most was the shock of silver-gold hair atop the boy’s head, unmistakable, just like his mother’s.

“He’s perfect,” Cregan whispered, his voice thick with awe. He reached down, hesitantly at first, then more surely as he took his son in his arms. The weight of the child felt impossibly light, yet it was as though Cregan’s heart had just doubled in size.

His wife watched him, her violet eyes gleaming with warmth. “He has your hands,” she said softly, her voice touched with amusement. “Strong, like a Stark.”

Cregan chuckled, though his throat was tight. “And his mother’s hair. He’ll stand out here in the North.”

She smiled faintly. “Let them stare. He is both wolf and dragon. They’ll come to respect him for it.”

Cregan looked down at the boy again, his son, his heir. The child’s cries had quieted now, and he blinked up at his father with curious, unfocused eyes. Cregan could see it already—the strength, the fire that would burn within this boy. He was a Stark, but he was also more than that. He was part of a legacy that would shape the future of the North and beyond.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan murmured, the weight of everything hitting him at once. The responsibility, the joy, the pride—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way.

“He will be great,” his wife said quietly, her voice soft but filled with certainty. “I can feel it.”

Cregan nodded, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead, his gratitude for her—for everything—too deep for words. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough.

She smiled, though her eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. “We did this together.”

He stayed by her side as she drifted off to sleep, their son still cradled in his arms. As the night deepened outside Winterfell’s thick walls, Cregan knew that the world had indeed changed forever. The child in his arms was not just his son—he was the future of House Stark and House Targaryen, the bridge between ice and fire.

And as Cregan looked down at the tiny face peeking from the furs, he smiled—a smile that his bannermen had not seen since the wedding, a smile that would be remembered in the histories of the North, alongside this day, as the day the first dragon-blooded Stark was born.

The sun hung low in the sky, its orange glow turning the snow into a strange mix of fire and ice. Cregan Stark, now a bit grayer around the edges but still every bit the Lord of Winterfell, stood near the training yard watching his men practice their swordplay. His face, as usual, was etched in concentration, though every so often, his gaze flickered toward the godswood where his daughter had spent most of the afternoon.

He knew her well enough to sense when mischief was brewing, and today, there was something in the air that told him she was up to something. He just hadn’t quite put his finger on what.

It wasn’t long before his suspicions were confirmed. His daughter, all of ten years old but with the same silver-gold hair and fiery spirit as her mother, came bursting through the courtyard gates with something bundled in her arms. Cregan immediately recognized the familiar look of determination in her eyes—he’d seen that look before, mostly when his wife had her mind set on something impossible, like teaching him how to fly on a dragon without looking like he was going to throw up.

“Papa!” she called, her voice a mix of excitement and urgency as she half-skipped, half-ran toward him. “Papa, look what I found!”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued, though a part of him braced for whatever his daughter had gotten herself into this time. He folded his arms over his chest, his deep voice calm as he spoke. “What have you brought me this time, little one? A dragon egg, perhaps? Another wild idea about climbing the walls of Winterfell?”

She shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. “Better,” she declared, and with that, she opened her cloak to reveal a small, squirming ball of fur.

It took Cregan a moment to register what he was seeing. A direwolf pup—tiny, scruffy, and with impossibly large paws for its body—peered up at him from the folds of her cloak. Its wide, blue eyes blinked curiously, and its little tail wagged as though it had already made up its mind that this was where it belonged.

Cregan let out a deep sigh, the kind that comes from years of parenting and knowing exactly what was coming next. “Where did you find that?”

“In the woods by the godswood,” she answered cheerfully, holding the pup up as if presenting him with the greatest treasure the North had ever seen. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

The pup let out a small yip, clearly eager to be part of the conversation. Cregan eyed the creature with a mix of fondness and exasperation. The wolf looked like it had been born to cause chaos, and somehow, his daughter had already taken a shine to it. He could almost hear the arguments forming in her head.

“And what exactly do you expect to do with this… wolf?” he asked, trying to sound stern, though his resolve was already weakening at the sight of her beaming face.

“I want to keep him,” she said, her tone so matter-of-fact it was as if she had already made the decision for him. “He’s too little to survive on his own. And I’ve always wanted a wolf, Papa. You have one! Why can’t I?”

Cregan rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the smile that was threatening to break through. “I have a wolf because I’m the Lord of Winterfell, not because I found one wandering around the woods and decided to bring it home like a stray dog.”

His daughter’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, giving him that look—one that made him feel as though he were about to be outwitted by a ten-year-old. “But you are the Lord of Winterfell, and that means you get to decide things like this, doesn’t it? You could say yes, right now.”

He sighed again. “That’s not exactly how—”

“Please, Papa?” she interrupted, stepping closer and cradling the pup against her chest, her eyes wide and pleading. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll take care of him, I promise. I’ll feed him, and train him, and everything.”

Cregan glanced down at the pup, who seemed entirely unfazed by the conversation, content to nestle into his daughter’s arms. The little wolf let out another soft yip, as if to back up her case.

“Do you even know how to train a wolf?” Cregan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll learn!” she insisted, her excitement growing. “He’s smart, I can tell. And I’m smart too. We’ll figure it out together.”

Cregan stared at her, knowing full well that he had lost this battle before it even began. She had that same stubborn streak as her mother, that fire that wouldn’t be extinguished no matter how hard he tried to reason with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of her having a wolf. A direwolf was part of the Stark legacy, after all. And though it was a bit earlier than he had planned, this felt… right.

He took a deep breath, looking from his daughter’s hopeful face to the pup in her arms. “Fine,” he said at last, his tone resigned but soft. “You can keep him.”

Her face lit up, and before he knew what was happening, she had thrown herself at him, wrapping her free arm around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you!”

Cregan chuckled, placing a hand on her head. “But you’ll be responsible for him, understand? That means feeding him, training him, and making sure he doesn’t tear through Winterfell like a wild beast.”

“I will, I promise!” she said, pulling back to beam at him, her eyes bright with joy.

The pup let out a soft whine and squirmed in her arms, wiggling until his head poked out from her cloak again. He gave Cregan a long, inquisitive look, his tiny tail wagging with uncontainable energy.

“I suppose we need to give him a name,” Cregan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “What will you call him?”

His daughter thought for a moment, her brow furrowing in concentration. Then, with a grin, she said, “How about… Storm? Because I found him after that big storm last night.”

Cregan nodded, glancing down at the pup who was now chewing on the edge of his daughter’s cloak. “Storm it is, then. A fitting name for a troublemaker.”

As they turned to head back inside, the newly named Storm trotting happily at their heels, Cregan couldn’t help but smile. His daughter had her wolf, just as he had his. The pack was growing, and despite his earlier reluctance, he felt a deep sense of pride swell in his chest.

He leaned down to ruffle his daughter’s hair, his voice warm with affection. “You’ll do well with him, little one. Just don’t let him eat all my boots.”

She giggled, glancing down at Storm, who was already sniffing the ground with intense curiosity. “I’ll try, Papa. But no promises.”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

The years had settled quietly over Winterfell, and though the seasons had come and gone, bringing with them both harsh winters and gentle springs, the castle remained the sturdy heart of the North. Cregan Stark, now older, with silver threading through his once dark hair and lines etched into his strong features, stood at the window of their chambers, looking out over the snow-covered courtyard. The sky was a soft grey, typical for this time of year, but the wind had stilled, leaving the world in a peaceful, almost serene silence.

Behind him, the familiar crackle of the hearthfire filled the room, its warmth seeping into the stone walls, casting a golden glow that softened the edges of everything. He could hear the gentle rustle of fabric as his wife moved about, though they no longer rushed through life the way they once had. These days, time was kinder, moving slower, allowing them to savor the quiet moments.

Cregan turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. She was seated in the large, cushioned chair by the fire, her silver-gold hair, now streaked with strands of white, falling loosely over her shoulders. Her beauty, undiminished by age, was not the fiery, untamed force it had been in their youth, but rather something more enduring, more graceful—a calm, steady flame that had warmed him for decades.

She looked up as she felt his eyes on her, her violet gaze meeting his, and a soft smile touched her lips. “What are you staring at, my wolf?” she asked, her voice still carrying that playful lilt, though it was quieter now, softened by the years they had shared.

Cregan smiled, crossing the room to her side. “Just thinking,” he replied, lowering himself into the chair beside her with a soft grunt. His joints weren’t quite what they used to be, but he still moved with the strength of a man who had led Winterfell for decades.

She raised an eyebrow, setting aside the book she had been reading. “You’ve always been a man of few words, but thinking? That’s dangerous.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Dangerous for some, maybe. For me, it’s just remembering.”

Her smile deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “And what are you remembering, Cregan Stark?”

He reached over, taking her hand in his. Her fingers, though not as nimble as they once were, still fit perfectly in his. He traced the lines of her palm, thinking of all the years they had spent together—of the battles fought, the children raised, the moments of laughter and sorrow that had woven their lives into something greater than either of them could have imagined.

“I was thinking of the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice quiet. “When you rode into Winterfell on Vaetrix. I had never seen anything like you, and I was certain, in that moment, that my life was about to change.”

Her laugh was soft, more of a breath than a sound, but it filled the room. “I remember that day. You looked like you were trying very hard not to run for the hills.”

Cregan shook his head, grinning. “I wasn’t about to run. I was too busy trying to keep my mouth from falling open. You were this fiery, untouchable force, and I was just a man standing in your shadow.”

She squeezed his hand gently, her thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “You were never just a man, Cregan. Not to me.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire filling the space between them. Cregan let his gaze wander around the room, settling on the small tokens of their life together—the furs draped over the bed, the carvings of direwolves that adorned the wooden posts, a tapestry that depicted both the wolf and the dragon entwined, a gift from one of their children.

“I never thought we’d come this far,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “Through everything. Wars, winters… raising our children.”

She laughed again, this time with more warmth. “Oh, the children. They were more of a challenge than any war we faced, weren’t they?”

Cregan smiled, thinking of their brood—strong, stubborn, each with their own fire. Their son had grown into a man of great strength, a natural leader who now stood as Lord of Winterfell. Their daughter, with her direwolf by her side, had become a force in her own right, a woman who carried both the blood of wolves and dragons with equal pride.

“They were. But we managed.” He looked at her, his gaze softening. “We did well, didn’t we?”

She tilted her head, studying him with that knowing look she had always given him, the one that told him she saw right through him—through his walls, his defenses, straight to the heart of him. “We did better than well, my love,” she said softly. “We built something that will last long after we’re gone.”

He nodded, feeling a deep sense of contentment settle over him. She was right. The legacy they had created together, the family they had raised, would endure. House Stark and the blood of dragons would continue to thrive, long after their bones had returned to the cold ground of the North.

Cregan lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m glad it was with you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else by my side.”

Her eyes shimmered with emotion, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. “I know, Cregan,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his skin. “It’s always been us.”

They sat like that for a long while, the fire crackling softly beside them, the weight of the years they had shared resting lightly on their shoulders. They didn’t need to speak—everything that mattered had already been said.

Outside, the night deepened, the stars beginning to peek through the grey skies, but inside Winterfell, there was warmth, and love, and the quiet peace that only came with a life well-lived.

And in that moment, as they sat together, hand in hand, Cregan Stark knew that he had found everything he had ever needed—here, in the heart of Winterfell, with the woman who had brought fire to his life and warmth to his winter.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan x #cregan stark #hotd cregan

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rafecameronsversion · 4 months ago

Text

bright beverly hills || r.c

summary : kooks bully you at a party, and rafe reassures you.

warnings : bullying, discrimination, cursing, use of y/n, feminine descriptions.

i'm unsure if this is any good 🥸 i feel like i rushed it a lot. but hope u likey

rafe and i were two sides of the same coin, opposite but inseparable. he grew up in a silver spoon gated community, everything was served to him in a silver platter. a bubble-wrapped future, footsteps for him ready to follow.

while i was having candle-lit dinners at the cut, he had them in fancy michelin star restaurants. rafe had a cold exterior when it came to other people; to protect himself. however, when it came to me, he was the most caring boy.

clandestine meetings at the age of 12, his father would berate him for hanging out with a "pogue" like me, but he couldn't let him take away the one thing that brought him peace. we were best friends, eventually becoming more with lingering touches and longing glances.

he became a honorable part of my humble family, sometimes being invited over to our most simple of dinners, dancing in the living room late night swims in the beach.

it was friday night in outer banks, a party in full swing. this house belonged to topper. i was clinging to rafe's arm, feeling out of place. the tension in the air was palpable. i had debated that i didn't want to go here, knowing i would feel singled out and small.

this place yelled every single thing that was different between us two. the glistening chandeliers, polished floors, and snobby laughs coming from kooks who have never worked a day in their lives.

rafe smiles, looking at me. "i'll grab us some drinks real quick, alright baby?" he spoke, a gentle tone in his voice that was reserved only for me. i hesitated, not wanting to be left alone in this damned place. but i nodded, i couldn't be the one to hold him back, especially in his world. glamorous, shining, bright beverly hills.

he turned around, getting lost in the crowd of super rich kids. i stood in a less crowded corner, trying to attract the least attention, and it seemed to have worked.

three girls nearby were whispering among the other, yet they were louder than they realized.

"could you believe rafe cameron brought that girl here?" the blonde one scoffed, jealously reeked out of her mouth. the other two agreed, chiming in.

"must be hard living on the cut, always desperate to climb their way out." another one insinuated. i couldn't help but scoff at the idea, my heart was heavy and i couldn't bare being here. the bimbo chimed in, a confused look on her face.

"you really think she slept her way to be his girlfriend? i don't think even cameron would allow that..." she spoke, eyes wide. the blone one rolled her eyes. "well, even the richest men can still think with their dicks, jessica." she was an absolute mean girl, and her tone displayed it perfectly.

i felt like the walls were moving in on me, it was all too much. this place was too much. i quietly turned away, going outside by the porch where no one seemed to stay. i breathed in the fresh air, fidgeting.

soon after, rafe had found where i was. he looked at me fondly, a soft smile on his face. "hey... there you are. i thought i lost you in there." he said, rubbing his hand over my shoulder. i exhaled sharply.

"why am i here, rafe?" i questioned, my voice was low as i stood against the railing of the front porch of toppers' home, that was as big as the living room of my family's house. rafe looked at me confused.

"what do you mean, baby?" he asked, a soft and confused look in his eyes.

i laughed out a scoff, a bitter tone. "i don't belong here, rafe. your world... this mansion, these people." i paused, unsure how to continue. "i grew up on the cut, these people do nothing but look down at us. i can't be here rafe, i can't be in this world."

rafe's jaw tightened, looking away for a second before looking back at me. "you know that's not fair" he spoke, his voice on the edge.

"what's not fair is you pushing to bring me here! i don't have any of the things the girls here have. you'd be better off with someone from your world..." i spoke, my voice breaking a little from frustration.

rafe's eyes softened, he moved closer toward me. "baby..."

"don't you see how different we are? your world is all polished floors and bright chandeliers. mine is messy and chaotic." i spoke softly, afraid my voice will betray me.

he reached out, grabbing both hands and bringing them closer to him. "listen, i didn't bring you here to make you feel small. i don't want these girls, they can all go fuck themselves! i love you, and i love that we're different." he spoke softly, kissing the knuckles of my hands.

"none of this matters to me, baby. it doesn't mean anything if i don't have you." rafe spoke, his blue eyes warm.

i searched his face, looking into his eyes. i want to believe him yet doubt lingered in the back of my head. "you say that now..."

"but what happens when your friends remind you of who i am? when your dad tells you i'm not good enough." my voice was below a whisper, afraid of the possibilities of this relationship we had.

rafe held me by my shoulders, "i don't care. i'm done caring what they think. i want you, and the messy and chaotic world you've shown me." he said, leaning in and kissing my forehead.

"i don't need this world. i want the one where you showed me it's okay to be real, that it's okay to feel." he says softly, looking deeply into my eyes.

the way he looked at me so gently, so genuine. i felt as if i could cry. i attacked him in a hug, my arms wrapped around his torso.

"its just... those girls get under my skin. kept talking about how i slept my way out of the cut." i admitted quietly, my head still against his chest.

rafe shakes his head, hugging me back. "never ever let them get to you. they're just pissed." he pulled back to look at me, smiling. he pressed his lips onto mine, for a short and delicate kiss. "how about we just get out of here?" he said, a cheeky smile on his face.

i laughed, nodding my head yes. "i'd like that so much. please." he grinned, putting my hand in his as he guided us out of this place.

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alittlegiraffe · 3 months ago

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Based on this request from @tomdayaloveforever:

Simply amazing 🤩 I have one more request: In the 90s/2000s, married to a supermodel (people speculate because they got married quickly and Eminem is Eminem). During a Victoria Secrets fashion show, a singer who attacked their relationship was going to perform and when Marshall's wife was going to enter, the singer's sound was cut to a diss song by Marshall playing while his wife parades with a chain with his name/initials around her neck.

Title: Runway of Defiance

The air was electric in the bustling backstage of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Supermodels flitted between stylists, makeup artists, and wardrobe assistants, each one a vision of glamour. You stood among them, the newest face in the lineup, and the wife of none other than Eminem.

Their marriage had been a whirlwind—a lightning-fast romance that captivated the tabloids and sent gossip columns into overdrive. Many doubted the union, speculating it wouldn’t last. Others criticized you for tying the knot with the controversial rapper, while some outright dismissed your love as a publicity stunt. None of it mattered to you though. You knew the truth of your connection, and so did Marshall.

Tonight was your night. Your debut on the Victoria’s Secret runway was a dream come true, but the whispers backstage were hard to ignore. Scheduled to perform was pop singer Roxy, who had made her disdain for you and Eminem’s relationship publicly known. The feud between Eminem and Roxy had only fueled the media firestorm, and tonight promised to be another chapter in their ongoing saga.

As you slipped into your final outfit, a stunning ensemble of shimmering silver, a stylist handed her one last accessory: a delicate yet bold chain with the initials "M.M." embedded in diamonds. She smiled, feeling a surge of confidence as she fastened it around her neck. This wasn’t just a piece of jewelry—it was a statement.

Out on the runway, Roxy’s set began. The crowd cheered, oblivious to the tension brewing behind the scenes. You waited for your cue, the familiar nerves tingling through you as you took a deep breath.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Just as Roxy launched into the chorus of her hit song—one infamous for its not-so-subtle digs at you and Marshall—the music abruptly cut out. The speakers crackled, and the room held its breath. Then, a familiar beat dropped.

Marshall's voice boomed through the venue, the diss track he’d recorded in response to Roxy’s jabs playing loud and clear. The crowd gasped, the atmosphere thick with shock and anticipation.

You stepped onto the runway, your head held high. You moved with grace, your every step exuding confidence. The chain around your neck caught the light, the "M.M." glinting with each stride. The audience’s eyes were glued to you, captivated by the audacity and brilliance of the moment.

Marshall had orchestrated this. His way of standing by your side, even when he wasn’t physically there. It was bold, defiant, and so very him.

As the diss track continued to play, you finished your walk, pausing at the end of the runway to flash a knowing smile. The crowd erupted into applause, the energy in the room electric.

Backstage, the producers scrambled, Roxy fuming as she stormed off. But you didn’t care. You had made your statement, and it was clear: you were a team, and no one would tear you apart, especially not pop stars and media outlets.

As you exited the stage, your phone buzzed in your dressing room. A text from Marshall.

"You killed it out there. Proud of you. Love you."

You smiled, and your heart swelled with love. You had faced the world’s judgment, but with Marshall by your side, you felt unstoppable. Together, you were a force to be reckoned with—a love story that no one could rewrite.

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

The aftermath of the Victoria’s Secret fashion show was a whirlwind. Social media exploded with reactions, from adoration to outrage. Headlines screamed about the unexpected diss track, labeling it everything from a power move to an outright scandal. Yet, amidst the chaos, you and Marshall had found solace in each other.

Back at your home in Detroit, you sat on your couch, scrolling through the flood of news and comments online. Marshall, his signature smirk playing on his lips, glanced over at you. "Looks like we broke the internet."

You chuckled, resting her head on his shoulder. "Was that the plan? Become the first couple to cross the tabloid rumors and make it online?"

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close. "The plan was to show them we don’t back down. No matter what they say."

You tilted your head up to meet his gaze. "You didn’t have to do that, you know. I could’ve handled it."

"I know you could’ve," he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "But I wanted to. No one messes with my wife and gets away with it."

His words sent a warmth through you, the kind that only he could ignite. Despite his tough exterior and sharp tongue, Marshall had always been fiercely protective of you, your love a sanctuary from the relentless scrutiny of the outside world.

As the days passed, the buzz around the fashion show didn’t die down. Invitations for interviews and talk shows poured in, each one eager to get their perspective on the night’s events. But you and Marshall remained silent, choosing instead to let your actions speak for themselves.

One evening, as you sat in your living room, you were scrolling through fan reactions on a chat board, you paused on a particular post. It was a fan art of your runway walk, the chain around her neck prominently displayed, with the caption: A queen standing by her king.

You showed it to Marshall, who grinned. "Looks like they get it."

You nodded, your heart swelling with pride. "Yeah, they do."

Still, not everyone was pleased. Roxy’s camp had issued a statement, calling the incident "unprofessional" and "disrespectful." Rumors swirled of a potential lawsuit, but you weren’t worried. You knew Marshall had dealt with worse before, and together, you could handle anything.

One afternoon, as you enjoyed a rare moment of peace in your backyard with the girls, Marshall’s phone buzzed. It was Paul, his manager, with news that Roxy had indeed filed a lawsuit for defamation and breach of contract.

Marshall sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Looks like it’s time to lawyer up."

You placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "We’ll get through it. Like we always do."

He nodded, his eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve. "Yeah, we will."

As the legal battle loomed, you decided to take control of the narrative. You agreed to an exclusive interview with a respected magazine, one that had always treated you with fairness. The feature would focus on your journey from a small-town girl to a supermodel, touching on your marriage with Marshall, but with an emphasis on her resilience and strength.

The interview was a hit, painting you not as a mere extension of your famous husband, but as a force in your own right. It resonated with fans and critics alike, shifting the public perception in your favor.

When it became apparent that Roxy had lost the fight in the press, the lawsuit was eventually dropped. So you and Marshall celebrated quietly, toasting to your victory with glasses of champagne in their living room.

As you clinked your glasses, Marshall leaned in, his voice low and filled with affection. "No matter what comes our way, we’ve got each other. That’s all that matters."

You smiled, your heart full. "Always."

Your bond, forged in the fire of public scrutiny and hardened by your unwavering love, remained unbreakable. Together, you stood as a testament to the power of unity, proving that no amount of criticism or controversy could shake the foundation you had built.

In a world that constantly tried to tear you down, you and Marshall rose above, stronger than ever, your love a beacon of defiance and strength.

#eminem x reader #eminem #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers #reader requests #2 posts in one day?#who is she

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22ayla21 · 1 month ago

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Thank you for doing my request!!🥺🫶🏻🫶🏻 It was so adorable to see her child expressions when they heard their mom tell them that she used to be nameless.

Can I req again but this time with their child (or with amphoreus men too) go to the express and explore other planets maybe like Penacony or Xianzhou Luofu? If you don't mind, I love your work!! Thank youu🫶🏻🫶🏻

Children's Journey Among the Stars

Astral Express comes to visit their old friend, and seeing that her children have the same spark of the Nameless, they decide to arrange a little adventure for them.

When the Astral Express arrived on Amphoreus, it was quite an event. The children, raised in the traditions of Amphoreus, were delighted by this mysterious train that crossed the stars. And Mydei, too, was so happy to see when the people cheerfully got off the train and greeted his wife with obvious warmth.

He may not have been a fan of surprises, but here he watched with a warm smile as his wife was immediately surrounded by her old comrades: Welt with her unfailing reserve, Himeko with her gentle smile, March 7 - always energetic and talkative, Dan Heng - the one who kept the most distance, and, of course, the Trailblazer, whose cheeky smile immediately made Mydei want to assess his strength.

When the children learned that their mother had previously traveled with these people across the galaxy, they literally stuck to her with questions. The youngest tried to climb aboard the train, while her older brother tried to pretend to be serious and reserved, but his fiery gaze betrayed genuine admiration.

The Express team, observing the children's reactions, suggested: why not arrange a little adventure for them? Penaconia with its eternal festival and Xianzhou with its great fleet seemed like great places to show the children the beauty of the universe.

Mydei was initially against it. As Chrysos Heir and the main protector of Amphoreus, he could not just leave him. But his confidants (some with respect, some with a sly grin) reminded him that time spent with family is priceless.

When they finally got on board, the children were running around the Express, looking at every detail. The eldest son tried to act reserved, but his wide eyes gave him away when he saw Pom-Pom for the first time. The youngest daughter was already trying to climb onto one of the sofas in the main car without a shadow of a doubt, while March 7 was telling her about her mother's adventures.

When they got to Penaconia, the children literally fell in love with the place. Huge bright lights, endless festivals, sweets and games - it was a real paradise. Even Mydei could not hide his slight surprise at the thoughtfulness of this world.

The eldest son, trying to prove that he was "serious like his father", tried to participate in some kind of contest, but almost ended up involved in a strange betting game. Mydei literally pulled him out of the crowd with one hand, throwing a murderous look at the organizers. The youngest daughter had to be caught almost every five minutes, because she wanted to try everything.

If Penaconia was chaos to him, then Luofu Xianzhou inspired respect. Discipline, order, ancient traditions - there was something in it that he understood. He was even offered to participate in training duels, and, to his wife's surprise, he agreed. She was even more surprised when their son, watching the duel, began to secretly imitate his father's movements.

When the journey was over, the children were so full of emotion that they couldn't stop talking about it. Even Mydei, though he kept his usual equanimity, allowed himself a slight smirk from time to time, watching their delight. His wife only smiled softly, knowing that despite his grumbling, he would not give up this experience for anything.

When they returned, the eldest son, looking at the stars, said:

- Mom, I want to be like you when I grow up. I want to see the worlds.

Mydei, hearing this, grinned, but said nothing. His wife only squeezed his hand, feeling how pride for his son and fear for his future fought within him.

When his wife's former comrades arrive on Amphoraeus, Anaxa is initially wary. They are loud, lively, and bring chaos to his orderly world - and this irritates him a little. However, seeing how happy his wife is to meet her old friends, he restrains his comments and simply observes their interactions.

The children, however, are immediately impressed: their mother is not just a scientist, but a real traveler who once plied the vastness of the universe! They run around the carriage, looking into every room, bombarding Himeko and Welt with questions about how this majestic ship is controlled. The Trailblazer and March 7 arrange a "mini-tour" of the Express for them, telling funny (and slightly exaggerated) stories about their adventures.

Anaxa, having entered the ship, behaves reservedly, but it is clear that even he is impressed by the technical perfection of the ship. When the idea of showing the children other worlds comes up, Anaxa is at first skeptical - he has responsibilities. However, his confidants convince him: he cannot always live only on work, and the children will remember this trip for the rest of their lives. Succumbing to their arguments (and, perhaps, to the pleading look of his wife), he agrees.

For the children, Lofu Xianzhou is something out of fairy tales: floating sky islands, majestic warships, graceful architecture. The girls especially liked the shopping district, where an old acquaintance, Miss Tingyun, a beautiful girl from the fox people, bought the girls everything they liked.

Anaxa keeps a low profile, but at one point you can see him studying the local combat maneuvers, pondering tactics and strategies. He even found common topics for conversation with General Jing Yuan himself.

Finding himself in a world of eternal entertainment, the children immediately jump into the flow of joy: carnivals, rides, unusual treats. Anaxa initially experiences culture shock from how noisy and chaotic everything is here, but later begins to relax, watching how happy his children are. His wife, with a slight smile, reminds him that he was once ready to rush into adventures too ... albeit not on such terms.

The Trailblazer, of course, drags him into some ridiculous situation, for example, "accidentally" signing him up to participate in a local competition. Anaxa loses the bet and is forced to participate, and his children, laughing, cheer for him.

On the way home, the children fell asleep on the Express, cuddled together, overwhelmed by the experience. Anaxa and his wife sit nearby, watching them. He quietly admits that the journey was worthwhile, even if he had doubts about its necessity. His wife smiles and says that perhaps they will repeat it someday, to which Anaxa just silently rolls her eyes.

When the Express arrives at Amphoraeus, the children look at it with admiration. They always knew that their mother was a traveler in the past, but now her stories come to life before their eyes. Phainon watches with restraint as his wife greets her old friends with a smile, who remind her of who she used to be with warmth and light banter.

The idea of taking the children on a little space adventure comes almost immediately. Welt, as always reasonable, cautiously suggests the trip, and Himeko nods approvingly, pouring Phainon a strong drink, as if to say, "relax, father of the family, let the children see the world." The Trailblazer and March 7 add to the fun, engaging the children in conversation about the upcoming adventure.

He is well aware that he has responsibilities, but his comrades assure him that everything will be under control. He sighs, looks at the children's shining eyes and his wife's smile, and then reluctantly agrees: "Okay... but only for a little while."

Once on board, the children immediately begin to study every detail. They look around the control cabin, listening with admiration to stories of travel. Trailblazer and March 7 eagerly give them a tour, and Dan Heng answers questions with restraint but patience. Welt watches from the sidelines, comparing their curiosity to a younger version of their mother.

The children are no less impressed by the Loufu Xianzhou. They look at the majestic warships, watch the martial arts battle, and the eldest son even dreams of fighting with the local masters someday. From time to time, Phainon makes comments like: "No way, no fights without serious training," but he himself watches the young fighters with an appraising eye.

Penaconia becomes a real discovery. Bright lights, a festive atmosphere, games, restaurants - the children are delighted. Phainon looks at the toy machines with doubt, but his wife cheerfully hints that such entertainment used to suit her just fine. In the end, he reluctantly gives in and even helps win a prize for the children, receiving a radiant smile in response.

When they return, the children are full of emotions, vying with each other to tell about their impressions. The wife jokes that now Phainon will have to keep an even closer eye on them, because they will definitely want to travel in the future. He just shakes his head, but can't hide his satisfied smile. After all, he enjoyed the trip too.

Phainon realizes that the trip gave not only the children, but also himself the opportunity to see his family from a new perspective. He is grateful to the Express crew for this experience and, although not immediately, he comes to terms with the idea that perhaps this was not their last family voyage among the stars.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr #hsr mydei #mydei #mydeimos #mydei x reader #hsr anaxa #anaxagoras #anaxa #anaxa x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader

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xichilie · 2 months ago

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Your Brant stuff is wonderful, thank you for your service 🫡🫡 truly grateful for the food akajdjad

Any thoughts on a Brant soulmate au? Or reader gets hurt in battle?

I'll pop back in, so may I be 🍣 sushi anon?

Hello 🍣 ♡

I'm glad you like my work, I'm here to serve you soulmate AU Brant 🫡

Brant x (fem) reader

A Fools fate

Brant had always imagined what his soulmate might be like.

As a child, the thought had been one of whimsical daydreams. Back then, he would steal moments beneath the high arches of the Cathedral of Mercury, lying on his back on the cool stone floor, staring up at the endless patterns of stars painted across the vaulted ceiling. He used to wonder if they would be kind, if they would laugh at his jokes, if they would understand the way his mind leaped from thought to thought like a performer on a tightrope. He imagined them as a partner in mischief, someone who would run through the streets with him, hands intertwined, hearts racing as they escaped some minor trouble.

Then the banishment happened.

Then the world taught him that hope was a foolish thing.

Brant had always been called a fool, but he learned that to hope—to truly believe in something as pure as destiny—was the cruelest jest of all. The Order of the Deep had sent him away, cast him to the sea on the Pilgrim's Sail, branding him a heretic for questioning what should not be questioned. He had thought then, as the waves swallowed his screams, that fate was not kind, that if he had a soulmate, they would never find him.

But despite it all, a small, stubborn part of him still dreamed.

Even after surviving Penitent's End, even after forging the Troupe of Fools and carving out a life among those deemed unworthy, he still let himself imagine. Would his soulmate pity him? Would they look at him with disgust upon seeing he is cast away labeled a Fool? Would they recoil, realizing they were bound to a man that all of Ragunna had forsaken?

For years, these thoughts lingered at the edge of his mind, unspoken but ever-present.

And then, on a night of golden light and laughter, everything changed.

The streets of Rinascita were alive with the pulse of the Carnevale.

Music filled the air, twining through the alleys and plazas, the rhythm of drums and the soaring notes of flutes weaving into a grand tapestry of sound. Lanterns of deep crimson and gold swung overhead, casting flickering light upon the masked revelers who danced through the city in a swirl of color. Everywhere, laughter and song filled the night, drowning out all worries, all burdens. For this night, and this night alone, the past did not matter.

And yet, despite the revelry, Brant felt something pull at him—a sensation like a thread wrapped around his ribcage, tugging him forward, guiding him through the throng of people.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling. He had always had sharp instincts, a knack for following his gut. But this was different. This was urgent.

He wove through the crowd, past jesters and masked nobles, past merchants hawking jeweled trinkets and perfumed silks. The laughter around him faded into a distant hum, his pulse pounding in his ears. The pull grew stronger, more insistent, leading him away from the grand plazas and deeper into the quiet edges of the celebration.

And then—

He saw her.

She stood just beyond the glow of the lanterns, half in shadow, watching the festivities with quiet eyes. She wasn’t dancing, wasn’t caught up in the chaos like the others. There was something still about her, something that made the air around her feel different. A quiet presence, a beacon in the storm.

Brant stopped in his tracks.

He had spent years imagining this moment, playing out countless scenarios in his mind. He had thought that if he ever met his soulmate, he would know instantly, that there would be some great, grand revelation—music swelling, the world pausing, something unmistakable.

But in the end, it was something simpler. A deep, resonant certainty that struck him to his very core.

And then, as if fate itself wished to carve the truth into the very fabric of reality, it happened.

A golden thread shimmered into existence between them.

Brant barely had time to process what he was seeing before it moved, twisting like a ribbon caught in an invisible breeze. It wound itself around his wrist first, warm against his skin, before reaching for her and binding them together.

His breath caught.

He had always heard the stories—the golden thread of fate that tied soulmates together, a tangible mark of destiny’s will. But to see it, to feel it—

He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching at his side.

Would she flinch? Would she look at him with fear or disgust, realizing who fate had tethered her to? He braced himself, old wounds threatening to open anew.

But when she lifted her gaze to meet his, there was no fear.

Only wonder.

Her lips parted slightly as she looked down at their bound wrists. She raised her hand, fingers brushing the golden thread as if testing whether it was real. A flicker of something passed across her face—not hesitation, not wariness, but recognition.

Brant swallowed, suddenly aware that he had been holding his breath.

"Well," he said, voice softer than usual, lacking his usual theatrical lilt. "That’s unexpected."

A breath of laughter escaped her, quiet but real. "Is it?"

"Not the soulmate part." His lips quirked into a wry smile. "But I thought the universe might have a crueler sense of humor."

She tilted her head slightly. "You don’t seem too disappointed."

Brant exhaled, glancing at the golden thread still wrapped around their wrists. "Disappointed?" He let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "No. Just... wondering how I’m supposed to make a grand first impression when fate has already decided this for me."

She smiled, a small, knowing thing. "You don’t need one."

His heart stuttered in his chest.

For all his wit, all his charm, all the ways he had learned to deflect with humor, he found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he lifted his hand, gently brushing his fingers against the thread. The moment he did, warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading like sunlight after a storm.

She felt it too—he could see it in the way her breath caught, in the way her fingers curled slightly as if to hold onto that sensation.

Brant let out a shaky exhale, a slow smile tugging at his lips. "Well then," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "It seems I have a lifetime to make up for lost time."

She smiled, and this time, it was brighter than the lanterns, warmer than the night itself.

Brant didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know what trials they would face, what obstacles lay ahead. But as he stood there, hand still bound to hers, he knew one thing for certain.

Fate had not been cruel after all.

#x reader #wuwa brant #brant wuwa #brant x reader #brantart #wuthering waves brant #brant #brant wuthering waves #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #wuwa #x y/n #x you #soulmates #soulmate au #romantic #romance

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aettuddae · 4 months ago

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business matter — chapter 131.

a christmas special.

↳ synopsis: two of the most important kpop companies covet a partnership with a huge global brand, only to be surprised when the deal is extended to both labels. fearing potential sabotage and cynical strategies to secure exclusivity for just one of them, both CEOs resort to desperate measures. in a bid to maintain trust and prevent betrayal before the signing, they come up with a pact: forcing a fake relationship between the leaders of their star girlgroups. if one side attempted to fail the other, they threaten to expose it all to the conservative south korea.

masterlist | prev | next

[written chapter]

december 25, christmas had arrived.

for many ordinary families it was a special holiday spent together, where they ate delicious things and showered each other with attention and gifts, for other ordinary families it was perhaps a day like any other. but if there was one certainty it was that if your job is to be an idol and during the year you released even minimally relevant music, then december 25 was just another workday, and a very exhaustive one at that.

all the groups that played on the radios during the year today were at the sbs stations recording the christmas special. a compilation of pre-recorded performances of the same songs they had sung over and over again the past twelve months, and some special ones among the most relevant celebrities.

karina had arrived earlier than the rest of the members that day as she had a collaboration with other groups to film, and then wandered around the station waiting for her bandmates and her turn to take the stage as a group. every year she would have liked to spend that date with her family, but instead she had to be cooped up for hours in that building surrounded by people she hardly knew who were in her same situation, bored and uncomfortable with her wardrobe, waiting for the time when everyone would come out on stage at the end of the event to greet their fans.

after trying to kill time walking around the venue interacting with her industry friends, making content together, playing games on her phone and anything else interesting she could find, it was finally time to go up to say goodbye and she headed her members excited as it meant she would soon be going home. so quickly she reached to the entrance to the set that aespa ended up among the first in line, ahead of everyone, and while waiting to be signaled to enter, the girl got distracted looking around the room they were in.

she was confronted with many familiar faces, even making eye contact with some and having to greet them, while many others she didn't recognize from anywhere. as she moved her eyes through the crowd, she ended up bumping into a figure she identified.

trying to keep herself entertained and with all the work she had to do, she had forgotten that HeAVEN would also be showing up there.

she met chaeyoung's back and couldn't help but stare as if the girl, who clearly couldn't stand her, was going to feel her attention on her and turn around to greet her. but it wasn't the taller one she wanted, it was the presence of the group that captivated her because it made serim, even though she wasn't there because of her hiatus, feel closer.

ningning followed her gaze back to what had her so transfixed, meeting the people with whom she had already formed a bond of friendship and raised her hand to greet minnie who was the only one standing there facing her side. the older one noticed the movement on the girl's part and when she realized it was yizhuo, she returned the greeting cheerfully, tapping yves' shoulder, giving her a strange look and causing her to wave back too, though more shyly. yujin and chaeyoung joined in last as they saw their companions, turning to see who they had met to also say hello. out of nowhere, chaeyoung, just looking at ningning, pointed to the side, telling her to look, and both she and jimin, who was witnessing the entire interaction, turned their heads in that direction, finding serim leaning against a wall with her manager, eyes lost in the screen of her phone.

the girl was so bored that she had gone to support her teammates to at least spend christmas with them instead of at home alone with her porcupine, and now she had to wait for the others to come back from the closing.

when jimin saw her, she became anxious. they had been talking through chat these days, but as it happened lately, they didn't have time to meet because of the younger girl's busy schedule. serim was surprisingly more friendly and that made jimin not hesitate to interact with her. when she knew they were in the same place, she wanted to run out to be with her, but as she started moving people out of her way to get to her, yizhuo stopped her.

"they are about to tell us to come up." she warned her.

"but namu..." a small pout formed on her lips, she really wanted to go talk to her.

"namu will still be there when we go down." she reaffirmed.

and as if they had heard her, a group of staff appeared to order them, putting the groups in line and making them pass slowly in an organized way. aespa passed among the first ones, staying in the front row.

other than posing for the fans' cameras and waiting for the conductors in charge to say the last words, there wasn't much more to that part of the show. they would also receive christmas, although it really only consisted of a confetti explosion and, actually, the day was almost over. it was all performative, but for a part, if anything, they had something special to do during the holidays and they could spend time with their fans.

one of the mcs started to speak, reading his letters full of formal words and superficial questions to ask some of the guest acts, while the idols greeted the audience as they had been trained to do. but karina's head wasn't there, as much as she loved interacting with her fandom and wanted to show respect for the hard work of the narrators, her mind kept going back to the backstage.

she was trying to be patient, but it seemed like every word they said came out slower. she just wanted to go be with her who was sure lonely and bored on christmas eve. just wanted to spend all the christmases that followed with her.

her senses came back to work when she noticed that they were saying the final words, the last words of the speech they had prepared, welcoming christmas and allowing all the groups to start wandering around the stage for a while before letting them go.

but jimin wouldn't stay for that,

jimin wanted to spend christmas with serim.

at least she could say she thought twice about it and both times thought it was a great idea to run off the stage, passing through a bunch of colleagues who, if they didn't clear a path for her, tried to hold her back to ask if she was okay.

and she was fine, almost, just losing her head a little over a woman.

when she got to the stairs leading to the staff area, her own team rushed towards her to help her with whatever she needed, but jimin pushed them away, passing them and running to where the aisles were, reading the names on all the doors looking for the one that read HeAVEN.

hell, there were an eternity of groups present.

she walked past so many doors, bumping into a world of people, her managers chasing her with intentions of finding a reason for all the chaos as she frantically ran the sbs dressing rooms. until she found it, she found herself face to face with the sign indicating what she was looking for and knocked desperately on the door, but didn't wait for anyone to open it, she opened it herself, almost falling inside where serim, sitting on a chair, looked at her dumbfounded, as well as the whole team of the group who didn't expect a member of aespa to throw herself towards the leader of the group they managed, landing on her lap, taking her face in her hands and pulling her to look her in the eyes.

"merry christmas." spoke jimin while from the monitor showing the transmission the exact same words could be heard from the conductor. "merry christmas, my namu." she repeated, leaning over her, who was now holding her waist to help her keep her balance. "i love you."

she dared to admit it and also to kiss her. drawing her face up to hers, shortening the distance, joining in a desperate, but somewhat shy kiss charged with tenderness and need. it had been so long since they kissed that it was like rediscovering something you knew you were addicted to, falling back into the vice. they were looking for more closeness, contact, for their bodies to intertwine like roots of a tree that grow without direction and belong to the same system. karina's arms clung to the older girl's neck, while she stood up, pushing the chair a little out of the way, so she could occupy the space her legs took up with the girl's presence, without letting her lips come loose even by accident.

"are you sure?" serim broke contact for a moment, opening her eyes to show desperation and illusion in these. "do you love me?"

"i love you." she left a short kiss on her lips. "i love you, i love you." she gave a peck each time she said it. "i love you." the girl kissed again. "and i'm sorry for not saying it sooner." she leaned her forehead against hers. "but after your birthday and seeing you sick, thinking about the possibility of something happening to you and the need i had to be me and no one else to take care of you..." the sentences came like waterfalls from her mouth, intraquilly trying to express her emotions. "i was afraid of being wrong, but nothing was ever so certain in my life."

serim wrapped her arms around karina's torso. "do you love me?" she asked once again.

"i love you." she confirmed, a flirtatious smile on her face.

the older one lifted her into the air taking advantage of the hold she had established on her, causing her to bend her knees, lifting her legs, and hold tighter to her. "i love you too!" she reciprocated in an exclamation, making them spin, looking genuinely joyful for the first time in months. "and merry christmas." she set her down again, accompanied with a chaste brush of their lips. "please, don't ruin this." she pleaded, a little jokingly, but you could see the sincerity in her eyes.

"i'll be good." she caressed her cheeks. "we'll be fine." she assured.

"oh my god, how beautiful." a gangly voice filled the room making everyone turn to look at aespa's manager who was choking back tears admiring the whole scene as he futilely wiped his tears with a handkerchief.

"slut!" appeared chaeyoung from the hallway.

"my manhwa lives!" celebrated ryujin with her head poking out from the door frame.

ningning was also among the accumulation of people, at the front of it all, next to the members of the staff who had tried to stop jimin, leaning against the doorframe, she said nothing, but gave them a genuine smile.

(!)

— taglist [CLOSED]: @yoontoonwhs @cwpiqwon @aliceiwk @xen248 @gtfoiydlyj @rinapomu @aeriuchinarga @multiliker @somedaydream @impossiblesharkcashrebel @yjiminswallet @nwjnsloona @yerimbrit @73vyn @dni-unavailable @yizhuobberi @sewiouslyz @yeetaberry127 @masuowo @yallatalla @aerithykly @chaenniefirst @minfolio @starrynini05 @hotluvlet @wmnrhot @mineige @lisaswifey @brocoliisscared @fae-the-wanderer

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paigebueckersloverr · 10 months ago

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Paige Bueckers HEADCANONS:

Anniversary Ver.

Hello, so I know I've been pretty MIA, and I'm sorry. But life isn't gonna stop for anyone, especially not me. But im back, so that's what matters. im gonna go ahead and answer a few questions.

Yes. Three's A Crowd. Is returning for the final installment. Aka the smut, so many people have mesaged me for.

No. I don't write for Emily, I thought about it, and then she signed with an Israeli team. So that's a firm NO.

Yes. This is very corny, and I projected just a little. With a sprinkle of all over the place but with the drama arising in the paige Hashtags. I thought we could use a cleanse and something light-hearted.

1. Surprise Anniversary Trip ♡

Paige would spend weeks planning a surprise weekend getaway to a cozy cabin in the mountains. She would make sure to secretly pack your favorite clothes, snacks, and a few sentimental items. As you guys drove along the scenic route, Paige would keep the destination a secret, enjoying the look of curiosity and excitement on your face. When you guys finally arrived, the cabin was perfect—nestled among tall trees with a breathtaking view of the valley below. Paige would arrange for a private chef to prepare a romantic dinner for you on the first night, complete with candles, soft music, and a crackling fireplace.

2. Custom Jewelry ♡

On the morning of your anniversary, Paige would present you with a small, beautifully wrapped box. Inside would be a delicate silver bracelet with your anniversary date engraved on the inside. The bracelet would also feature a small charm shaped like a basketball, symbolizing the sport that she loves and a small lockette as a symbol of you guys being together forever. Paige would spend hours choosing the design, wanting it to be something you could wear every day, close to your heart.

3. Personalized Love Letters ♡

Paige handed you a beautifully wrapped box tied with a satin ribbon. Inside were twelve letters, one for each month you guys had been together. Each envelope was decorated with little doodles and stickers, and the letters themselves were filled with Paige’s heartfelt thoughts and memories. She recounted you guy's first date, the moment she realized she was in love, and all the little moments that made their relationship special. Reading through the letters showed a beautiful testament to you guys' love and admiration for each other.

4. Home-Cooked Dinner ♡

Despite her busy schedule, Paige took a day off to prepare a gourmet dinner for your anniversary. She spent the entire day shopping for ingredients, following recipes, and setting up the dining area. She decorated the table with candles, flowers, and their best dinnerware. When you finally arrived, you were greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of your favorite dishes. Paige served a three-course meal, finishing with a simple but delicious dessert she had made from scratch. You both spent the evening talking, laughing, and reminiscing about your years together and the ones to come.

5. Memory Scrapbook ♡

Paige created a scrapbook filled with photos, mementos, and little notes from you guys first year together. She included ticket stubs from concerts and movies, pressed flowers from dates, and candid snapshots of spontaneous moments. Each page was carefully crafted, with handwritten notes detailing the memories behind each item. The scrapbook was a journey through your relationship, and a tangible reminder of all the love and joy the both of you shared.

6. Midnight Stargazing ♡

After the romantic dinner, Paige drove you both to a quiet spot away from the city lights. She set up a cozy spot in the back of her car with blankets and pillows, creating a little nest where they could lie down and stargaze. Both of you spent hours under the stars, sharing your dreams and hopes for the future. Paige pointed out constellations and told stories about them,*with you constantly reminding her she googled them* making you feel special and cherished. The night was filled with soft whispers and gentle kisses, a perfect end to your anniversary.

7. Special Song ♡

Paige had secretly learned to play a special song on the guitar, one that held significance for your relationship. After dinner, she brought out the guitar and, with a shy smile, began to play. You recognized the song immediately, your eyes filling with tears as Paige’s beautiful but nervous voice filled the room. It is a beautiful, intimate moment showcasing Paige’s love and effort to make the night memorable.

8. Custom Illustration ♡

Knowing your artistic side, Paige commissioned a custom illustration of both of you together. The artwork depicted a scene from your favorite date—sitting together on a park bench, holding hands and watching the sunset. The artist had captured everything perfectly, and the colors were vibrant and full of life. Paige had the illustration framed and presented it as a gift, a beautiful token of the relationship that would hang in your apartment.

9. Midnight Dance ♡

After dinner, Paige took you to a secluded garden or a rooftop overlooking the city. She had brought a portable speaker and played your "couples" song on her phone. Under the moonlight, you guys danced together, lost in each other’s arms. The world seemed to fade away as you both swayed to the music, your love palpable in every touch and glance. It was a perfect, magical moment, one that Paige and you would both remember for years to come.

If you made it this far, thank you! If you have any critiques or requests. My inbox and ask are very open, so feel free. 🤍

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x black!reader #paige bueckers x reader #paigebueckersloverr #paige bueckers head cannons #paige x reader #gxg fluff #gxg imagine #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #salemswriting

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celestemona · 2 years ago

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WHERE YOU’RE HIS BELOVED S/O

but you keep more than a card up your sleeve

pairing: lyney x fem witch! reader

reblogs and comments are appreciated ♡

if you ask Lynette who fell in love first and who fell harder between you and Lyney, she wouldn't even hesitate to point to her twin as the answer to both questions.

the first time you and Lyney met was during one of his public performances where after you caught his eye, he asked you to be his special guest during the show.

truth to be told, he had noticed you even before you approached the crowd surrounding him, and how could he not? you weren't just a pretty new face roaming around the hydro capital, but it was your charming aura that made all heads turn towards you that aroused his curiosity.

from Lyney's point of view, you were fascinating.

and that's why, taking the opportunity to approach and perhaps get to know you better, the magician shamelessly chose you among the dozens of people as an excuse to put his plans into practice.

the chosen act couldn’t be as simple as a deck of cards trick could be. you were instructed by the young magician to choose a card among the dozens offered, memorize it and put it back in the deck.

“this time, however, i propose that we do something different”, suggested the young man. Lynette eyed him suspiciously.

“oh yes?”, you smiled sweetly and Lyney almost found himself losing his composure, “what do you propose, monsieur?”

Lyney coughed, “the person in charge of shuffling the deck won't be me but my lovely assistant, Lynette!”

the younger twin sighed. although as his assistant the girl didn't mind being in the spotlight as long as her brother was the star of the show, Lynette didn't like the spontaneous acts her brother suggested especially knowing that it was merely to impress someone — a girl. you.

even so, she agreed and approached you, the audience only growing and the euphoria of each spectator vibrating with an energy of anticipation and expectation.

“besides, i’m somewhat confident that i’ll have your card. as a reward for my success i humbly propose a dinner for two, belle. on me, of course”. the crowd whistled and you stared at him with a twinkle in your eye.

“do your best then, darling”

Lyney, blinking excitedly and determinedly in your direction, offered the deck to his sister and walked away.

it only took a few seconds for the anemo girl to shuffle the fifty-two cards and another few seconds for you to choose yours.

Lynette not only return to shuffled the cards again as quickly as the eye could follow, but in the middle of the process she played a brief solo by throwing them in the air in which the entire deck turned to white petals, leaving only one card behind which Lyney deftly caught between his index and middle fingers. it was an exciting act and the crowd roared with excitement.

“very well, belle. i have your card in my domain. i hope you are as excited for our dinner as i am,” the magician declared revealing its front.

you watched him silently for a few seconds before smiling.

“oh my dear, it was an amazing performance i must admit. but… that's not my card”, you laughed mockingly.

Lyney stared at you confused, “impossible. i know you chose the seven of clubs.”

raising an eyebrow you said, “do you really think so? see it for yourself.”

and Lyney did, only to stare dumbfounded the queen of hearts who stared back at him.

to say you took everyone there by surprise would be an understatement. even Lynette herself who was known for rarely expressing her emotions couldn't hide the gleam of shock, and perhaps even a hint of humor, in her purple eyes. it was the first time anyone had managed to cheat the famous prince of cheats and it was uncertain for the twins to say what they felt about it.

after that, the show ended as no one understood how the professional magician had his trick broken and not even Lyney had the heart to continue the show.

one by one left until only the three of you stand there.

“well… that was unexpected i must say,” the young man nervously scratched his tear-marked cheek, “this has never happened before so i’m surprised.”

“you did well”, you praised.

“thank you belle, your words comfort me. however, i believe i need to practice again,” Lyney declared with a defeated sigh. Lynette looked at him sympathetically.

even if his statement was true, the magician still wondered what the chances were that he was mistaken during the performance. after all, he couldn't say he was rusty either when he's done the act more times than he could remember, therefore the muscular and psychological movements were as automatic to him as breathing.

moreover, he felt ashamed that not only had he been mistaken in front of so many people, but also for the “invitation” that he had done to you.

“i also apologize if i ever made you uncomfortable”, he smiled shyly “i don't think that dinner will happen anyways.”

after long minutes in silence you faked a melancholy sigh.

“that’s pity. i really was looking forward to sharing a glass of champagne with you,” you said.

“yes, a pity- wait, what... really? like really really?”

you laughed and this time the sound of your laughter was so melodious that the magician didn't even hold back the flush that rose hot from his neck to his cheeks.

“why, of course. there are few men or women who have managed to approach me so confidently and then ask me out without further ado,” you winked at him, “however, to our chagrin, i’m a woman of words. you missed the proposal so you missed our little date,” you smirked, Lyney swallowed hard.

“fair enough.”

“i hope i get to see more of your shows though, darling,” you say as you approach him, “i’m looking forward to finding out what else you hide up your sleeve. if you know what i wanna mean."

and with a bittersweet farewell, you disappeared among the Fontanian citizens, leaving a pair of twins behind with the eldest of them too confused to even think of anything to say.

“apparently you didn't fail at all this time,” Lynette commented, “what does she mean by finding out what you hide up your sleeve?”

“i have no idea, dear sister. the only thing i can tell you right now is that i am deeply in love,” the magician declared with a dreamy look on his face as his sister stared at him blankly. Lynette, having no desire to deal with her older brother's ramblings, walked away to start cleaning up the place.

it was only minutes later when Lyney had already joined his sister that the boy felt a slight discomfort in his covered right arm, as if an unknown object scratch the skin there every time he moved.

curiosity and annoyance caused him to roll up his sleeve only to be replaced by shock, confusion and a faint hint of anticipation.

there in his hand, a seven of clubs was mockingly displayed, but what really got the magician's heart racing was the message stamped in black and the imprint of the bright red lipstick you wore.

“you had my card, you just didn't know where to look for.

p.s. i'll be waiting for you tomorrow’s evening next to Hotel Debord. dinner is on me.”

needless to say that after that trick of yours Lyney just fell more in love with you.

the date couldn't have been more than perfect either, even if during all hours you were together, the magician found himself cornered by your charm and stuttering when you dazzled that cheeky smile that seemed to be characteristic of you. it was rewarding for him to finally have your name even though you refused to give him more information like “what trick did you use to have the card suddenly appear up his sleeve”.

“you have your secrets and i have mine, darling,” you replied.

after that, Lyney gave up on it and didn't ask about the subject anymore, preferring to spend the seconds he had left enjoying your presence and eliciting harmonious laughter from your lips at the expense of his nervousness.

and thanks to the gigantic compatibility between the two of you, there was a second, third and even a fourth date.

however, it wasn't until one of the dozens of nights you spent together that you finally revealed your abilities with spells and arithmancy through witchcraft — making Lyney finally understanding the reason why you seemed to know more than you let on, or how all his tricks seemed like just child’s pranks.

although he superficially understood the concept of it, the magician only grew more and more fascinated by you, his own heart warming as you lovingly explained the function of your abilities.

“chérie, you are without a doubt the most amazing woman i’ve ever been lucky enough to meet,” Lyney remarked after watching you create a small blue flame from water droplets in the air, “i seem to have gotten lucky in my numerology. without it i wouldn’t have the happiness of meeting the most beautiful, intelligent and talented woman in all of Teyvat.”

you blushed slightly.

“don't be fooled, Lyney. you are as amazing as i am.”

Lyney narrowed his eyes cheekily and glared at you, “oh yeah, belle? tell me why then, because only one of us here has the power to conjure up fascinating things just by reciting a few words.”

you smiled genuinely and looked him deep in his eyes. it wasn't even a surprise for you to find yourself thinking about the magician more times than you could count and looking forward to your dates. Lyney was nothing but one of the most genuine, charming and passionate person you’ve ever met. you loved every second in his presence and weren't ashamed to admit that you were counting down the seconds to go to the next step between you and him.

“well, only those who understand and respect human nature and everything around us can perform magic, dear. be it a spell or just an illusionary trick,” you explained, “and you perform your magic so well merely for the purpose of bringing happiness and smiles to your spectators. to me, there is nothing as noble as that.”

you took his hand in your and intertwined your fingers.

“i— um… damn, (Y/N). you never fail to leave me speechless, do you?” Lyney stuttered while stared at your hands together.

“only doing my job which is to exalt the work of the guy i like.”

Lyney stared at you wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his heart pounding so loud it felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. if he had been standing up, he would surely have passed out by now on the lawn.

“i like you too. a lot,” he finally confessed and you smiled happily.

leaning slowly towards him you placed a peck on his lips only making Lyney's blush redder than it had been seconds before.

“i know, my love. you're not very subtle about it, which i think is incredibly cute.”

and it was that night, under the gaze of the moon and stars, between kisses and caresses, that you made your relationship official.

now, if you ask Lynette if anything has changed since your first meeting to the current state of your relationship with her brother, the girl would deny it. so far you were a unique yet happy and healthy couple, and even if she didn't show it, she was happy that her twin brother had finally found someone who could fit him as much as she once did.

even if Lyney became an unbearably passionate and romantic fool in your presence, she couldn't have been lucky enough to have a better sister-in-law than you.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #lyney #lyney x reader

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kiryoutann · 6 months ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TRIGGER WARNING: PAST SUICIDAL IDEATION, attempts of physical abuse (throwing objects), basically reader's mother being a really horrible narcissistic abusive person.

[Please read while listening to this.]

Listen to that. The opening strains of that old Elvis classic began to swell; a hush fell over the assembled guests. All eyes were drawn to the dance floor where Sabrina now stood, radiant in her lovely gown, and Andrew looked at her with such veneration, as if she had hung the very moon in the sky. In the arms of her now-husband for their first dance as a married couple, the newlyweds shone brighter than the stars outside the manor.

Sabrina’s cheeks flushed rosier than any wine—joy, adoration, and yes, a little champagne too—had left her glowing in a way you’d never seen before this man came into her life, and your heart swelled with happiness for her.

When at last the song ended and they shared a lingering kiss, you joined the room in applause. Someone handed them a mic, and the two tried to pass the mic to each other until Sabrina was the first to give a speech. Andrew squeezed her hand, gave her an encouraging smile, and nodded.

Clearing her throat, Sabrina spoke into the mic. “Hi, everyone,” she began, voice ringing out sweet and clear through the speakers. “I just want to say thank you all for being here on this special day. Sharing it with my family and friends who mean so much to me has made it truly magical.” Another applause returned her gratitude before receding again when she was about to continue.

With misty eyes, Sabrina then turned to her step-father. “I want to thank Jim, for raising me as your own since I was little. You’ve always been the best dad a girl could ask for.”

Then, you watched her smile at her mother. “And Mom, where do I even begin? You've been my rock since day one. From keeping me sane while wedding planning to celebrating with me every step, you know I wouldn't be here without you. I wouldn't be the strong, independent woman I am today without you and Jim. I love you both so much.”

When Sabrina's parents—Jim and Joyce—approached her and gave the couple a big hug, another round of applause arose from the guests. But as Joyce placed a final kiss on Sabrina's cheek before stepping back, the world seemed to dim around you.

Suddenly, everything is so foreign—the image in front of you was never presented to you. Aunt Joyce looks genuinely happy for her daughter, and Sabrina hugs her like she cannot imagine life without her mother—which, at some point in your life, you did believe too. Mother’s words, “You won’t survive without me,” ring like angry bees.

Yet now, the thought of sharing a roof with her again feels unbearable.

Joyce and Sabrina look... uncomplicated, despite your mother's statements about how your aunt wasn't prepared for motherhood. And suddenly, everything feels numb, and you're disconnected.

In your reverie, you missed some of the speeches, only blinking back to reality when Sabrina and Andrew’s enthusiastic cheers echoed through the room. The crowd roared as the romantic notes of the new music played, “Until I Found You” inviting guests to join in the dancing.

As you do at the few parties you’ve been invited to in your entire life, you stay away from the dance floor and become a loyal wallflower. However, this time, with a companion—a better people-watcher than you, Simon. The man sweeps his brown irises around, examining people before one makes him chuckle under his mask.

“Look at that old man, still got it in ‘im, eh?” He commented, his tone tinged with amusement.

Your gaze trails Simon's. Among the dancing couples were your other uncle and aunt, their smiles highlighting the lines on their seventy-something faces, clearly having more life in them than many of the younger ones. You chuckled to yourself.

“Actually, that’s Uncle Mick and Aunt Sarah,” you reply, watching the old couple share a laugh amidst the music. “They’ve been married longer than I’ve been alive. Slow dancing is kind of their forte.”

More people-watching, but you fail to notice how often Simon steals glances at you between his own. And by the luminosity of your eyes, he is drawn like an insect in a blazing fire. His slow, "near-dying" heart has yet to realize the change in him. Simon plays on the edges of the rotting wood.

Straightening his gaze, he strikes up a question: “If that old bugger can still cut a rug, why ain’t the famous ballerina ‘avin’ a spin, eh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Simon’s gruff invitation, the sound bubbling up from deep in your chest with a foreign carefree ring that you didn’t recognize. Meeting his eyes, you saw amusement there but also something that told you he was serious. Heart tiptoeing at the edges of your ribs, your fingers busying themselves with their own bustle.

Biting your lip, you gazed up at him through your lashes, feeling a smile curling the corners of your mouth. "I don't know," you shrugged your shoulders. “I might suck at slow dancing.”

Simon scoffed. “Absolute bollocks.”

At his disapproval, your smile widened, teeth peeking out from behind those pretty lips. You gazed up at him, searching for something intently.

Somehow in that moment, the noisy celebration around you seemed to fade into a blur, narrowing your world until it was just Simon standing before you. Your chest warmed, as if caressed by the sun on a lush spring day. Capillaries rushed, painting your bones pink. Pink.

Gathering your courage, you mimicked Simon's invitation. “Unless... you're willing to be the judge of that yourself?”

The question came out just above a whisper, heavy with promise. With your heart dangling at the tip of your throat, anticipation mixed with anxiety gnawed at you faster than any termite. Simon gave a subtle nod towards the dance floor with his chin.

“Come on then,” he rumbled.

As Simon led you, you couldn’t help but feel like Cinderella herself; this room made a fairytale for you. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, pulling you close so your bodies swayed as one. You shyly wrapped your free hands around his neck.

The romantic music continues to flow, caressing your ears with the singer's warm voice, Stephen Sanchez, if your memory serves you right. The merciless thumping in your ribcage persists, and you wonder if Simon feels it, if he has his own version resonating in the hollow of his chest. Settling into a slow sway, you feel his shoulders relax.

“You’re not gonna turn into a swan on me now, are ya? Would be a right shame to ruin such a lovely dance.” Simon asked, tone lighthearted. After mentioning your upcoming ballet performance, he doesn’t slow down his series of jokes about it.

You threw your head back in laughter. “You know that’s not how the story goes.”

Simon's grin grew wide beneath his mask. Cocking a brow, he said, “Oh yeah? Enlighten me then, love.” He challenged.

Taking a deep breath that lifted the smile still on your face, you began the long story of Swan Lake—about what happened to Odette and her flock by the sparkling lake and mostly things you had memorized many times. "So when Siegfried finally learns the truth, it’s too late—Odette ends her life by jumping from a cliff.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he reacts, and you let out a girlish laugh. “That’s tragic.”

You shrug. “I always thought it was kind of romantic.” You giggle again—God, the way this man can make you giggle like a silly schoolgirl—when you see the reaction reflected in his eyes.

“You’re a right bloody psycho, you know that?”

You deadpanned. “I’m not a psycho.” Your tone was flat, trying to be serious but the stubborn grin that followed ruined it.

“She should’ve just gone for another bloke.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, she can’t. She’s been cursed to be a swan forever.”

“Then she should’ve just lived out ‘er days as a swan then,” he said with pragmatism, very much lacking the charm of a fairy tale with all those logics. “Should’ve chased that arse’ole prince all over kingdom for revenge instead. Give ‘im a good peckin’.”

You exhaled in exasperation, but your lips held back a smile. “Please just stop talking.”

Simon chuckled, and fortunately, for his own good, he did. The music was nearing its end, but you were still swaying. Something caught his gaze over your shoulder. He looked back at you, raising a brow to make a suggestion.

“Should we do a spin?” he asked.

“What?”

He nods his chin behind you, and you follow suit—a young couple laughing as they twirl. “Should we give it a go?”

It's somewhat whimsical, somewhat absurd, that not only is this hulking man dancing with you, but he also wished to twirl you like you were partners in some grand ballroom. Yet, as you stare into his smiling eyes, you swear there’s a hint of excitement in them. And what good is a ballerina without a performative twirl?

“Okay,” you accepted his offer.

You placed your hand in his, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers but somehow right against your skin. At your subtle cue, Simon raised your joined palms, spinning you outward in elegance and then back into the solid wall of his chest.

“One more time.” You said, and he did as you asked.

You cup his mask-hidden jaw, feeling for each woven polypropylene against your fingers. The plum of your smiling lips swells with desire, and without thinking, you press your lips to his cheek. Your heart skips a beat, gripped by a jolt of trepidation, fear, and regret that perhaps you have crossed a line, that you might drive him away.

But Simon doesn't.

Instead, he seized your waist and drew you close, eliminating any distance between you. The air was snatched from your lungs in a stolen gasp with the force of his possessive move. Like a lover accompanied by passion as he reaps longing.

(I swell with hope, in the sweet desire of a girl seeking love.)

“I’m dyin’ for a smoke.” He confessed.

You glanced around at the lively party still swirling around you. Turning back to him, you suggested, “Should we slip out the back then?”

“Sure.”

Smiling up at him, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze before untangling them from your waist. “You go on ahead—I just need to swap to flats real quick.” You gestured to the high heels that had been enveloping your throbbing toes for hours.

As Simon nodded and turned to go, you hurried off the floor, limping just slightly. The celebratory noise faded as you stepped to the left side of the manor, where the hallway to your room stretched in silence. You turned the doorknob, and the old wood swung with a low creak.

Walking to your suitcase, you flipped it open, took out your Mary Janes, and replaced your high heels with them with a sigh of relief.

Just as you moved to stand, you heard footsteps approaching, then a shadow fell across the open door. Too small to be Simon. Looking up with a start, your heart nearly dropped when you found your mother standing there, arms crossed in a frown full of distaste.

“I've been watching you all night with that… man. You're getting far too comfortable, are you?”

That tone—that same tone that you had heard countless times growing up, signaling the beginnings of an argument. Your shoulders tensed. The pulse inside you quickened as your defenses began to rise, readying themselves in anticipation of the barrage of barbed words that might come next.

The oceans dividing San Francisco and London were supposed to end whatever connection existed between you both—to pretend that it didn’t exist. It should have been a clean finale, allowing you to simply live as a normal girl with normal reactions to everything, as if nothing bad had ever happened to you.

Yet, look, your traitor body is gearing up for battle just the same. Your mind may lie, you may lie, but the wound bearer presents the results of years of being forged beneath her. 5,351 miles stretched, but you are still the same sixteen-year-old girl who bit her tongue, holding her words like a criminal about to be executed on the spot.

What a mother-daughter relationship you have.

You watch warily as Mother begins circling the room, her high heels clicking ominously, slightly showing the red soles beneath them. Louboutins, you remember. You also remember all too well how much those had cost—the very shoes you had “helped” fund years ago when you foolishly still let her access your bank account, even after you turned nineteen.

“Do you know why he’s here?” Mother tries the first question, testing the waters.

Like a frightened little girl—that same little girl from that sunny day so many years ago—you deflect the real question, “Because I invited him.”

Mother, unimpressed, casts you a sharp look, as if daring you to dare her. “You know what I mean. Do you know why he’s here?”

You bit your lip, grasping at straws. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

Mother scoffed mockingly. She turned to you, face contorted in amusement as if you had just told the funniest joke. “Boyfriend? Please. Is that what you think?”

You flinched back as Mother suddenly whirled to face you, her sculpted features twisting into a reflection of pure, unbridled rage. The similar pair of eyes glared at you wide. She buried her nails deep into your epidermis, and you gasped from the sting.

“The only reason a man would want you is between your legs. You think you found love, but really he's with you only because you're easy. You’re just a cheap fuck to him, (Y/N).”

The hot, stinging droplets gathered and spilled over without your permission. You hated yourself for fueling her twisted satisfaction. Hating that she still knew exactly where to aim her barbs to find their mark after all these years.

But nothing compares to the fact that she is your mother. She is your mother, and yet, how could those words come out of her mouth so easily? As if her criticisms had festered within her mind and she was finally allowing them to escape. There's a small, broken part of you that can't help but wonder—and why do you even wonder? You know yourself better than she does, surely.

Or do you?

Or is it true that there really is nothing to take beyond your body like the unloveable, worthless child she always says you are?

You felt a spark of anger flare. “How could you say that to me?” you choked out, baring your wounded heart. Wrong move—you know this, proved many times that showing emotion had never gotten anywhere with Mother before.

But the younger, wounded teenager in you would always crave some kind of validation, some sign she truly cared. Perhaps hidden beneath the person she's become, she still holds a flicker of the warmth she once felt for you. You’re her daughter, and she’s your mother—shouldn’t that be enough for her to finally treat you like one?

“I’m only telling you the truth so you won’t be naive. Do you think he’ll love you when there are so many girls out there who are much prettier than you?”

At times, the wiser you knew not to take Mother’s words to heart—your survival instincts, born of too many experiences, told you not to let her poison seep into your skin. But more often than not, you didn’t know better. Right now, you don’t know better.

(Prying my mouth open, she dripped her bitter blood until we were indistinguishable.)

Clenching your fist, you say through gritted teeth, “You don’t know him.”

Mother’s features bent in hate at your rebellion. The young daughter no more, grown into someone who dared to talk back rather than just gulping down her every word raw.

“And you do?” she spat. “How long have you known this man? Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s none of your business,” you retorted, but not convinced enough for her to see the gap in your expression.

“Not my business? Of course it’s my business – I’m your mother!”

Summoning the last of your courage, you mumbled, “You’re not… my mother.”

Her neat eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What did you just say to me?”

It was a second chance, one she rarely gave. For a moment, you considered taking it back—rewording your reply to something less confrontational, something safer. But you were sick of it—years of carrying her wounds you hadn’t even caused, weighing your body down and sinking them deeper into pitless hell. Of always looking past her anger and ego, finding justifications and reasons to tolerate her. Of being under her control when the young girl inside you needed her anger represented.

And you repeated it without rewording: “You’re not my mother. Not anymore.”

As it left your lips, you saw a flicker of change in Mother’s expression—was that hurt in her eyes? So foreign was her expression that you almost doubted yourself. Regret seized you along with the guilt and self-loathing that gripped your heart.

Then, the hurt blinked away as if it was never there. “Look at you,” she hissed, “throwing away your mother, the woman who birthed and raised you with great difficulty, all for some worthless man. I'm not even surprised if you end up pregnant in a few months, or maybe you already are. Don't say I didn't warn you when he leaves you with a bastard child.”

And they were right when they said that anger is the most effective key.

Moments ago, you can still find the shadow of that sixteen-year-old girl remains within, with pieces of her innocence—a bit of a child’s grin. Her body is still in fear, yet her eyes are always yearning for praise from her mother’s voice.

However, as the grown woman you are ignites in a seething cauldron of fury—disagreement with Mother’s treatment—the little girl begins to fade, reduced to ashes amidst the fire. The “why” question echoes loudly with demands. I'm your baby—you made me; why do you hurt me?

“Why? Why are you so sure only bad things will happen? Why can’t you believe I can find happiness?” Warm tears welled up, tasting salty on your lips as you asked.

Mother raised a warning finger. “Don’t use that tone with me.”

But you’ve passed the point of backing down. “Why? Why are you so convinced I’ll always be unhappy? WHY?!”

(As if it had been written long before my creation.)

Taking a sharp, short breath, you feel self-control slipping away. Your lungs hitched with condemnation, constricting you, trying to escape the hell Mother handmade just for you. You’re crossing the line; something scolds (the same voice your mother planted early on) inside your head, but you refuse to give in.

The dim red light between the cracks in your skull grows brighter, and the next thing you say are the words you've been holding back for so long:

“I’m not you! And what happened with Dad was not my fault!”

And finally, silence fills the small space between you, followed by the faint echo of your voice. As the last syllable faded, the words that had been spoken left you feeling conflicted. That little girl would consider this disobedience—the result of the doctrine your mother spat at her every day—but all you know now is the strange lightness in your heart, as if shedding a massive burden that you didn’t realize you had been carrying your whole life.

Mother took a sharp, hissing breath, and you saw the subtle quiver in her clenched jaw. “You're out of line,” she said.

“I'm out of line?! You were the first one to cross that line, over and over, hurting me for years, but now that I finally do it to you, now I'm the one who's out of line?!” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a rush, all the pain and anger that you had piled up erupting to the surface. “You've always hurt me, said awful things, made me feel like nothing! But the second I did it to you, suddenly I'm the bad one? That's not fair!"

In the blink of an eye, she extends her perfectly manicured hand to grasp the first object within her reach—a heavy crystal paperweight on the table. Your eyes are glued to it, feet ready to flee when she hurls it at you.

“You fucking ungrateful bitch!” she screamed.

Some distant, rational part of you knows you should dodge. But a darker impulse held you frozen, as if welcoming the blunt object to damage your epidermis and even more so to become evidence of her abuse. And perhaps, once the crimson drips from your split temple, it will be enough to reveal the true identity she has been hiding—to destroy the loving mother image she has carefully built for years.

You will make a spectacle of the wound, perhaps even exaggerating it a bit like Mother always did.

It came so close when it landed on the floor next to you. You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Mother’s face flushed like the devil as she shouted, “I should never have given birth to you!”

Strange, that relief is what washes over you when her words land in your ears. Because for the first time, the two of you agreed on something – she wished you had never been born, just as you had so often wished the same.

Those “precious” teenage years were filled with alternating fantasies—some days hoping she might die, others wishing it was you instead. But you were never able to go through with killing her, or yourself. Because being without Mother meant being utterly lost and alone, and you were too cowardly to cut your wrist open. More days though, you regretted it—how it might have all ended sooner if only you had been braver.

You wonder who's to blame to just make sense of it—perhaps Mother's mother had been cruel, and she thought she had broken the cycle. Perhaps Joyce, for always being the golden child despite everything. Perhaps Dad. Perhaps you.

All those long, drawn-out years, you stayed, you suffered for her. Because the little girl in the bright pink shoes—the color that matched Mother's favorite dress before she threw it away—loved her mother so much. Always making excuses for her. Maybe she didn't know how to love me, or I didn't understand her way of loving me. Maybe somewhere in her anger were kisses in her own language.

You stood frozen as hollowness spread through your chest, as if the eruption had cleansed you until nothing but an empty clarity remained. Even when Simon entered the room, you didn't notice his presence until he spoke.

“Fuck’s all this?” His question didn’t really wait for an answer as he rushed to your side.

Mother smoothed her hair imperiously, then said: “We were just having a talk.”

Simon’s brown eyes scan the scene: the shattered paperweight, Mother’s suspicious fist. He then turns to examine you carefully, searching for any injuries and only letting out a slight sigh when he finds none.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll sort our things.” Simon orders, and without argument, you nod, walking out of the bedroom.

The room felt heavier with tension after you departed, leaving Simon alone with your seething mother. He moved with purpose, in a quick and efficient mind, as he gathered your things—a toothbrush and hairbrush from the bathroom, dresses from the closet, pulling out drawers for any other items. After throwing them into your suitcase, he tidied up his own things with even more haste and less care.

As he picked up his abandoned tie, Mother cleared her throat. “You don’t need to do this, you know. I know my daughter better than anyone, and she’s not what you really need.”

For a moment, Simon paused, jaw working as he reined his temper. Mother thought she had his attention—finally getting him to listen to her. But soon enough, he resumed his task as if she hadn’t spoken at all.

Undeterred, she pressed on. “There are prettier, worthier girls than her. Ones who won’t cause you so much trouble.”

Simon’s hands stilled at that, Mother thought she had succeeded in making him consider. Slowly, he turned to face the older woman. But what she read in his eyes was not a realization or even a spark of curiosity. No, it was a look that suggested he knew a lot about people like her, had seen a lot despite him being a decade her junior.

“That what you tell ‘er then?” He began, hate raining down like hail in his voice. “That she ain’t good enough, or pretty enough? That she’s nothin’ but trouble?”

The woman met his gaze, and Simon noticed how her eyes were shaped like yours, except colder, full of twisted conviction whenever she talked about you. “I only speak the truth, for her own good. Someone has to keep that headstrong girl in line before she comes to ruin.”

At that, he let out an impolite scoff, but Simon gave zero fucks. “Yeah? Cause all I see is you tryin’ to keep ‘er under yer thumb.”

Simon watched as the woman's face contorted into an ugly frown of dislike; her mask had been abandoned somewhere. He wondered how you survived all those years at home, how you could still say you “love her to bits” on your first meeting.

But he supposes that’s how children are. Misplaced unconditional love for their lifegivers. Sometimes, his critical mind thinks it’s a shame for the Man in the Sky to give little humans to people who don’t deserve them—to abusers, addicts, snakes like this one right here. But then again, Simon had no right to complain when he stopped believing in any of all that years ago—after he lost everyone that mattered.

"I'm her mother." She repeated.

“And she’s yer daughter. Not yer pet or yer little dog to order about.”

As Simon returned to tending to the bags, the woman took a slow, deep breath. "I know men like you," she replied. “You think you're protecting her—you think you're saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once you've grown bored.”

Simon’s tedious task came to a halt, the zipper of the bag half-open. He furrowed his blond brows, brown eyes focused on nothing. Before long, he gathered the bags and shouldered them, his free hand dragging the suitcase as he walked through the gaping door. That woman spoke again, but he turned a deaf ear to her venomous spit.

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