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

saintobio · 3 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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novaursa · 2 months ago

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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.

- Paring: 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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paigebueckersloverr · 5 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 · 1 year 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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aettuddae · 3 months ago

Text

business matter — chapter 118.

↳ 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]

karina wandered among the people trying to find her friends, she didn't know exactly where they were because the place they had positioned themselves was at the center of the dance floor where all the people were crowded together. she asked for permission and passed between strangers, but realized she was circling the place to no avail, she assumed they would have gone to sit at their table so she started moving in that direction. she proceeded to keep running groupings of the path, finally emerging from the crowd and being spit out to a clear passage on the side, left so that they people could walk through.

she examined both sides, trying to mentally locate herself in the club and guessing where her table was based on her location. she made her way to the left slowly so she could watch carefully to find her friends.

"jimin." she heard at the same time someone tapped her shoulder.

she had clearly done things wrong as she was paying for her karma. the universe kept sending her challenges as if she was odysseus himself, the only difference was that she didn't have the will nor the motivation to overcome them and just wanted to disappear before she had to solve a worse problem.

"jimin." repeated that voice that, unfortunately, she couldn't mistake for any other.

she spun on her heels, her face serious, she wouldn't even dare to give him a surprised reaction because he didn't deserve any emotion related to good things.

"do you need something, kim jongin?" her stance was rigid, facing him ready to defend herself or attack him for anything he had to say.

"to apologize." the boy had a droopy attitude, he wanted to sound honest.

"that's very empathetic of you, but i don't need your apology." she was going to keep walking, but he grabbed her shoulder again to make her look at him.

"i'm really sorry for how it all ended." he continued. "i acted like an idiot, i didn't understand you." he admitted doing his best to look like a wet dog.

"whatever you say, bye." again she was stopped by the boy as she wanted to run away. "jongin, i don't care what you have to say."

"listen, i know i was wrong, that i was selfish." he held her from both sides to keep her from trying to walk away from the conversation. "but i want to show you that i can be better."

"jongin-" she pinched the bridge of her nose as if to help her stay calm, but as the boy's words sank in she looked at him abruptly. "what do you mean by that?"

"that i'm sorry for not knowing how to act at the time, but i want to make amends." explained with tenderness in his eyes. "if you want too, i want to try again." he clarified.

karina paused for a second, completely stunned, it seemed that the music had faded and people were no longer dancing. she inspected the man's features looking for a hint of honesty in them, she wanted to decipher if he really believed in what he was saying,

because if he did then he was the most disgusting person she had ever met.

"jongin, are you an idiot?" she removed his hands from her body roughly. "no, in fact, do you think i'm an idiot?" she pressed her own chest with her index finger pointing at herself. "that you can find me by chance at a party, put on an innocent face, say three stupid things you read on the internet and get me back?"

"things aren't the way you think they are." he denied with a sad expression. "i really miss you."

"why are you doing this?"

"because-"

"did sehun leave you?"

kai was silent, paralyzed, wondering how the woman had figured that out, going over in his mind all the people who could have told her.

"see how stupid you are?" the girl reaffirmed.

"how do you know about sehun?" he asked dumbfounded.

"i saw it." she clarified, feeling a little embarrassed as she remembered her tactics.

"you saw us?" the boy was surprised, afraid of what they might have been doing when they were discovered.

"i saw your chats." she elaborated.

"you went through my phone!" now jongin was angry, it showed on his face and in his voice, he wouldn't in his most jealous moment have done that.

"i didn't check your phone, jackass, your chats were open on your computer!" she revealed, flustered at the oldest's accusations.

"how long have you known?" he cocked his head to the side, the times and jimin's actions didn't make sense no matter how hard he tried to combine them. "were you with me for these last few months even knowing?" there was some hint of hope in that question, as if it meant she could forgive him.

"i would never be consciously cuckolded, i found out when we broke up." she didn't think much about her words because of the repulsion to the idea that he would think she would let herself be played that way.

"were you at my house after we broke up?" the volumes of jongin's voice rose brutally. "are you crazy?"

"i wanted to give you back your clothes and you weren't there!" she defended herself.

"so you broke into someone else's house without permission?" he rebutted.

"hey, don't change the subject, you cheated on me!" karina reminded.

"you crashed my house!" kim was totally offended at this new information he was getting.

"you were with someone else for seventy percent of our relationship!" she was annoyed at the lack of interest the boy was showing in the subject.

"you committed a crime!"

"damn, come on, jongin, i don't think it's a crime if i have your door code and we were boyfriend and girlfriend, i need you to use your brain." yu tapped his temple lightly signaling him to think.

"don't do that!" he grabbed the girl's wrist away from her body and directed her downward, roughly.

"hey!" exclaimed jimin, it hadn't hurt, but she was shocked by the action.

she was ready to complain and now add this to her list of things to fight about, but was distracted from further yelling when someone stepped between the two of them.

"leave her alone." between kai and karina was now serim, who calmly tried to push the boy away without using much force.

"great, my favorite person." said jongin wryly.

"the appreciation is mutual." she flashed him a smile with the same energy.

"this isn't about you, so i'm going to ask you to leave." jongin tried to run her off, but serim wouldn't let her.

"i don't think you have anything to talk about." dismissed the girl. "so you'd better get on with your life, okay?"

serim brought her hand to karina's back and rested it there to guide her in the opposite direction of the man. feeling the contact, the younger one wrapped her arms around her body, clinging to her. she just wanted to feel her once again, to breathe in her scent, but if she complained she'd say it was to get jongin to stop bothering.

"listen, you." jongin addressed jang with an annoyed tone. "you have already intervened too much in my relationship, stop meddling in matters that don't concern you." he demanded with a defiant tone.

"i think you're the one who's out of line now." the newcomer contradicted. "go away."

"no, you should go." he refused to listen. "i am settling some stuff with my girl, you have no business here." he was impatient.

"you cheated on me!" exclaimed karina, tired of saying it.

"she's my girl." serim stated at the same time.

"i'm your girl?" the younger girl turned to look at her perplexed.

"shut up, this isn't the time." jang ignored her.

"but this is about me!" complained jimin.

"is it because of her that you're doing this whole circus?" jongin accused the blackhaired one. "you want to feel less guilty about falling in love with her when you were with me." he assumed.

"what are you talking about? you had a whole boyfriend behind my back!" at that point karina really thought jongin must be hallucinating.

"why can't you admit that you cheated on me?" the boy questioned.

"but you were on a break." interrupted serim, lifting her index finger in the air pointing out her fact.

"and you were cheating on me!" shouted jimin in despair.

"so did you!" replied the man. "and besides you're all over her right now in front of me!" he grabbed serim's arm jerking from it, as if trying to pull her toward him to get her away from yu's grip.

"don't touch her!" a new voice joined the argument. "can you stop? i know you're still dating sehun." it was kyungsoo, helping her friend.

"but look who it is." announced kim when he saw the boy. "did you have something to do with all this?"

"no, this is your fault and your fault alone." now the one speaking was jennie. "you have a history of being a cheater, don't play dumb." he didn't know what to say seeing his other ex-girlfriend there.

"and i just don't like you." sejeong joined all her friends who had gone to accompany serim.

"thank you." muttered jimin to the new one since she was the closest one.

"i kind of dislike you too." she informed, causing karina to nod in understanding and fall silent.

"i heard we were terrorizing kim jongin so i came." one more person appeared.

"ryujin." spoke the attacked one.

"i hate you." she made clear. "go away and leave my friend alone for once." she proposed. "if you are not together today, it's because you handled a difficult situation selfishly, and also cheated on her." she reminisced. "you don't want to put yourself in the victim's place, this is your fault."

"leave her alone already." jennie took the lead again. "weren't you gay?"

"i'm bisexual." he put a hand to his chest in offense.

"stop hurting karina." the other man interfered. "and please don't start hurting sehun." he advised.

"it's over between us, jongin, it's over." finished karina.

the boy paused to look at them all with annoyance, but quickly realized that this was a war he would not win. he lowered his head in frustration and left without another word.

"thanks guys." expressed serim to everyone once he was away.

"thanks for that, i thought you guys hated me." said karina.

"we don't like you, but we like jongin less." expressed ryujin.

"ryujin." her best friend gave her a puzzled look.

"i'm just being everyone's voice." proclaimed the named one exalted.

"i can't believe i was with that guy for so long." the girl was still attached to serim's body as the older one, focused on the discussion, hardly noticed that karina was hugging her and hadn't pushed her away, so she took advantage of the closeness to rest her head on her shoulder seeking comfort. "it's the worst thing in the world."

"sure, yes, i agree." serim raised her hands in the air to indicate that she wasn't reciprocating her so she should also pull away.

"let her go." sejeong tapped yu on the shoulder to make her understand that she was talking to her. "let her go." she said again, now tugging on her waist.

"stop it, jimin." now commanded her best friend, to whom she did listen. "you better go do that outside." she ran to the side, clearing the way for them to pass.

"what?" serim was astonished.

"jimin needs calm, go with her, you were the one who was there for her all through the jongin situation anyway." she suggested, leading them outside.

"what about you?" she looked at shin confused.

"i can't, i have a cold." she pretended to cough.

led by a force by the name of ryujin, karina and serim ended up alone in the club's courtyard where people went to smoke.

"what are you doing?" jang's friends questioned her.

"you don't understand." she hedged upset. "i have a manhwa to update."

outside, jimin and serim stood in silence, separated by a significant distance from each other. neither could find anything that wasn't awkward to say, and maybe serim didn't even want to, this one pulled out the box of cigarettes she had in her pocket and lit one, starting to smoke it.

"namu." called the younger one.

"don't call me that." she reminded her.

"semmie?" she tested.

"only my friends call me semmie." she was right, she had never earned the place of a friend.

"serim."

"that's my name." the addressed stated sarcastically.

"i didn't know you'd be here tonight." she clarified. "sorry if you came to distract yourself and i showed up."

"that's okay, i didn't think you came on purpose." they both nodded, closing the subject.

"and thanks for helping me with jongin." she added.

"it's no problem." jang brushed off. "you know i can't stand him." she laughed softly.

"thank you anyway." she restated. "and about that thing about me being your girl..." mentioned with a playful tone.

"i just wanted to make him mad." she cut her off quickly. "don't get excited."

"i already got excited, now don't try to stop me." karina joked. "do you usually refer to a lot of strangers as 'your girl' or is it just me?"

"what are you talking about?" serim raised an eyebrow, lost.

"it's good to see you again, jang serim-ssi." she gave a barely noticeable bow with her body.

"ah, you're still at it?" took a puff on her cigarette. "i remember telling you not to bother me, though."

"one thing you should know about me is that i'm very stubborn." jimin had switched to using a flirtatious tone. "and i tend to get my way." she tilted her head to the side, a leaned smile painted on her lips.

"why do i get the feeling i already knew that?" she corresponded the game.

"how strange." the youngest feigned disinterest. "we must be connected."

"or you look a little crazy." she held up her hand, demonstrating with it the word little.

karina let her mouth open indignantly at the response, then let out an almost soundless laugh and averted her gaze to the front. "can i confess something to you?"

"as yu jimin-ssi or as the girl who used to live in my apartment?" she flicked the cigarette butt she had left.

"from jimin to namu." she replied, serim motioned with her head for her to continue talking. "i almost kissed a girl today." she suddenly shared.

serim kept silent, she furrowed her eyebrows, easy to tell she was thinking about how she should react to that confession, she brought her tongue to the side and pressed it against the inside of her cheek, stifling the opinions that formed in her brain that impulsively attempted to come out. she swallowed saliva, gave a long sigh, it was requiring all of her to keep calm.

"i don't want to listen to this." she decided, turning around to go back inside with her friends.

"namu." jimin managed to catch her jacket and hold her in place. "nothing happened with her." she made clear.

"then why are you telling me?" the woman was starting to get agitated, not being able to hide that it hurt.

"nothing happened because of you." she explained, moving her grip up to her chest where with each hand she grabbed both sides of the zipper of the jacket serim was wearing.

"i don't know what you mean." she felt her eyes getting wet. "if you're telling me this to hurt me..."

"serim, i don't want to hurt you anymore." she stated. "i don't want to cause you or me any more pain." assured, feeling her emotions welling up. "i'm telling you this since i didn't want to kiss her because i couldn't stop thinking about you, so you can see that i don't want to and can't be with anyone but you." the girl confessed. "namu." now she held her face gently. "my namu." she looked into those eyes she loved so much, which now looked sad, on the verge of breaking. "i know that i should have treated you better, do you think we can start again?"

serim wondered if jimin might be lying.

she had hidden things and avoided her feelings, but would she lie to her? after neglecting her heart, would she lie to do it again? serim wanted to give herself to karina, there wasn't a single fiber of her body that didn't want to belong to her, or that didn't already claim to be hers,

but you are what you did, and what did her actions make of jimin? if she was a coward, it was nothing that couldn't be solved with a spontaneous burst of courage. was that what was going on? was this question her finally plucking up courage, was she finally fighting for her like she wanted her to?

and if so, should serim trust her again?

"i've had too much of you already." she whispered, almost inaudibly. "it scares me that you're not being honest and that you will ruin me again." she completed. "i don't know if you deserve another chance." she sentenced and then walked back inside, losing herself in the crowd the further she went.

(!)

— 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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lustkillers · 1 year ago

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okok hear me out: rough sex in a loud party where any character you want is pounding into reader, forcing them to be quiet until he cums all over her and forces her back into the party, putting her on display for everyone. just a thought, love you're writing !!

LOOSEN UP THEIR FROWN, MAKE 'EM FEEL ALIVE!

⊹₊ ⋆ summary. - you're only his.

┃ tags/warnings. ࿐ ❪ nsfw freak shit here! hard dom!euro, sub!reader unprotected sex, rough sex, impact play, public sex/exhibitionism?? , voyeurism?, slight asphyxiation, degradation, spit, jealous!euro, toxic (?) couple tbh, FACIALLLL!!! ❫

⊹₊ ⋆ pairing - euronymous x fem!reader ❪ not the actual euronymous, only rory’s portrayal. ❫

⊹₊ ⋆ note - IM BACKKK from my dreadful writers block!! i'm also bombarded with school work, i'm so sorry for being inactive on terms of writing!! thank u for the request & hopefully i did this request justice... i'm literally sick as shit and seeing stars!! as always, not proofread! requests are open!!

HOW did you end up here? Standing in the middle of a house party, your face covered in his cum. Others knew, some didn't. But you knew... You knew it all too well.

Øystein had been pissing you off recently, so you decided to take a night out on the town with your friends to blow off some steam. Plus, you knew Øystein would be busy and wouldn't bother you tonight, as he had other plans.

He'd always be deep into his music, making him insufferable sometimes. You wanted a night without his judgment, so you went to the house party, not telling him that you were leaving. 'It's not like he cares...' You thought.

The party was raging with people inside, strobe lights scattered along the house and the intense thumping of bass. You felt your body come alive with every beat, and soon you were dancing among everyone else.

Your friends had left you to talk to other guys, get drinks, and possibly fuck. That alone made you want to leave, but something about this party didn't allow you to. Everything around you was a blur, and other men had hands on your waist... But they weren't him.

Suddenly, you felt a new pair of hands around your waist. You looked back and saw Øystein standing there, his eyes smoldering with desire… But also anger and passion. He looked at you with an intensity that made your body tremble.

Your stomach bubbled with many emotions, and your head was like a wheel; spinning with what you should say to him at this moment.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told you to stay away from parties like this, but now here you are!” Øystein said incredulously.

You wanted to say something along the lines of how it wasn't his decision to make, but you couldn't take your eyes off him; he was still holding you close. Something in your head felt unscrewed, not responding well to his response. You should've been defending yourself... Not standing there with your eyes searching his.

“I-I…” You stuttered, unable to put together any sort of coherent response.

He only grabbed you, leading you away from the suffocating crowd you didn't even know was bothering you until this point. He kept a tight grip on you as he dragged you upstairs.

As soon as you reached the top, there was a hallway with 3 doors; 2 adjacent to each other, and one parallel to the 2 doors. He opened the door parallel to the 2, loud moans ringing through both of your ears, the sight of your friend riding some random guy she just met.

A yelp emits from your mouth, your hand instantly closing the door. A deep sigh leaves Øystein's mouth, a chuckle soon to follow.

"This is why I told you to stay away from parties like this," he said shaking his head as he released you from his ironclad grip. You were about to speak up again, but the words caught in your throat when he grabbed your face and inched closer, a smirk slowly making its way across his face.

The couple hastily moved away from each other, a stern look suddenly present in Øystein's face. He motioned you to come inside the room while they quickly ran out of it, leaving you two alone.

The atmosphere was tense as Øystein pointed his finger at you, the silence filling the room. He finally opened his mouth to speak. "You were about to do something stupid," He said accusingly, his intense gaze never leaving your face.

You gulped, suddenly intimidated by him. "I-I was just curious," you stuttered. You instantly regretted your words.

He clenched his jaw, looking at you with disdain before letting out a deep breath and relaxing his stance a bit.

"Curiosity is not always your friend," he tilted his head, his gaze still boring into yours as he grabbed your hands in his own. "I think… You’re just acting like a slut to get my attention."

You felt your heart racing as you stared back at him, unable to find words. Øystein smiled devilishly before swooping in for a kiss without warning, spinning you around and pushing you against the wall. He then kissed every inch of your body until his lips were back on yours. You could feel electricity coursing through both of your bodies and it felt amazing. You knew then that you were in way too deep.

His grip on you was tight, almost bruising your waist. As you both kissed, his body collided with yours, and soon you found yourself laid on the bed with him on top of you.

Your pussy pooled with wetness, his veiny, pale hands traveling to your core. He started to move his fingers inside you, pushing and pulling in a deep rhythm. His subtle and gentle movements were filling your body up with pleasure like nothing else before. With each thrust of his hand, you felt yourself coming closer and closer to the brink of orgasm.

Before you even came, his hands retracted from your core and his lips trailed down your neck. He worked his way to your nipples, pulling up your top, and teasing them with his tongue as he moved further down past the small of your back, kissing each inch of skin as if it were precious.

However the passion ended there. Øystein suddenly flipped you over on all fours, his hand colliding with your ass; a stinging sensation traveling through you.

A moan escaped your lips, as you felt empty without him inside. In order to fill that void, your fingers found its way to your clit, rubbing it as strained whimpers escaped your mouth.

He smacked your hand away, placing his hand in front of your mouth. "Spit." He demanded.

A pool of your saliva bubbled on his hand, as he retracted it and rubbed it on his aching cock.

And before you knew it, he was spearing into you. His thrusts hurried and intense, as if it were his last time, each increasing in pressure until he was shaking with the feeling of pure pleasure.

"S-Slow down, Øystein... Fuck!" You cried out, sobs bubbling out of your mouth, and as soon as you know it, tears spilled out from pleasure.

Your moans rung in his ears as he noticed the music downstairs died down a bit, but he didn't care. He was too focused on the blissful pleasure that your body gave him, as your muscles clenched onto his cock with each thrust, sending spasms of ecstasy through his body.

His hand grabbed a handful of your hair, roughly stuffing your face into the pillows, suppressing your moans.

"Be fucking quiet, whore." He seethed, as his thrusts quickened and the air filled with your muffled moans.

It was hard to breathe with your face in the pillows, and the fact that he kept smacking your ass didn't help much. You felt your insides warming up as he hit just the right spot, and it wasn't long before a wave of heat spread over your body.

Just before you knew it, you came on his hard cock, moaning into the pillow as your wet pussy clenched tightly onto his cock. Your fluids seeped down your thighs, as your body shook in recovering pleasure.

Øystein was about to fall apart, his thrusts going erratic. His hands grabbed your shoulders and he started pounding into you wildly. It wasn't long before he let out a deep guttural grunt, "Let me paint that pretty face of yours." He pulled your head out the pillows, whispering in your ear.

The searing pain of the grip on his hair flowed through you, but you were still at a high.

He made you drop to your knees, pumping his cock right in front of your face. You opened your mouth, closing your eyes and letting Øystein shoot his cum over your tongue and face.

It was then that you felt the last contractions of his orgasm, and Øystein finally released his grip from your hair. You stayed on your knees for a moment, taking in everything that just happened.

As you looked up to him with glazed eyes, his smile devilishly looking down upon you. "Let's go," His voice raspy.

You stood up, nodding, and your knees slightly went weak. "Let me just wipe my face–"

"No." Øystein's voice was stern. "Leave it." He said with a smirk.

As you both descended down the stairs, the party still going on as a few eyes stared at you. Silence was shared between them, while others raised an eyebrow.

Shit, some of them even had a hard-on.

Øystein didn't care though,

he wanted everyone to know you were his.

#rory culkin x reader #rory culkin #rory culkin smut #rory culkin x y/n #smut #euronymous x reader #euronymous smut #rory culkin lords of chaos #lords of chaos #going fucking insane

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ataraxiaspainting · 10 months ago

Text

Chrollo Lucilfer Yandere Analysis.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, not SFW (both non-con and dub-con), the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectfully, forced tattooing, Chrollo having a god complex but that's nothing new lol, Stockholm Syndrome, stalking, parallels to religion (mainly Judeo-Christianity), implied body transformation (using Chrollo’s book), masturbation, manipulation, and violence/gore.

Word Count: 13k.

credits to @ddarker-dreams for the yandere MBTI and like everything she writes for this creepy greaseball (check her out if you haven’t already!!) <33333

another thanks to @depravitycentral for the inspiration! check them out too!!!! their general profile and nsfw profile for mr. chrollo specifically BUT everything they write is pretty good! <33333

one last thanks to @phasmophobia-territory for the ultimate yandere types list and @blughxreader for the yandere personality meme. both have inspired the unique qualities part of this analysis, so please be sure to check them out! <333

also, for quotes i tried to do something like genshin impact/honkai: star rail voicelines so i apologize if they aren’t good (ﾒ﹏ﾒ)

*~*~*~*

I look forward to living life with you from here on out. However, just know that there will be many different roads we will walk together on. Their lengths will depend on you, for better or for worse. As time goes on, however, I know that they will all end eventually.

→ Introduction.

The very definition of an empty shell, Chrollo has had his humanity stripped of him from a very young age. The only people who have ever made him feel something are all members of the Troupe or are buried underground, burning in hell or soaring above the clouds as angels, either one a much better existence than the life they all spent in Meteor City. So, when he sees you, someone who has been able to make him feel something without interacting with him at all, without the use of Nen, without even brushing your shoulder against him while running to your train in a hurry, he does not know what to do.

He feels like he is back to being a small child, roaming the streets and looking through dumpsters for anything of value trying to ignore the pain of the cuts and infections all over his body. You bring up a feeling he has not felt in years; fear. Despite this situation being far, far different from those times, his brain thinks otherwise. It sends him a fight or flight response every time he sees you, as much as he hides it, much like he hides himself among the crowds and crowds of people as he follows you home. You have resurrected a beast thought to be long dead, something innate, animal, almost carnal, without even lifting a finger.

Is this who he is, he wonders? He finally feels something, for once, a sense of belonging and identity and… humanity.

It fills him with a sense of euphoria, while you view it with dread every time his Zetsu slips for just a moment. You always look over your shoulder during those times and start walking faster, but definitely not enough to deter him, and it will never be enough.

→ Darling Character Analysis.

Creative.

Chrollo has a deep curiosity about the world and appreciates a darling who shares this thirst for knowledge and intellectual growth. The form of expression doesn't matter to him, whether it's through writing, music, or eloquent speech. What truly matters to Chrollo is that his darling can communicate uniquely and authentically.

In a concerning manner, Chrollo imitates his darling’s behaviors to an extreme degree, devouring everything they do with an insatiable appetite. It doesn't matter how his darling presents their interests to him, whether it's straightforward or not. For instance, if his darling mentions their love for playing the violin after spending days alone with only Chrollo for company, the next day a brand new violin will mysteriously appear on the table beside their side of the bed. Chrollo will secretly learn to play the violin himself, the one he purchased as well as the one he gifted to his darling, practicing when they are not paying attention or are fast asleep.

As a result, his darling may find themselves obligated to reciprocate this behavior by learning Chrollo's favorite musical pieces.

He will experience immense joy, perhaps so much that he will hold them down on the bed and shower their face with kisses while they squirm and kick. Even when they eventually stop, he will continue, disregarding their pleas for him to stop.

As always, his strength is overpowering, leaving you with no action to do other than to say no.

At least there is some form of care after it is all over and done with, although it always somehow involves blending with whatever activity preceded it. For instance, if it was playing the violin, he would play you with both your favorite pieces on the gramophone he put near the bathtub while giving you a massage and preparing a relaxing bath for both of you.

It is painful, more so than the usual ache between your legs, because he pays attention to your desires and exploits them, even when he appears to be gentle. The pain lingers, no matter how hard you try to disconnect from everything happening around you.

He gives you everything you want, and it hurts because you always know why.

Bold.

A darling who never hides their intentions and just goes for it would spark some sort of admiration in Chrollo, especially if they use their boldness on him as a manipulation tactic.

He finds it entertaining most of all, but also there is a small part of him that is grateful for it because it makes his darling seem more human to him and not just something to own.

Boldness is quite a human trait, one that he so adores, especially with those he holds close like fellow members of the Troupe. It is also quite a trait that can easily be manipulated.

If you attempt to flirt to lower his guard, he will flirt back twice as hard.

When everything is over and done with, he will admit he knows exactly what you are doing as he kisses you again, you not kissing him back this time, as good as your acting was, much to your horror.

Resourceful.

Chrollo sees himself above the rest of man, a God in his way, so a darling who is quite similar to him he would adore.

That is not to say he could not fall for someone the complete opposite of him, someone who is impulsive and wears their heart on their sleeve and everything else he does not and cannot do, but the probability is low compared to a darling that plans everything and keeps their cards close, much as he does.

That makes escape attempts though, quite common, considering how resourceful his darling can be, like using a file to saw the metal in one of his safes or the iron on their leg keeping them in his penthouse. But he loves it, it is one of his favorite things about them.

It is endless entertainment to him, a sort of fight against himself, albeit he is much, much stronger when it comes to wits most likely. You can think on your feet as much as you want, but so will he.

He will mirror their actions until the end.

Independent.

Much like his beloved's cleverness, he derives amusement from their self-reliance. He takes pleasure in dismantling their barriers bit by bit until they have no choice but to rely on him completely.

Indeed, Chrollo views his beloved as simultaneously superior and inferior to him.

There is no equality between them, only a shifting power dynamic that his beloved will soon discover. They will never be certain if his actions, like retrieving their favorite snack from the top shelf of the pantry, are expressions of love or gestures of mockery.

At times, it may be both. At times, it may be neither.

His thoughts remain inscrutable, and he revels in it.

Cunning.

Chrollo loves it when your eyebrows furrow, when you’re deep in focus, especially when you are trying to come up with an escape plan and not noticing him right behind you, because of that expression on your face.

It’s unholy, the way he worships you with sacrifices both living and not. He wants to ruin you, yet keep you as you are. So, after a long time of pondering, he concludes. He will remake your shape, not enough to completely alter it, but just enough for your walls to tumble down and let him in. That is why while he will let you try and try again to escape, he will still attempt to get into your head. He is like a poison, a parasite, imprisoning you in your fears, insecurities, and plans that are doomed to fail sooner or later. It is what he wants to be, but he also wants to be more.

More and more he will be, and more and more he will take from you. It is only natural to want more than what is given, correct?

It is how Chrollo and the other Troupe members survived so long in Meteor City. They take and take, not caring who they hurt because it is human instinct to want and seize. He will argue as such whenever you try to guilt him because you will soon know that he holds no shame in whatever he does. He is selfish, and he wants to stay that way. He wants you to do the same, so he loves it when you fight him or try to run away because he knows it is only nature. Nature will run its course regardless of who wants it to not. Nature does not care, so why should he? Why should you?

But he also wants you to not be as selfish as him, despite him knowing that it most likely will not be unless you are broken down enough. But that is fine, Chrollo tells himself because that time will eventually arise.

Mature.

Maturity is an elusive quality that characterizes Chrollo, yet eludes him as well. It ebbs and flows like a breeze, carrying seeds to unknown destinations, beyond the perception of onlookers. Unfortunately, you, the observer, are an unwilling participant in the multitude of games he plays and the various disguises he dons. Occasionally, Chrollo can act impulsively, adopting yet another facade acquired from others in the interludes of his life. However, there are moments when he patiently waits for the opportune time to strike, akin to a cunning serpent. But this outcome relies on your level of vigilance or innocence. Perhaps, one day, you'll find it best to surrender to his will. Chrollo eagerly anticipates that day.

Hardworking.

Chrollo feels a mix of jealousy and a desire for control when he sees someone truly dedicated to their pursuits. He wants to replicate their passion and adopt a similar persona. At the same time, he is intrigued by their determination and ambition, as he wants to understand every aspect of their character. This admiration creates a thrilling challenge for him, as he seeks to imitate their drive while also appreciating it. He wants to both admire and exploit this trait to engage in a game of cat and mouse until they submit. Perhaps it would be good to do just that, to prevent yourself from getting hurt again.

Observant.

Chrollo finds great pleasure in the thrill of the hunt, especially when his keen-eyed darling begins to notice subtle indications of being watched. These signs, carefully planted by Chrollo himself, make his darling increasingly cautious. For Chrollo, taking risks brings great rewards. Although these signs are intentional, they still hold, don't they? A lingering footstep behind them. A faint smile on a stranger's face, an unfamiliar figure lurking in an alley near his companion's residence. These signals confirm that they are being stalked, and Chrollo is entertained by the fact that their sharp instincts assure them that this is no mere coincidence or misunderstanding.

Logical.

Chrollo's beloved should possess some semblance of logic, even if it deviates from conventional understanding. The key lies in their thought process, rather than adherence to reason. This cognitive approach, be it driven by emotions or rationality, captivates Chrollo. They meticulously evaluate facts, evidence, and outcomes, exercising caution in moments of perceived advantage, as well as during bouts of insecurity and danger, where they must think quickly on their feet. This mental calculus can either serve them well or inadvertently lead to their downfall. They carefully weigh the pros and cons, thus fueling Chrollo's insatiable desire for the fun of the chase, which hinges upon ultimately catching his beloved in the act.

A Leader.

If you hold a position of leadership, whether at work or among friends, this situation will be even more perplexing and distressing for you. In an instant, you were no longer in charge, forcibly removed from your familiar surroundings and confined. Your authority, influence, and status, which held great significance, have been stripped away. You may experience a profound sense of helplessness and powerlessness as if all your hard work has been unjustly taken from you. Chrollo, as your captor, will seek to exert even more control over you if you possess the characteristic of leadership. He finds it ironic that you are now compelled to follow him, forever robbed of the opportunity to lead while you remain in captivity.

Confident Outside, Insecure Inside.

Chrollo takes great pleasure in this particular attribute, as a mere few words, be they soothing or otherwise, have the power to manipulate you effortlessly.

You find yourself compelled to dance and sing, controlled by invisible strings or some intangible force, as there seems to be no other recourse in this predicament. After enduring prolonged isolation, you will unquestioningly revere Chrollo's words, no matter how distorted they may be, treating them as a testament to be praised. And Chrollo eagerly anticipates the arrival of that day.

It instills fear in you, as both of you are aware that such a day will inevitably arrive.

With a few choice words, Chrollo can elicit tears or smiles from you, a feat that few others have managed to accomplish.

You despise it, while Chrollo utterly loves it. Intelligent.

Intelligence encompasses a wide range of abilities, making it possible for Chrollo to be drawn to various types. However, what truly captivates him is a darling who possesses either linguistic or interpersonal intelligence, or even better, both. He desires someone who can effortlessly decipher people's intentions, using words that ignite a fire within him, even if those words are aimed at him or others.

The type or types of intelligence his darling possesses greatly influences their relationship. How he presents himself in public, whether as a kind gentleman or someone who keeps his distance, depends on their emotional intelligence and intuition. Additionally, Chrollo finds it incredibly appealing when his darling shares a specific interest that is completely new to him. This not only allows him to learn something new but also adds another mask to his ever-expanding collection.

Someone who is emotionally intelligent, like his beloved, would pose a challenge for him to manipulate. They possess the ability to understand him better than most, making it all the more satisfying for Chrollo when they succumb to his desires. After all, as Chrollo often says, the greater the risk, the greater the reward.

→ Yandere MBTI: CAMS. (Cruel, Aware, Manipulative, Strict)

Chrollo possesses great skill in dismantling individuals but lacks the necessary expertise to reconstruct them according to his vision. Unfortunately, you have become an unwilling participant in his experiments. Share with him your deepest anguish and vulnerabilities. Chrollo also portrays himself as a universal remedy, claiming that he holds the power to alleviate all your suffering and resolve your troubles, provided you heed his advice.

However, he waits until he has captured you, and your defenses have crumbled. In that moment of vulnerability, when you are cut off from the world, consumed by sorrow, unable to eat or speak, he reveals himself as a deity. He extends his hand to you, leading you along a path he meticulously constructed. This path is filled with suffering, a never-ending cycle of waiting for both of you. But at the end of this dark tunnel lies Chrollo's ultimate desire: your affection.

What is your ultimate pain, what is your ultimate wish? I can provide anything and everything for you, beloved if you do not stray away from the light.

If you happen to encounter him in public before he abducts you, it is because he willingly allows you to do so, aiming to create a favorable impression that will prevent you from suspecting his true intentions. However, if you do find yourself growing suspicious, it is not without justification. Nevertheless, he will persist in attempting to dispel your doubts by showering you with more gifts and displaying gentlemanly behavior such as pulling out your chair and kissing your hand or inner wrist. Yet, everything appears excessively flawless, to the extent of inducing nausea. Everything is so… flawless all of the time, but only when you are around him and him alone. Ironically, despite Chrollo's desire to dissuade your wariness towards him, his tender and kind gestures only evoke fear.

Chrollo effortlessly switches between portraying himself as a divine figure and a malevolent force, adapting to the circumstances at hand. On one hand, he displays an uncanny perfection, never making a mistake and seemingly possessing an understanding of your thoughts and emotions even before you do. On the other hand, he reveals his true nature as pure evil by casually initiating a bet to see who can consume the most alcohol, leaving you as an unwilling participant in this game of his. As soon as you become intoxicated, he unveils himself as the embodiment of wickedness, groaning as your clothes rip off and you cry his mouth is on yours and he keeps murmuring things into your ear that are so much more terrifying than sweet and-

Panaceas are eternal, refusing to fade away, regardless of your preferences. And so is this situation with me, my dearest.

Chrollo often repeats the phrase that he would sacrifice his life for you. However, there is doubt as to whether he truly means it. His actions, whether they be subtle or overt, inflict daily harm upon you, both mentally and physically. He disguises his hurtful behavior as casual conversation, a serious one, and everything in between. Chrollo's self-centered nature raises the question of why he would make such a claim.

You remain unaware of his true intentions, as Chrollo holds the knowledge of what is genuine and what is fabricated close to his chest. He perpetuates this ambiguity, ensuring that you will never uncover the truth. Once again, Chrollo finds himself in a position of guilt, but the specific charges remain unknown. As an impartial judge, you can't discern between deceit and honesty when you have never been taught the difference. Chrollo, determined to maintain this state of uncertainty, ensures that the truth remains elusive, no matter what lengths he has to go to to make sure it stays that way.

Chrollo possesses the ability to assume various roles. He can portray himself as a reliable partner rather than a deceitful captor, a compassionate individual rather than a mass murderer, a savior rather than someone in need of rescue... The possibilities are endless. This charade is not merely a game to him, but a necessity to maintain his façade. Even if he desired to, he could never remove these disguises, as he is oblivious to his true identity, because who is he without his lies? Nothing? It is a sorrowful predicament for both me and him, you will think someday, one that may prompt you to ponder whether it is Stockholm Syndrome or your inherent empathy for others.

At some point, you will allow him to take what he desires, whether it be when he reaches a breaking point and loses control, or when you become desperate for any form of human interaction.

Whenever you are in need, call out my name. I will be there to provide whatever cure you desire for the ailment at hand.

→ Unique Qualities.

Yandere Type:

Possessive.

Chrollo in one word would be selfish, and he himself would not deny that it suits him quite well.

Whatever he touches turns to gold in the most metaphorical sense. Whenever he sees something he wants, he will take it. Everything Chrollo takes either has rhyme and reason to it or none at all. He turns them into gold as a sign of who owns them. Even if you have fallen or will eventually fall prey to this touch. The golden touch immobilizes you so you never ever leave him.

Like King Midas, he is selfish, and he takes pride in it. He is never humble in anything he does. That much is certain. He holds you in his arms at night like he knows your weight in gold, that he could never lose you as he lost himself all those years ago. His kisses are gentle when he wants them to be, or they can be as aggressive as he wants them to be. You’ll come to learn that it does not matter what you want, what matters is what Chrollo wants. Does not having a say in your hell hurt? Or does not having a choice help you justify to yourself that you must escape this?

Monitoring. (Watches From Afar / Direct Contact)

Really, it is Shalnark that does most of the work here, but it is still worth mentioning, especially since what Chrollo cannot get through traditional stalking alone, he asks a very teasing Shalnark to get for him. Though, if Shalnark fails, Feitan is put to the task, much to Feitan’s quite less than subtle annoyance, not that he would ever voice it. Through this trio, the work is separated into three strategies.

Chrollo’s way of finding information is as classic as it comes. Either he is observing you go about your usual day, to that coffee shop you visit before going to work, to the library you frequent on the weekends, to a park you like walking in to see the birds and to get a change of scenery while you read, or he is inside your home, looking through drawers, sampling some leftovers even from your fridge, and making a literal list of things to buy you either later or in the present moment and things to take with him when he inevitably steals you away. Shalnark’s way comes through the internet, through placing cameras in your home and showing Chrollo the footage day in and day out, and perhaps even making an online friend of you if you are that social with other people. To him, it’s all child’s play, especially with finding family members and friends of yours for later, to perhaps ask them questions under the guise of a fellow friend of yours even. But the information that neither Shalnark nor Chrollo can get from stalking alone relies on Feitan, which is where all the finding people you know and love trickle down and puddle at the bottom of this sort of vial of differing plans. This is a last resort, sort of, because there are better things that Feitan can be doing, really, but he is nothing less than loyal to Chrollo and the other Spiders, so he’ll find people who may know the answers his boss was looking for.

He does not blame Chrollo, because if the information was something even Shalnark could not find, it is something so secretive that it could metaphorically be so beneath the waves that it is on the bottom of the ocean floor.

Feitan takes on the role of the more experienced diver because he wants to make Chrollo happy.

Thankfully for most of those you know, only a maximum of perhaps five people are flicked off before you are brought to whatever penthouse Chrollo has bought for the next month or so. The rest can continue with their lives as it was, not that Feitan cares or Shalnark cares or Chrollo cares, except for poor, poor you.

Removing Nuisances. (Murder Likelihood: 8/10)

Similarly to gathering information about you, dealing with rivals follows a similar sort of hierarchy. Chrollo follows them, albeit with far less care and perhaps even stealing a few things along the way, if the rivals are rich enough, though that is quite rare to happen. Instead, he would try to threaten them through anonymous emails or letters, perhaps even with a photo of them sleeping thrown into the mix. But if that does not work, Shalnark is up next, digging up past searches and buyings that the rival perhaps regrets or wants to remain hidden. It could be anything, really, and soon this information will start to spread like a flame until the rival’s reputation is utterly ruined. If the rival is still stubborn about wanting to be romantically involved with you, Feitan is last, burying a corpse underground that looks far from the human it once was by the end of it all, and Feitan, unsurprisingly, likes this sort of business rather than simply lying in wait for a friend of yours to unfortunately cross his path.

Perhaps even Chrollo will join Feitan in this session or sessions. It sometimes happens, when Chrollo is too pent up or feeling especially angry, although he hides it well with a smile that is a bit too wide, at this rival in particular. By the end of it, when both he and Feitan look like they took a bath in blood with their clothes on, Chrollo laughs, and Feitan snickers. He feels good, both of them do. Maybe this is why Chrollo is so taken with you, Feitan wonders. The power and control that comes with you… it’s utterly addicting, isn’t it?

Adam and Eve. (Absolute Isolation) (Kidnapping Likelihood: 10/10)

Before he takes you away, Chrollo makes sure that whatever he cannot replace he takes with him. This includes memorabilia, photos, family heirlooms if you have any, and even annotated novels you have on your bookshelf with notes sticking out of them like sore thumbs. He manages to take it all away easily, just like he does with you. Chrollo, despite how selfish he is, still wants in some capacity to make you happy. In your “adapting stage”, you may be able to hide away from him in the bathroom and lock the door, but at least you will have the choice to continue whatever hobbies you had before that Chrollo allows you to do while you are self-isolating.

He sees this small reason for you not to hate him entirely as a win. A triumph followed by many others to come.

Collector’s Habit. (Comfortable Imprisonment / Chains + Cages)

Chrollo’s penthouse is lined with things both of significance to him and you. Almost all of it is stuff that he has stolen, however, not that he cares. The paintings lined up in the dining room, the many pretty dresses put in your closet and you are forced to wear, the jewelry that he clasps onto your neck and fingers and wrists like chains, all of them are stolen in some capacity or another.

The things that he had stolen from your home all look like they belong there, almost. Your favorite pink beret placed next to a porcelain plate of macaroons and fruit a note telling you to get ready for a date later in the evening, an old photo of you placed in a frame that ought to be at least three hours worth of your salary, your most cherished books all lined up next to Chrollo’s own, all the covers and sizes somewhat similar to one another that it almost drives you mad. It brings Chrollo comfort, while it brings you ire.

Possibly, you’ll read one of his Dostoevsky pieces when you think he is gone, or you’ll try on one of his many fur coats when it gets too chilly or when you are curious. But curiosity always finds a way to kill the cat, because when you think you are not going to be caught, Chrollo finds a way to sneak up behind you and simply observe, smirking, even when you see him.

Attention-Seeking.

Chrollo has always been one to utterly enjoy being in the limelight. He loves acting parts, playing parts as classy as a Prince Charming to a part as scheming as a villain that has locked the princess in a tower. You get both, the unlucky person you are. He gives you roses and proclaims poems and confessions of absolute love and undying loyalty, but you then remember that he is the one that trapped you here, to begin with.

This life that was forced upon you is a fairytale very close to cracking and falling apart, but never does.

You are forced to be a helpless maiden waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her, but unfortunately for you, that knight is also the very evildoer in this story. So, you try to be your own knight, your own prince, but it will never be as close or as real as an actual hero. So, your attempts fail, regardless of how long they were in the making. You are not strong enough, not fast enough, and you simply cannot write your own ending in this whimsical tale if Chrollo is always aware of them.

But you come up with a plan that takes weeks upon weeks and months upon months for it to bear fruit.

You'll comply with his desires and make your getaway when he least anticipates it. Thus, you're compelled to dance with Chrollo, flawlessly and without objection, to safeguard your plan. However, with each movement, it feels as though nails are penetrating your foot, for you're uncertain if Chrollo is aware of your actions, and it fills you with immense fear.

But it is too late to back out of this, so you keep on doing this waltz.

Eliminating Rivals.

The basement, as always, is filled with dust and dirt with insects both alive and dead scattered on the floor next to Feitan’s equipment. Chrollo does not mind it, though, despite him still wearing the suit he wore when he was following you to the train station, the route you usually took to get back from your best friend’s house to your place. He does not like her, but he decides to let her still do whatever with her life as she pleases, unlike the person currently zip-tied to one of the rusty chairs with broken legs. As long as she does not try to seek to be more than friends with you, she’ll be safe from harm. Even though Chrollo’s gut is telling him that she will try, that she will kiss you, say “I love you” to you and maybe go on top of you in bed and-

He tries not to think about it, he is already behind schedule enough as it is, though he could just make Feitan do the work by himself. He tries not to think about it because he has to start preparing his penthouse for your arrival soon to come. He has already purchased some new comforter sets for the bedroom, along with some of the skincare products he knows you use in the bathroom. He’s busy, too busy to involve himself with something other than torturing this man and getting back on track. He focuses on the scene ahead, trying not to think about that friend of yours or the barista who always looks at you for a tad bit too long. If he let his emotions and not logic control him, he would have murdered half this town already and left love notes on their headstones.

He looks at the man, covered in his own blood, his own vomit, his own feces from being confined there for days before Chrollo arrived, deathly thin from starvation and dehydration. From what Feitan told him, Feitan gouged out one eye one day and the other eye the next day, leaving him blind and weeping, his vocal cords far-reaching past their limit, crying out gibberish like some sort of animal, something not too conscious enough of its surroundings to be anything considered even near human.

“Fei, do you hear that?”

“...I do.”

Sexual Drive: 5/10.

Chrollo knows most of what there is to know about sex, but not for his own pleasure. He uses this knowledge mainly in intelligence gathering, when Shalnark, Feitan, and even Pakunoda are not able to get the information the Troupe needs for their next heist. He holds sex with little to no emotional value because of this, since his love for the other Troupe members is high above what little admiration he could possibly hold for those people that he subtly interrogates while fucking them as gently or as hard as they want him to, whispering in their ear when they are feeling their most euphoric, asking them what dons are trading with each other and with what, asking them how the president of this company makes so much when the value of their imports and exports don’t exactly match up, asking them how exactly many secret passageways this mansion has… it’s endless, really, how much information he can get out of them. The human body is so vulnerable, especially when pain mixes with pleasure or pleasure mixes with pain or pain is alone or please is alone. Chrollo is grateful for it.

But when it comes to sex with you, Chrollo then finally sees the emotional side of this spectrum. Your bodies bond and become one, melting into one another as you both moan out each other’s name, lovingly yours and lovingly his.

This development does not surprise him because he does want an emotional bond with you in some sense of the word, he wants you to worship him just as much as he does with you.

Let us go, shall we? Before you could answer, his hand grabs your wrist, his grip making it impossible for someone like you to break away. We… have plenty to talk about and do, correct?

Violence Towards Darling: 3/10.

Don’t take this as a sign that he will not use violence on you at all. Believing that Chrollo's violent tendencies towards you are limited to slapping or ignoring you is a naive assumption. You soon realize that attempting to strike him is futile due to his lightning-fast reflexes. Fighting back against Chrollo will not resolve anything. Instead, you come to understand that he wants you to be like a pet, constantly performing tricks and obediently following his commands.

You wonder if he would also display you like a trophy. Uncertain, you contemplate whether or not you want to find out. Eventually, a few nights later, you dream of a life without Chrollo's constant control, where he does not touch you possessively and parade you around expensive events. You recognize that you are nothing more than his lapdog, his pet, his trophy.

However, Chrollo claims to see something more in you. Is he being genuine in his belief? Do you really desire to uncover the truth?

Violence Towards Others: 8/10.

In his search for you, he maintains his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes reveal his inner turmoil. Anger fills his vision, overshadowing any light. Surely, you couldn't have gone too far. He frantically scans the penthouse until he finds you on the balcony... in the company of someone else.

“Feeling intrusive, are we?”

He pays no mind to the identity of this person, although it's likely they are a former lover or at the very least, a love interest. Your declarations of love and reciprocated kisses leave no room for doubt. How they managed to reach this height is irrelevant to him.

Without uttering a single word, he opens his book, channeling an unseen force from his hands to your ill-fated companion, causing them to plummet to the ground amidst screams from both of you.

After a few moments of tears, mumbled apologies, and the utterance of their name, he informs you that a serious discussion will take place later. With that, you silently follow him back inside. He will contact Shizuku to handle the cleanup of the body in due time.

Vanilla / Kinky

Favorite Kinks:

Begging.

Both inside and outside the bedroom, Chrollo likes having you beg, from you begging him to let you orgasm to you begging him to get you that new book in that series you were quite interested in before you got stolen away. It’s a power dynamic no doubt, it makes him feel wanted by you, needed by you, loved by you. That’s all he wants, really, your love and devotion and for you to promise to be his sun and moon and stars, for you to say he is bigger and more important to me than the sky, for you to hold him, for him to hold you.

No matter how much time passes, how many different places you both stay in and leave, how many countries you visit for leisure or for Chrollo's next big scheme, he refuses to break this unhealthy pattern, even for your sake. He enjoys this routine, so why would he alter it? He will occasionally tease you for being rather selfish, even as you both grow older and wiser and your hairs both white and your skin wrinkly. He will even say it to you when your corpse is resting peacefully in its coffin, as he sheds tears for the first time in many years.

Every time please, Chrollo, please, I… comes out of your mouth, it sounds like to him, the most beautiful martial vow.

He locks each and every one into the deepest crevices of his heart like unwilling prisoners, despite how small and cold and dead his said heart is, at least to you. They don’t want to stay, but they have to because I want them there in remembrance. Just like you. Poetic, is it not?

Voyeurism.

The screen in front of him showed you coming out of the shower, your body dripping with soapy water with a towel on your body that barely covered anything and a smaller towel covering your hair that was put up in a clip. Shalnark placing cameras all around your place made things much easier to know things about you that he could not find out through traditional stalking alone. He is grateful for him.

Slowly, as he smiled, one of his hands went into his pants, then his boxers as he caressed the half-hard thing beneath them both. He kept groaning as it got harder and harder, his breathing getting faster and faster. He is not sure how much time had gone by, but he knows that there was now liquid, slow and warm, running down his legs and is all over his hand, and as always, you were none the wiser.

Oral. (Receiving)

Your knees are on the floor, having been there so long it hurts. Your neck is curved backward and your mouth is in pain from his large manhood in there like an unwanted intruder, as you desperately gag and choke and cry. The only reason you have not successfully gotten away is because one of his hands is grabbing the back of your head and pulling you every time you pull, hopelessly still trying to fight.

Your hands are tied behind your back with silk to not damage the skin of your wrists, while you desperately try to claw your way out of them.

You’re in the clothing that he wants you to wear, as usual, though calling it clothing would be an overstatement as it hardly covers anything. A black thong with a short skirt, along with a low-cut bralette. As always, you have no say in the matter, and even though you are unable to utter a word, he showers you with affectionate words, as fake as they seem.

Favorite Parts:

Your Thighs.

It is more of a comfort thing than anything else, really. The way that it is one of the softest parts of you, one of the meatiest parts of you, and, most of all, the easiest parts of you to grab and hold and kiss and press hickeys into and fuck.

It’s only natural for a thief to want to keep their prized possessions close to them, is it not, my darling?

While Chrollo still places you all of his mementos and diamonds and paintings among the many, many other things he has hidden away in his current penthouse, seeing you as better than all of those things combined, he still sees you, in some ways, as something to be sanctioned, whether it be for your own safety or just his pure, unadulterated selfishness, or perhaps both.

So, he holds onto your thighs at all times pretty much, squeezing the flesh for either attention or just because he needs some security that you are still there with him, no matter how close you physically are to him.

He will occasionally rest his head on your lap, reciting his book aloud while you are obliged to listen. He never dozes off because he is too cautious for that, although he yearns for it. His desire to lie down and have you run your fingers through his hair as he gradually drifts to sleep almost surpasses all his other needs. It may sound like a fantasy for him, no pun intended.

However, it would be a nightmare for you, whether he falls asleep or not. But as always, Chrollo hardly cares. If you dare to object, your longer skirts, shorts, and one pair of sweatpants will vanish for approximately a month, only to be replaced by outrageously short clothes that barely qualify as attire.

They’re soft, just like your lips, your voice, just everything else about you, you, you. It’s the parts that most perfectly describe you, he’ll say, forcing you to tolerate all his touches because his hand is not going anywhere, just like the rest of me, sweetling.

Just stay still and let me see how plush you are just for me, alright?

If he ignores all the goosebumps and the shivers, he can assume that this is what heaven feels like. It must be, right, dearest?

Your Collarbone.

Despite everything else about him, Chrollo can be a sort of traditionalist when he wants to be. This applies quite rarely though, only really affecting the relationship he has with you, both inside and outside of the bedroom.

He likes how the bones stick out, the crevices just so perfect for him to slide the tip of his fingers across, just so perfect for him to kiss and bite, just so perfect to hang necklaces from so they are on a sort of diagonal and reflect the light, making them shine and making them highlight the hickeys that have been pressed into them, right below them, and right above them…

He forces you to wear all kinds of accessories and low-cut shirts that he can find, not caring how much money it would cost, just to see some diamond-encrusted choker on your neck. He says in the calmest voice he can muster that it is no big deal, darling, just trust me and I got this for you and you alone, now why don’t you be a sweetheart and put it on? You might think that a choker and a collar are essentially the same, as they both tightly grip the neck like a suffocating hold. However, Chrollo pays no mind to this, as owners don't concern themselves with their pets realizing they're wearing such a sign of possession.

Your Feet.

Chrollo appreciates art in his own unique way, specifically when it comes to sculpting and realism. He finds your feet to be truly exquisite, along with the rest of you. Despite your attempts to ignore it or cover them up, he has a clear fondness for your feet. Your toes are round, your heels are perfectly shaped, and your soles fit perfectly in his hands when he places heeled shoes on them. In secret, he also enjoys the scent of your feet, although he would never admit it. He would rather die than confess.

Your feet are cute and can become sweaty and sticky, making them easy to hold onto, just like your thighs.

Those traits really remind him after you orgasm, with you of course begging repeatedly for it a few moments before he lets you.

It's a hidden pleasure for him, even if you were to discover it, he would keep it to himself. You won't be able to get any information from him. If you do happen to find out, don't be surprised when a substantial portion of your jewelry drawer is filled with anklets.

His Fingers.

Chrollo admires his hands more than most other parts of his body. He trims his fingernails every two weeks, putting hand cream every time he steps out of the bath, never skipping this routine of his. The reason he admires his hands so much is that despite all the bloodshed and other dirty acts he does with them, they remain on the outside clean. It boosts his ego, in a way.

There are just so many uses for them, he loves flipping the pages of his favorite novels with them, he loves cutting food for both you and himself with them, he loves squeezing your thigh as either a warning or a sign of love… there are just endless possibilities, at least from his perspective.

But his new favorite thing is to fuck your clit with them, and yours alone.

Is it a privilege, then, that only yours can bring him such joy? Whether you believe it to be so or not, it holds no significance, for Chrollo finds pleasure in this, and only his satisfaction matters, given that he is the one who has taken you captive.

Please, Chrollo, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, I can’t take this anymore I-

His movements are flawlessly executed, almost unfairly so. They are deliberate yet unhurried, demanding your submission. However, he will only grant you this pleasure if you plead for it. The act of begging will consume several minutes, perhaps even a minimum of two, leaving you in a state of desperation. Meanwhile, he will revel in your discomfort, relishing the power he holds over you. This perverse satisfaction is what he adores the most.

As you wish.

Inevitably, you will find yourself succumbing to your desires, unable to resist the overwhelming pleasure he provides. Despite your stubbornness, your willpower will eventually crumble under the weight of his expertise.

He derives immense pleasure from knowing that he alone possesses the ability to bring you such ecstasy. This knowledge fuels his ego, heightening his sense of self-importance.

His Words.

Chrollo has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, but he also derives great pleasure from imparting knowledge and amusingly embarrassing others. And when it comes to you, he takes it to another level.

He constantly showers you with compliments, comparing you to famous heroines like Juliet and Ophelia from classic literature. He insists that you possess the same beauty as any damsel in distress from those timeless tales. To prove his point, he even offers to acquire paintings of these fictional princesses and damsels for you to admire and compare yourself to.

Wanting a break from his constant attention, you agree to his proposal. Besides, you get the bonus of owning some exquisite artwork. What could go wrong, right?

Well, it turns out to be a colossal mistake.

Upon waking up, you find yourself surrounded by what feels like an entire museum filled with paintings of fictional damsels, duchesses, princesses, and queens. The overwhelming presence of these artworks threatens to suffocate you. And to make matters worse, Chrollo insists on meticulously going through each painting one by one, forcing you to endure this ordeal that could very well last for days.

Your legs resemble hers, your lips resemble hers, your feet resemble hers... every aspect of your physique and the muse's physique that he remarks upon, leaves you feeling incredibly exposed, more so than ever before.

The duration of this process is absolutely exasperating. It leaves you feeling as defenseless as a lamb anticipating its fate in the hands of a butcher.

His Knowledge.

Chrollo truly treasures his knowledge, viewing it as divine nectar from the heavens, if indeed it exists. This belief is so strong that he occasionally overestimates it, taking every opportunity to display it in a way that impresses you more than anything else he does, both inside and outside of the bedroom. Whether intentionally or not, he will state the obvious, like pointing out that the creature you're observing in the rose garden during your “date” is not a slug, but a snail.

It frustrates you, but you acknowledge that it could be worse–he could forbid you from venturing outdoors altogether.

Surely, that counts for something, doesn't it?

…Doesn’t it?

Fantasies. (Consent / Non-Con) (Coercion / Brute Force)

If one were to make a comparison, they would compare you to a piece of art so beautiful, that it is instinct to witness, praise, and worship until their bodies all turn to mere dust, in which they will be swept away by those alive who do not want your refinement to be stained by those who have passed on. For what is a beauty without a beholder? Chrollo will gladly take up that role, as he is the only one worthy of seeing such a piece. You, leaning on the pillows, legs crossed, hair put up in a neat bun, wearing makeup that he has said he likes on you before, looking up at him like he has come to bless you with a mere glimpse of the divine power he holds, wearing the black lingerie he chose for you to wear this evening, made of lace with patterns of roses scattered about.

This is his welcome home gift, from both himself and you. He may have requested that you could partake in this, but since you are doing it without any complaint but instead loving doing the task at hand, he could consider him soon becoming one with your body for the evening to be an award from you for all the work he has done for the Troupe these past few days.

If such a prize is laid before him, ripe for the taking, why wouldn’t he? So, without so much as uttering another word, he starts to undress as you watch, a mix of genuine joy and interest laid out on your face. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and with this simple act, you are bound to him with the invisible thread of lust.

When his boxers are all the way down, he approaches, and you don’t blink, wanting to take it all in. Shall the fun start? When your lips meet, all reservations that you once had dissolve, as few as they are now.

(But don’t think Chrollo respects your boundaries completely when it comes to sex; if you deny him enough, over the course of months and months, he will break his composure and show you where you belong; underneath him.)

→ Strengths.

Realities. (Your Own, His Avow) (Patient / Impatient)

The being that is above you in this bed is unlike any human you have ever met before. His looks and personality are all artificially crafted, like some automaton made to resemble actual living things, but do not stray far from their roots, what they were made for, and what they were made of. I’m real, you think, I’m real. Chrollo is not.

He’s aware of everything you do. Every step you take. Every word you say.

He is aware. He possesses knowledge of all things, much like the god he feigns to be. His understanding of emotions is as keen as his logical reasoning, resulting in a situation of dread that pertains solely to you.

It instills fear within you because he holds the key to all knowledge, while you remain in not-so-blissful ignorance.

→ Weaknesses.

Lotus Eater. (Dreamy Idleness)

Chrollo, despite his attempts to appear superior to others, is not without his flaws. If those around him stroke his ego, he becomes overly confident. Yet, if one were to try the opposite approach, it would have the same effect as boosting his ego. He is cursed with arrogance, always believing he is superior to others, even some members of the Troupe. Perhaps you can use this knowledge to your advantage. Faking affection could lower his guard and further inflate his narcissism. It is a strategic move, preferable to engaging in a physical fight that you cannot possibly win.

Therefore, when you believe you have the opportunity to escape when his guard seems lowered enough that he won't immediately pursue you, you run. At that moment, his facade will crack, his eyes will grow emptier, and the hollow husk chasing after you will not resemble the Chrollo you once knew.

→ Daily Life.

Welcome. (Day One)

Chrollo remains a mystery begging to be left unsolved.

He rises at his usual hour each morning, and it's a rarity to witness him actually sleeping. His breakfast consistently consists of sausage and eggs, seasoned solely with salt and pepper, as he avoids other spices. He purchases fresh bread from whichever local bakery happens to be closest for the week or a few days ahead. Occasionally, if you're fortunate, he may bring back something sweet while out and about, such as a chocolate-filled croissant or a cherry jam-filled danish. However, trust, whether in platonic or romantic relationships, is something that must be earned.

Interestingly, it appears that regardless of the circumstances, Chrollo seems to possess a certain level of trust that you won't make any foolish choices. On your initial day in this penthouse, he simply greeted you, patiently waiting until the effects of the drugs wore off, allowing you to cry on the bed until your tears ran dry. He comforted you, softly shushing you and gently caressing your cheeks with his thumb.

Yet, he never becomes too intimate.

Was that his motive? Is that why he opted to masquerade as a compassionate gentleman rather than a captor? Instead of asserting his authority, he chose to console you, demonstrating that such solace could be snatched away in an instant. You were oblivious to his true intentions. On that initial day, you wept more than any other day, the taste of mint on Chrollo's breath and the aroma of coffee still etched in your memory. He would inflict further harm, and for the sake of your sanity, you believe it is preferable for him to remain an enigma, shielding you from the repulsive monster lurking beneath his attractive facade.

What Could Be. (And What Is)

Strangely enough, there are still parts of your life after Chrollo has captured you that would still sort of count as normal enough that you could turn the other way and ignore all other cosmic horrors that are happening in the general vicinity. You could still decide what you want to eat and drink that day, what to watch, what to read, what time to wake up and what time to go to bed, what to write in your diary (that not-so-strangely has its lock missing now), listen to the morning birds or to the music that Chrollo allows you to listen to (which is most of it, shockingly)... the list really is endless, really, aside from a few things that you forget sometimes, much to future you’s horror.

But sometimes you forget on purpose, to divulge in the fantasy Chrollo has carefully crafted for both of you, either to fool him or your walls really are as broken down as he wants them to be.

He finds it nice when you ask him questions about whatever place he has rented for the two of you for the time being, the location at hand most likely being related to the Troupe’s plans to steal whatever is of value. He likes to show off, and to listen to him talk for hours requires the patience of a saint.

→ Punishments. (No Punishments / Tortuous Punishments)

Welcome Again. (Failed Departure)

The penthouse looked to be the same after you ran out the entrance door that you lockpicked. The fireplace was still lit. There was still a smell of peppermint in the air along with some scent of coffee, lattes maybe. Everything looks the same, just as it always has. It nearly scares you more, how calm and warm this place is, than the hand that has a grip on your wrist so tight that you feel like he will dislocate it in the very least.

But he does not look angry, but that smile is not good at all either.

He does not say anything as he closes the door behind him, turning the lock on the door so it will remain that way. He does not say anything as he continues to drag you, albeit a bit more tight in his grip now that you are within his grasp once again. Whatever you say goes in one ear and out the other, and you know better than to struggle and scream, because you do not want this day to result in yet another bloodbath, and it would be useless anyway, even if someone came to rescue you. That is why, like the sort of pet you were trained to be, you bite your tongue and obey. He seems to not be angry now, but who knows what awaits you once you are in the bedroom, where most talks and actions are the consequences of your supposed crimes. You can’t really breathe, but that is alright. Chrollo will help you every step of the way after all, as the dutiful owner he has come to be.

Perhaps a pet is all you will be.

He wants you to look up at him like some god, some deity that you worship with all your being. But you can’t, not yet, and Chrollo knows that. Perhaps some methods unknown to you but known to him can help, can’t it?

He hopes so for your sake, but what do you hope for, wish for? You don’t know, and maybe never will.

Venus Fly Trap. (Temptations of a Liar)

Chrollo is well aware of the diverse array of predatory flowers, each manifesting in its own unique way. Perhaps you too possess such characteristics, with your alluring fragrance and honeyed speech, deceiving him into a false sense of security before stripping it all away. However, there is one crucial detail you seem to have overlooked. What transpires when a venus fly trap ensnares a prey that surpasses its own size and devours its own kind and others, rather than the typical fly it ensnares?

Undoubtedly, they suffer. Yet it appears that this lesson has eluded you thus far, hasn't it?

You have displayed kindness, sweetness, and a willingness to comply, within certain limits. Undoubtedly, you possess some degree of skill, though not enough to deceive him, the enigmatic masked orchestrator of this theatrical production.

Therefore, it is without much remorse that he renders you motionless with delicate silk and persuasive words that possess the potential to sting, should you ever dare to push him too far.

However, deep down you are aware of the truth, just as he is aware too. If he doesn't take a firm stance, what other undesirable situations will you find yourself in? With a single hand, he flips open the book, while using the other to shush you.

“A shame,” He says, turning the pages. “A crying shame, really. The sky is so lovely tonight… Who knows when we will get this scenery again, hmm?”

You don’t know what he will do to you.

…Does he?

→ Quotes.

Hello.

Greetings. It is truly an honor to meet you face to face like this at long last, [First]. There is no need to introduce yourself to me as I already know who you are. That, and… hmm. That, and I think you are not all there right now. Please, I recommend relaxing and listening to what I have to say. But just to make sure, try to speak to me… as expected.

Chat: Ballet.

All dancers must put themselves fully into whatever moves they do. I suppose that can be the same thing for you and me.

Chat: Athenaeum.

Libraries and archives are some of the places I enjoy going to the most. Maybe if you continue behaving, I’ll take you to one nearby.

Chat: Reimbursement.

Quid pro quo, darling; I assume you know the best ways to compensate me for the broken locks?

When It Rains.

The rain is perfect for a day of staying inside. Though, hehe… you’ll be indoors no matter what, right? Good thing you have me as company today. …What do you mean? I leave sometimes, mainly to get you things might I add. I suggest being more grateful if you don’t want that koala plush to disappear.

After It Rains.

Sigh… the smell of morning dew and the sounds of birds chirping… simply marvelous. Let’s go dance on the balcony, but be sure not to get your new shoes wet and slip. I would hate to have to bring Machi again.

When Thunder Strikes.

Aw, are you going to cling to me so cutely whenever there is a storm? I wouldn’t mind that, I’ll even give you more blankets to hide in if you wish. …Wait, dearest, come back… sigh… of course she hid under the bed again.

When It Snows.

So cold out there, isn’t it? If you ask nicely, I’ll give you back your socks and slippers. Go on.

When the Sun Is Out.

Let’s go on a walk tonight when it’s not so hot out. The sunset’s beauty will only be second to your own.

Good Morning.

Good morning, love, I made coffee. Feel free to use one of the creamers I got you, and there is oat milk near them somewhere in the fridge… Hm? I have never really been a fan of sweet drinks, so black coffee tastes good to someone like me.

Good Afternoon.

Sure, you can cook lunch. But allow me to cut the ingredients and heat sources. We know how you used them last time.

Good Evening.

It’s so quiet you can only hear the crickets chirping. It’s quite a romantic atmosphere, isn't it?

Good Night.

Ah ah ah. No bed for you yet. Give me a goodnight kiss first. No, you can’t sleep on the couch either. Or the floor. If you keep refusing, I’m going to ask you more questions than yesterday. …That’s better.

About Chrollo: Tattoos.

There is something comforting about them, I think. No matter what the person does to reject it, it will stay. The permanence of such an act should also be what you should be. Now, bite me again and you will sooner than later find yourself in a tattoo parlor. Am I understood?

About Chrollo: Lies.

Don’t say that, my love. I’m not lying to you, I’m just picking what parts of the truth to show and hide. There is no harm in that, I think.

About Us: Home.

This place is much more human with you in it. Do with that as you wish.

About Us: Cull.

Life and death have a sort of agreement. A contract if you will. The more lives taken by your hands, the more your own life is put at risk. Quite poetic. Like everything else in life, there must be balance.

About Us: Matrimony.

Being bound by just a few words… The very idea is beautiful in my opinion. If you want, we can get married. It is not like anyone else is going to put that pretty ring finger of yours to good use, anyway.

About Us: Panoply.

Anything you want you shall receive. Just say the word. Unless it is already here, which is a possibility.

About You: Humanity.

The human psyche is truly fascinating, don’t you agree? All it takes is a few words or a few actions and it all comes crumbling down. Like you.

About You: Epiphany.

Not a man, not ten men, not a hundred men can ever provide me with the same joy you give me. You’re special, you know? You make me feel… alive.

Something to Share.

“Be glad as children, as birds in the sky.” A quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky. But… birds are constantly migrating to better places, so really, are they grateful and glad for the gift of life?

Interesting Things.

I see you are doing experiments with pH again. Just be sure to not use all of the vinegar, please. And no, vinegar cannot melt a door, for the final time.

About Nobunaga.

He thinks more with his heart than his head. But he means well for the Troupe. Or himself when he makes someone call to order takeout for him.

About Feitan.

I learned a lot of torture methods from him. He truly is the best at what he does. As for social skills… not so much. But everyone has their ups and downs, and that is Fei’s.

About Machi.

One of the most loyal people I have ever met. Also one of the most in tune with their wants and needs. If she thinks of something to say, she’ll say it without a doubt. She is very transparent when it comes to that kind of thing.

About Hisoka.

Hisoka… he is very… out there, isn’t he? But he is valuable to me, so I give him free rein to do whatever he wishes.

About Phinks.

One of the physically strongest. Though also one of the only ones to ever get a laugh out of me. Shizuku once asked him why he did not have any eyebrows, and the way he stopped talking and stared at the ceiling caused us all to snicker. Feitan did earn a blow to the head by the end of it because Phinks does not hit women… He is much more gentlemanly than he appears.

About Shalnark.

When it comes to computers and such, Shalnark is the person to do it. He was the one to convince me to get a newer phone model and taught me how it worked. He kept chuckling as he did, and every question I had asked earned a wide smile in response but no actual answer. He says I am an… “old man at heart…?”

About Franklin.

He is not the most talkative one out there, but if ever comes to games to decide matters, he is the one for the job. Once, Uvogin betted fifty thousand Jenny if he ever beat me in chess. Franklin managed to almost win in the end, but he gave up at the last moment. He said he couldn’t bear to do that to me.

About Shizuku.

At long last, she at least remembers my name. She is quite charming in her own way… I see why Franklin took on a sort of caretaker role for her.

About Pakunoda.

Paku… Paku is one of the sweetest people I know. Whenever I didn’t feel well, she was the first one to come and help me feel better. She even fed me her rations, regardless of the tough times we were put through. I should ask her to make me soup again, I have missed the taste of it…

About Bonolenov.

When he trusts you enough, he has quite a humorous and proud side. He is very proud of his culture, and as someone who did not have one as a child, I find it very admirable.

About Uvogin.

I swear he could drink enough beer to kill a whale and still not be satisfied. The same goes for fights. Any challenge goes, whether that is an eating or video game contest.

About Kortopi.

His copying ability is quite useful, and Nobunaga wanted to give him a haircut using his sword. He declined of course, much to Nobunaga’s disappointment. …Hm? A copy of you? No, you are priceless, and nothing can ever compare, even a version of you that does everything I ask. There is a charm to your disobedience. That, and Kortopi cannot make living copies.

More About Chrollo: I.

Come. I got you some books for us to read together. But before you touch them, I must tell you that you can only read them while on my lap. Isn’t that such a great deal, dearest?

More About Chrollo: II.

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven…” Yes, I can see the parallels between this line and myself. Is that why you decided to show me this? …Oh, you just wanted an excuse to call me Lucifer again. Do what you wish, I suppose. But please put that book back on the shelf where it came from when you are done. You know I hate it when you mess up the categories. …Hm? Don’t do that, or I won’t get you any more mochi. …You know my threats aren’t empty, my dear.

More About Chrollo: III.

…Do you need something from me, dearest? No? …Why am I asking? So you just happen to be pressing your chest against my arm for no apparent reason? …I see. Well, if you want my attention so badly, who am I to refuse?

More About Chrollo: IV.

Yes, that note is from me. That gift is also from me. Open it, please. …You should try wearing that set next time. Your thighs will stand out better. You were the one that was asking last night, not me. Ah, you are feeling rather adventurous these past few weeks, aren’t you? …Looking for something? Is this it? You know, I’m disappointed in you, to put it frankly. I thought you were coming around. You know what happens now, don’t you?

More About Chrollo: V.

Time has certainly sped by, hasn’t it? Let me give you a word of advice. No matter what happens, always remember those who have gotten you to where you are now. As a result, your situation can prove to be much less isolating that way. …Yes, that includes me. For when you are alone, my dear, your mind always finds a way to eat you whole.

Chrollo’s Hobbies.

Leading an orchestra and executing a grand theft operation share fundamental principles. It is imperative to maintain a commanding presence, ensuring that others adhere to your lead. Collaboration becomes the pivotal factor in achieving triumph during such endeavors.

Chrollo’s Troubles.

I find it perplexing how some individuals effortlessly navigate life with a serene demeanor, rooted in their unwavering sense of self. Maybe it stems from a twinge of envy, or perhaps there's another elusive element at play. But being envious is part of being human, is it not?

Favorite Food: Black Squid Ink Carbonara.

It is briny, and salty, like the sea. Quite refreshing as well, especially paired with homemade pasta. Only the best quality is allowed. …I am not being too picky. Do you know how many children in Meteor City have grown up never eating from a fast food place, much less a local restaurant? I simply am greedy because I can now. I couldn’t before, and that is why I do so as an adult.

Favorite Food: Opulence.

As an adult, my current ability to indulge in greed is a newfound privilege that I couldn't have experienced previously. Hence, I find it impossible to resist the temptation of adding an extra serving of truffle or caviar to my plate.

Least Favorite Food: Canned Cabbage.

One of the very few foods I refused to eat unless absolutely necessary was canned cabbage. It was slimy and always came in watery vinegar with mostly moldy parts… I was desperate, but not desperate enough to eat that. Machi, Nobunaga, and Phinks all agreed. Feitan didn’t, much to everyone’s annoyance.

Least Favorite Food: Waste.

Paku, Machi, and Feitan had a sort of pact that they forced on the rest of us to never throw away things that were still edible. According to Shalnark and Uvogin, moldy food is still edible. Phinks and I disagreed but… we got outvoted.

Receiving a Gift: I.

Indulging in scrumptious meals truly possesses the power to alleviate all worries. So, how can I express my gratitude?

Receiving a Gift: II.

Oh? Thank you, dearest. …For your own good, you better not have put salt instead of sugar this time.

Receiving a Gift: III.

Ah... considering you seem to have a moment to spare, would you be interested in sitting down and enjoying a shared reading session? The choice of material is entirely up to you, of course.

Chrollo’s Birthday.

You are such a prize, you know? You’re in an outfit worth its weight in gold, actually, now that I think about it, diamonds. Autumn has set in, the weather gets colder, and the food gets warmer. Perfect time for spending quality time with someone, wouldn’t you say so? Please, allow me to do this with you, [First]. I have never really cared for this day if I am being honest, but… now that you are here, I feel like new opportunities are around every corner.

Birthday.

Happy birthday, [First]. Within reason, I would like to treat you to whatever your heart desires. Food, art, wine; anything, just tell me, alright? I will see to it. …Heh. I’m afraid a fall from this penthouse will not be enough to kill me. …No, I am not going to put it to the test, since I am certain about it. Please think of something else. The world is your oyster, dearest. But… remember that I can always close it before you can get to the pearl.

Feelings About You: Ethereal.

This feeling… I haven’t felt something like this since… Hmm? Am I? Quite the observation.

Feelings About You: Euphonious.

…I miss your voice, you know. I always like it when you get caught up in a topic that interests you, no matter what it is. …But last time I took the gag off and took you out, you behaved quite terribly… Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take the gag off, and I’ll get you something related to your interests, and then we can talk about it. Does that sound good to you?

Feelings About You: Eternity.

We shall be together forever, bonded at the hip if we must be. I promise you. Do not worry about the details. It does not matter if you like it or not, because I will take care of whatever obstacles get in our way. Whether that obstacle is you or any… outsiders.

Feelings About You: Elision.

Do know that I do mean it when I say that I do want to make you happy. Yes, our relationship is less than ideal, but in the end, just know my feelings for you are indeed sincere. …I’m not exactly willing to take criticism, but I could try, perhaps. If you like to do so, I am willing to compromise, though.

→ Conclusion.

You never hear Chrollo in his movements, but you do in his actions when he wants you to.

He puts far more effort into the little things, the details than outright saying his feelings for you, or just telling you his threats. That mysterious gift that appeared on your bed while you were away at work, that just so happens to contain some of your favorite sweets?

The bouquet on your kitchen table that was placed while you were asleep? The box of dozens if not at least a hundred pictures of you by your mailbox when you tried to file a police report?

Chrollo is patient to a fault. You will never know what is happening, at its fullest, until it is far too late.

You can put as much blame on yourself as you want, and hate yourself as much as you want, for not realizing how dangerous this entire situation is. But this position under Chrollo’s thumb is so much more horrifying than you could ever imagine, so do not blame yourself for not noticing everything at once.

That is not to say Chrollo won’t try to degrade you into thinking this is all your fault.

Your walls will be as good as broken and crumbled down sooner than you think.

#aya analyses #yandere hxh #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere hunter x hunter x reader #yandere hxh x reader #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #hxh x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer x reader #hxh smut #hunter x hunter x reader

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soylikethedrink · 8 months ago

Text

Forbidden By Nature

A bird and dog shouldn't be together. You knew that. But you found it hard to resist against the handsome drinksmith at the bar. If people were to know about your secret relationship with him, it wouldn't look too good for you, a Halovian from the Oak Family. And it wouldn't be too good of news to your two siblings, Robin and especially Sunday, who strongly detested the 'despicable and wicked' dog.

��️ Tags & Warnings: GN Reader, Infidelity, Major and Minor Character Deaths.

⚠️ Note: Major spoilers from the 2.1 patch. This was also written before the release of 2.2 patch. I'm 100% cooked if Gallagher is actually a nice guy.

Sunday prided himself in his leadership. One could not deny that he was a man of many fortes. His great wit, and his erudition, and his unbreakable composure, these qualities made him worthy of being the head of the Oak family.

And then there was sweet-faced Robin. While Halovians were naturally born with an attractive aura, Robin could easily draw crowds and crowds of people from different planets with just her voice alone. It wasn't much of a wonder that she climbed her way up in stardom with little effort.

Unlike your siblings, you weren’t interested in the spotlight. Being in the center of the spotlight means that you must possess the voice that the people want to hear and listen to, you must have a face that is easily distinguishable among rows and rows of people, and you must have a heart that naturally desires to be adored. And frankly, none of these appealed much to you.

But one should not presume that your lack of interest in the world of celebrities implied that you weren’t promised for greatness.

You were well-versed in the world of business. Your social networking skills were of top-notch quality. Negotiation comes naturally to you. While Robin found joy dancing and singing on the shining stage, your happiness lied under stacks and stacks of wealth and luxuries. Your riches were forged by your own sweat, blood, and tears and most knew that.

Though some people would have assumed that greed would eventually have spoiled your heart to the rotten core, you would continually prove them wrong. As someone who knew the language and the culture of business, you decided to pass it all to Sunday. At young, he became well-acquainted with the mortal psyche. He knew about the worlds that they wanted to walk on, the lullabies that they wanted to hear of, and the lives that they wished they had. With the help of your connections, he easily made his way up. And before you even know it, he became the head of the Oak Family.

And this went the same for Robin. As you weren't very fond of the life of celebrities, you faced some obstacles in conditioning her up for success. But you disliked failures, hence why Robin managed to become a top star at a young age with your help, despite the disagreements and disputes that you faced by the people in your surroundings. You then received Sunday’s assistance, who helped his sister to adapt to the life of a star.

Because of you, the two of your siblings were well-known figures in Penacony.

Your achievements alone served as the evidence of your success, thus bringing some clarification towards your prestige in the world of the rich.

But you didn’t reach this elevated level of success overnight. You had some help here and there. Met a few people, some that you shouldn't even acknowledge.

“Gallagher?” Your voice was pitched with curiosity, as you swirled the drink inside the glass by the stem. “Gallagher, the member of the Bloodhound family?”

Your maid nodded her head in confirmation. “He shared with me that he would like to meet you soon, and asked when you will be free.”

The sip from the drink trickled down to your throat. But the sip could not muster a quick answer out of you. You thought deeply on how you should approach the situation. The kick from the aftertaste finally booted out a response out of you.

“There's no need for such a formal arrangement. We were close friends,” you said calmly. “He can meet me right now if he wants to.”

Your maid gave you a second nod, before walking around. As her hand rested around the doorknob, you loudly said, “Actually, he doesn’t need to see me. I will see him myself. It would have been easier for both parties.”

Your maid pinched her eyebrows together confusedly at your suggestion. “But what would they think about—”

Her question was interrupted by the clinking sound of the glass against the table. Raising from your seat, you gathered your purse in your hand. You reassured her, “Don’t fret about it.”

When the door opened, you swung your car keys between your fingers. “I’ll be home around 8 PM. You know what to do if I'm not home by then.”

Before your maid could even argue against your departure, the door behind you was already slammed shut.

You were an individual who marched forward with a well-strategized stride. It was an uncommon sight to see you standing still, feeling lost. You always knew what to say, when to act. It was almost as if living was natural for you.

But anyone who observed you from a distance, knew that there were rare moments where there was a crack in the facade you wore.

Heels clicked against the marble floor, turning the heads of the few customers in the bar. You sat at one of the empty seats, before placing your purse on the table. You wiggled yourself out of your coat, folding it neatly before placing it on the seat next to you.

Closing your eyes, you indulged in the noises and chatters of the bar. The bar didn’t have too many attendees. But you were hardly bugged by it, as a quiet bar had a greater appeal to you.

A glass was placed in front of you. It was filled to the brim with a pink juice, in which you suspected it to come from the finest of strawberries. Lemon slices were floating on the surface, with a sticker of the top-star celebrity of Penacony being plastered at the corner of the drink. The presentation of the drink was endearing, you would say. Especially given your background.

Strangers would have been confused by the strange gesture. But you were no stranger to this place.

“Aw, how sweet.” Your hand reached out for the drink, as the ice cubes clinked against the glass. Even by a simple glance, you could easily guess it. Rose In Rain.

Before you could even have a sip of it, you can already taste the flavors of the drink melting into your tongue. “It’s not a wonder that the bar has managed to retain its popularity among people of all classes.”

With a very composed air, the drinksmith pronounced his response, “This is simply a part of my job. There’s no need for such flattery.”

He grabbed a towel, as he began drying the newly-cleaned glasses.

“Surely, a part of your job does not include you offering such a special treatment to his customers,” You teased, as you brought the drink close to your lips. “And why, I wonder. Are you interested in me, Mr. Gallagher?”

He kept the towel away, and you noticed that the folds were rather uneven. His lack of verbal response might imply disinterest, but his body language was telling you a different story.

“Yes. Because no member from the Oak family, who are raised with wealth and riches, would spend the night in such a shabby, gloomy bar with moody bartenders. How could I not be interested when met with such abnormality?”

“Abnormality,” you repeated after him playfully. “How awful! I used to be addressed by such endearments, now I’m reduced to an abnormality. Do you detest me that much, Mr. Gallagher?”

You attempted to tease an answer out of him, as you slowly stroked his leg with the tips of your heels.

“And here I thought that you would have a change of character after successfully climbing up in the social hierarchy,” he commented flatly.

“Let me hear it.”

“Feisty, birdie,” he said in a voice that was tinged with slight amusement. With arms crossed against his chest, he asked in a huff, “Don’t say you come all the way here for that?”

“No,” you denied. “My maid came here telling me that you would like to discuss some matters. I just thought that it would be convenient to come here instead of the other way around.”

“Well, the discussion is not bar-friendly, I would say. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

An exasperated sigh came out of your mouth. “I’m assuming it involves Sunday.”

When your younger brother’s name rolled out of your tongue, there was a slight disdainful glance towards you. “Spot-on. Quite impressive, really.”

“Give him time.”

“And will time grow him out of tyranny?” asked Gallagher.

“Tyranny?” You repeated him again. But instead of uttering it in a playful chirp, your tone was raised in frustration. “You’re speaking nonsense. He is controlling and demanding, but none of that fits what people might consider a tyrant. You need to kill someone to become one. And I don’t recall my younger brother getting involved in a manslaughter case.”

You slowly pushed the drink away from your sight. You continued, “I come here with the intention to have some fun. Let’s not sour the mood with such hostile arguments.”

“Sunday is young, and inexperienced in this kind of position. But he’s fast-learner. With his wits and charms, it wouldn’t take that much time for him to grow and become a proper man,” you defended.

There was an unusual pause in the conversation. And for some reason, the hairs on your arms stood up from the freezing air around you. Too cold for your liking. Not only the air, but also the man in front of you. Too cold for your liking.

“A higher position comes with higher ambitions, and followed with a higher price,” your voice dropped at a lower note, while shrugging your shoulders. “It’s just the way it is.”

He hummed in response. “It comes naturally out of you.”

Your forehead wrinkled at his remark, but before you could question his comment, he cut you to it: “Almost as if you are speaking about yourself.”

“Funny,” you said, feigning amusement. You heaved out a sigh of exasperation, your gaze fallen on the shiny counter. Your tongue no longer longed for the sweet, pink juice that was served earlier. “Let’s settle this with civility. We don’t need to jab at each other’s faults and families. To be insulting and mocking one another relentlessly is very unprofessional of us, who are known as the people who oversee all of Penacony’s matters.”

“Ah, I see. We are colleagues now.”

You closed your eyes, as you swallowed the rising anger that nearly escaped from your throat. “Yes. What else would we be?”

“Old friends?”

“Stop,” you commanded. Though your lips curled into the sweet smile, the white feathers on your wings started slicking down out of fury.

“Stop?” He raised his eyebrows, amused at your attempt in concealing your anger. “I’m pointing out facts. There’s no need to get riled up over the truth. As someone who values honesty, I don’t understand why you are upset at the mention of our relationship.”

You exploded in fits of laughter at his provocation. The hand covering your mouth was an attempt in restoring your graceful image. And though the corner of your eyes wrinkled in delight, there was a mischief gleam shining in your eyes.

“Ah. I see it now. Well, forgive me for acting all uptight earlier. I seem to have forgotten that dogs need plays and treats in order to feel fulfilled in life,” you mocked.

“And where’s my treat?” he asked, playing along with you.

You grinned back at him, with your nose scrunched in slight repulse. “You will get your treats when you shut up about us. Alright, puppy?”

“No problem, birdie. As long as you could convince your bird friends that they wouldn't be chirping around about our reconciliation. ‘Don’t want to be on the bad side of your spouse. ‘Heard that they’re a scary person.”

“Fine,” the smile on your lips was now hanging loosely. “If that’s what you want the most.”

“Now, here’s where you are wrong. That’s not what I want the most.”

Your face scrunched into confusion, but how the corner of your lips twitched implied that you were not very happy with the way he was leading the game.

“Then?” you dared yourself to ask. “Tell me. What is it that you want?”

He took out the container of washed blueberries, tossing them in the blender.

“You,” he answered. It was such a plain reply that was pronounced in a flat tone but it had such a strong effect on you.

The chair that you were sitting in was very uncomfortable, you suddenly noticed.

“You are a little quiet. Bet your mouth dry,” he asked. He threw out the first drink that was served for you, as he replaced it with a new one. You observed the drink, as the radiant, yet somewhat gloomy, blue color of the juice was toned down by your shadow that loomed over it. “Drink up.”

“Do you mean it?” you asked. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“After all these years?” again, you asked. But this time, with the intention to confirm.

The toughest challenge in the world was no longer convincing the other four families that your brother was not a despicable, hellish being. But rather maintaining a simple eye contact with your first love at his bar.

He nodded his head. “How is that shocking to you?”

“It’s shocking to me because it has been so long. Was it like, 9— no, 12 years?”

“13 years,” he confirmed. “I waited for 13 years. For you.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” your wings tucked closely to your neck, as they hid in your hair. “Not only that, this seems like what? A poor attempt to lure me in your little trap? But this. This whole thing— it’s not something that you could blurt out so loudly. Especially in a bar where we have eyes everywhere. What would my spouse think about this, what would Sunday and Robin think that their older sibling is out fraternizing with the drinksmith while their spouse is waiting for them at home?”

“You already spelled it all out. There’s not much for your ‘baby brother Sunday’ to figure out why this reunion was such a big deal,” Gallagher teased. With a shrug, he corrected you, “You got one part wrong though.”

This man.

“Mind telling me?” You were greatly exasperated at this point.

“I don’t like how the drinksmith sounds. How about your ex-boyfriend?”

Your hand reached out for your purse, and then the coat that you threw over on the next seat. In a hurry, you rose from your seat. “If this is what we are doing, then I’m leaving.”

As you turned your back against him, he walked around the counter as he chased after you. “Hey,” he called. “Don’t get all pissy about it. Teasing used to be our language. Remember?”

At the corner of your eyes, you took notice that one of the bartenders immediately took over Gallagher’s job. You had a hunch that they had been observing you two in a while. Even guessing what they could have heard gave you a headache.

But the man who was following you from behind was ticking you off even more. Even when you were both outside of the bar, he was still trailing you behind like a puppy.

Finally, you spun around, now facing him. Baring your gritted teeth, you hissed, “I’m not going to lose my dignity tonight just because you—” You pointed your finger towards him, “—couldn’t move on from the past. I have a reputation, Gallagher. So do you. But unlike you, I care deeply about my image. So, let’s just bid our farewells. It’s for the best of us.”

He seemed to be taken aback by your fierce statement. With his hands placed on his hips, he dramatically tapped his foot against the ground a few times before shaking his head, “Wow. People weren’t lying at all. You changed.”

“So?”

Your jeer was barely registered into his head. With his chin slightly tilted upward, he continued, “You really did lose yourself to the riches and fame.”

The feathers of your wings hackled in anger. “And you changed too. It’s hard to believe that the lone wolf of Bloodhound family has now decided to be gossipy, and the first thing that he did is to believe some moronic rumors. Fuck off, Gallagher.”

“Did your partner teach you that?”

“Teach me what?”

“Teach you to curse,” he said, as he pulled out a cigarette box from the pocket of his pants. “Because I’m tellin’ you right now, they’re doing a poor job.”

You shook your head in disbelief. You huffed, “Why are you so against my marriage? Do you hate to see me happy, is that it?”

With nonchalance, he nodded his head in confirmation. “Yes. I’m unhappy that you are with them.”

“And so? Do you want me to toss my future away with them just because of what?” You gestured towards him angrily, “Some man?”

“Now it’s some man. Back then, you used to call me cuter names than that,” he teased. “Actually, it sounded even better when you moaned it out in bed,” a muffled groan escaped from his lips as he thought of all the good times you two shared. Well, it was all funny memories now.

“Should I list it all down right now, birdie?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. “How would you prefer me to do it? Should I yell it out so that the whole world knows about your secret scandal with the drinksmith from the Bloodhound family?”

You leaned forward towards him, as he pretended to flinch. Your wings flipped angrily, messing up your hair. “Cut it, dog.”

“Oh, I will,” he agreed, with the tone of his voice now lowered. “But only if you tell me why you left me for that stupid chicken you married to.”

“They’re Halovian, not a chicken,” you exasperatedly corrected him.

You look at a distance, as you wrung your brain out for an appropriate answer. While you thought deeply on what to say, Gallagher caught a glimpse of the wedding band around your ring finger.

“Are they wealthy?” he risked another jab. “Old money, or new money?”

“Old,” you answered flatly while rolling your eyes.

He hummed. “So I guessed it right.”

Gallagher pulled out the cigarette out of the box, before putting it between his lips. He patted on his pockets for his lighter.

But you were quicker. You pulled out the lighter from your purse, as you lit it up the end of the cigarette. The light from the fire shone on your face.

And out of sudden, his intense hatred towards you slowly burned away along with the ashes from the cigarette he was smoking.

You were annoying, that was for the first fact. While the second fact, you were dangerously beautiful.

“Maybe if I wasn’t much of a social climber, I wouldn’t leave you,” you suddenly confessed. “But I wanted all the fame and the wealth. Because I have a family to support. If I were to run off and marry the guy I actually liked, there’s no such thing as Sunday the Allegedly Tyrannical Leader of the Oak Family or A-List Celebrity Robin in the news and other media outlets. They were out there, taking jobs of some rich pigs. Not living comfortably as today.”

Now, his mouth felt dry. And the air around him felt hot, making him sweaty and uncomfortable.

With your arms crossed and your wings slightly droopy, you continued, “I saw the ring in your pocket when I was cleaning the house before we broke up.”

Gray smoke escaped from his cracked lips. “You did?”

By the tone, it was clear that it wasn’t your confirmation that he needed. Rather, he wanted your clarification on why you decided to ditch him out of nowhere.

“You never told me that you wanted to be more than just that,” you said.

“Sucks to know that you hate surprises right now.”

Even in moments of a heated dispute, Gallagher would try to twist it into a comedy.

“I wanted to make a name for myself in the Penaconian society. And the only way for me to do so was to make myself seen by these prominent people. At the banquet, at the ball, at the party, or at the bar,” you explained.

“I didn’t want to be a nobody. I wanted to become somebody. In that way, my siblings can live an easy life, without some rich snobs telling them what to do, and what to say. How to dress and when to speak. I lived that life. That was how I realized how irksome it was, and how I refused to let it happen to my siblings.”

You looked down to your feet, as your shoes reflected your face. All the treatments you received to retain your youthful beauty, but yet you hardly felt that your younger self was with you. Your younger self wouldn’t make that many excuses. They weren’t avoidant — they faced all obstacles head first with a feisty spirit. But nowadays, even a confrontation from a past lover can get you this upset.

“It wasn’t a part of my plan to be pinned down by marriage. I was just taken aback by the sudden shift of our relationship, so I left. I worked for a few more years, then I received a marriage proposal from them. Old money, goal-oriented, business-minded. I knew two things when I saw them. That marrying them means that I could finally retire from all that social-climbing and establish myself among the elites. And marrying them means that my siblings have a greater chance to become successful. It would be a great investment, really,” you explained.

“But I didn’t like them that much.” you reassured him. “They were good, but only enough to make me feel wanted. To them, I was just an accessory for him to flaunt off to his rich friends. They lie sometimes, even to me. I can see it right through them,” you admitted. “They lie to feel respected and liked. To fit in, sometimes. And I guess whatever they say about marriage is true. You will slowly become them, whether you like it or not.”

“So let me get this straight. He didn’t teach you to curse, but he did teach you to lie so you could look better than everyone?” Gallagher joked bitterly. He looked at you up and down, “Yeah, I see it now.”

You decided to ignore him.

“I liked you because unlike other people I have met, you were truthful. You didn’t treat me like a sweet candy meant to be tasted, or an object that was meant to be possessed. You were honest and you were genuine. I knew it by the first time we just met, when you dissed me about my drink order,” you laughed a bit. “What was it? My first order? Oh, dearest Xipe, I think I forgot about it.”

“Mungbean Soda. With that distressed look on your face, I knew that a few shots of Stellar Champagne was all you needed to keep yourself composed while dealing with those aristocrats,” he answered.

“So then I decided to take your recommendation.”

“Which was Rose In Rain. A classy and sweet choice, but strong enough to make you forget all your miseries for the night.”

“And it was delicious. That tipsiness made me realize how kissable you were, especially under that dimmed, yellow light,” you finished your sentence.

“Am I still kissable now?” he teased, as he blew the smoke from his mouth. When he took notice of your irked glare, he raised your hands up in defense. “Hey, ‘just confirming.”

“Annoyingly kissable,” you replied.

You watched the direction of his eyes fall to your lips. And just by a simple stare, you could feel all the blood from your feet and legs go up to your face, making your cheeks and neck feel hot.

When he removed the cigarette from his lip, he slowly leaned forward. Your breath hitched up in response, he noticed. So he stopped.

What filled in the air was the strange silence, the acrid smoke and your guilt.

“What’s stopping you, then?” he asked softly.

Honestly, it was a difficult question to answer. Could it be that it had been an hour past eight. Or it could have been the wedding ring around your finger. Or it could have been because the way your stomach churned at the bitter smell of his cigarette reminded you of why you left Gallagher that day.

“I don’t know,” but your eyes told a different story.

His hand reached out for you, and as he interlocked your fingers with him, he played with the ring, twisting and turning it. But he knew what was your answer when your fingers curled in your palm, suggesting that you refused to let go of the ring.

“Oh, but I think I know,” he answered.

A worried sigh came out of your mouth. “I can’t leave all of this behind. I climbed too high, I’m not sure how to get down. If I choose to go down with you now, the fall would be too painful. And I don’t even know if I could survive through it.”

There was too much running in his head. His thoughts fly from one extreme to another. It was impressive that you could easily turn a decisive, composed man into such a mess: where he struggled to feel pity for you or just kill you off on the spot.

“Why didn’t you want to be with me?” he asked, losing the childish accents in his voice.

“Marrying you was a choice, marrying them, however, was a necessity,” you answered. The softness in your voice felt like a sharp piercing through his heart. “A bird can’t be with a dog. That’s unnatural.”

Quietude witnessed the way you looked at each other longingly. While your heart weighed with guilt and shame, his mind was congested with frustration and anger. But yet, both secretly longed for each other.

“But I refuse to accept it as the truth. No, not when I keep on missing you for all these years.”

Before he could come up with a cheeky reply, you shushed him from his sarcastic remarks by resting your hand on his cheek, bringing his face to yours. Your soft lips pressed against his bloodless and dry ones. The heat from a sinful kiss engulfed the two of you closely, burning the part of your skin on your back that he gently touched. His hand rested on your lower back, bringing you closer to him. You could feel his beard tickling your chin, and he could smell your perfume in his nostrils. The bitter taste of his alcohol that he downed melted in your tongue, causing you to groan in delight.

The kiss lasted a few minutes, but you wished it could go on for hours.

“For the last time,” you reminded him, your thumb rubbing his cheek in circles. “There will be no longer us after this.”

You stepped away from him, as your wings shyly closed your mouth while you were cleaning off your lips with the back of your hands.

“You sure?” he asked breathily, his pale lips now stained with a crimson-colored lipstick. He might have to lie to everyone that he was drinking too many bottles in the Soulglad in the past few days (though Soulglad was clearly orange.)

“Yes,” you confirmed. You took a few steps backwards. With your hands gathered together, you gracefully bowed your head towards him. An act of courtesy which also served to restore your damaged dignity as a married person from an honorable family.

“Goodnight, Gallagher.”

You waited for his response, but all he did was stare at you. The light from the lamp above you started flickering, before it completely went out.

Was it longing on his face? It was difficult to make out his expression, especially when the shadow covered him.

You guessed that it was hard to bid goodbyes after such a kiss.

But for some reason, you felt shivers running down your spine. Beads of sweat were forming on your neck from the cold. Your mind was sending rapid signals to your legs: alerting it to run immediately.

Though your sudden instinct to run was scaring you, you calmed down your nerves by guessing that it could have been because of the kiss.

Your thoughts were quietened when you saw the shadow of Gallagher rolling his thumb against the metal wheel of his lighter that he pulled out of his pocket.

Yes, yes. It must have been the kiss.

You were scared of your partner leaving you. Or Sunday being humiliated at his work because of his older sibling’s infidelity with some member from the Bloodhound family. And it could be because that person happened to be his colleague who kept on riling him up at work. Or maybe you were afraid that your scandal could create a blemish on Robin’s reputation as a celebrity. Now the whole world assumed that she was a dirty popstar.

But it didn’t seem that your body was agreeing with any of those guesses.

Gallagher’s frustrated grunt at the stubborn lighter shushed your thoughts again.

You came to notice that your white wings were quickering badly.

There was too much happening at the moment. You were so overwhelmed by the urge to flight, that you felt that you could vomit on the spot.

Suddenly, a thought came to you.

His cigarette was already lit up. So what could be the reason why he pulled out his lighter?

The flame from the lighter brought some light to his face, but the sight of the man you used to love led to you gasping in horror. It was gloomy with burning hatred, the glare alone could almost kill you on the spot.

But before you could ask, a mysterious sound of ringing pierced through your eardrums. It belonged to no other but Memory Zone Meme, a secret from The Family that were kept away from you. You could feel it slowly spread its wings, which resembled the terrible noise of bone-cracking.

You gathered the courage to turn around. But it perceived the sudden movement of its prey as an attempted fight. Feeling threatened, it stabbed its stingers through your body. The ground was splattered with a mysterious blue liquid, followed by the sound of your wedding ring rolling and spinning in circles.

Your purse that was hanging around your arm was now on the other side of the ground.

The outside of the dark bar that was filled with heated arguments and sweet confessions earlier died out, with only silence remaining.

Well, only for a few minutes.

A melodious voice of Robin was heard, muffled by the zipped purse. Your phone rang a few times, playing the same music. It appeared that the caller was worried. Or angry.

Gallagher crouched down, unzipping your purse. He groaned in repulse when the blue liquid stuck to his skin, as he wiped it down on his pants. He took out your phone, as the name of your spouse filled his vision.

Your phone was flooded with notifications of your worried partner, asking about your whereabouts.

Ah, you were supposed to be home by 8 PM. He looked at the time, it was already 9:30 PM.

In your defense, he would also be sneaking around to kiss a drinksmith at the bar if he had an overbearing partner like yours.

He thought of sharing the news of your infidelity.

But then, he scrapped the thought. He wanted to respect your wishes. Something about how the story of tonight was going to destroy Sunday and Robin’s image. Or something similar to that. He didn’t remember much because he hardly cared about your siblings.

It was not like all your siblings had the time to process your death, especially when they were next in line.

So he came up with a different plan. Your password was easy to guess. It wasn’t difficult with the help of your maid who used to work under him.

A flash from the camera was heard. The phone captured the scene of a mysterious liquid splattered across the ground, with the gold-colored wedding ring shining brightly under the light, with some being covered by the puddle of your remains.

Along with the picture, he texted, “Not coming home tonight, sorry.”

He later pressed the send button, before tossing the crushed phone into the trash.

The plan was to kill you off in your house. But you made it easy for him instead. He was amused, really.

But his amusement was short-lived. He was disgusted at the sight of your wedding ring, which stared back at him menacingly. He kicked the ring into the trash as well. He wasn’t an expert in the art of interior designing, but he hated the ring being near his bar. It was ugly, hardly matched the aesthetics of his business.

But your finger wouldn’t be too lonely without the ring. Not when he still had the same wedding band from 13 years ago in his pocket right now. What was left for him was to wear it around your finger in the real world, then he could truly move on from his past. Just as you asked him to.

And just like that, his mission was done.

#gallagher x reader #gallagher x gn reader #gallagher hsr #honkai: star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #gn reader #halovian reader

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kiryoutann · 29 days ago

Text

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!

TW: 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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