EVERYTHING FADES TO BLUE, EVEN THE IDEA OF A SAINT
⊹★⋆ WHERE’S THE MASTERLIST ?! ₊˚⊹ haikyuu!! // jujutsu kaisen // love & deepspace // final fantasy vii
⊹★⋆ WHAT’S NEW ?! ₊˚⊹ sincerely yours S02:E14 (gojou satoru) 18+ // the colonel’s saint 18+ (l&ds caleb) // the loved & the lost 18+ (l&ds sylus) // titanic 18+ (l&ds rafayel) // the terminator’s curse 18+ (l&ds caleb) // reverence 18+ (l&ds sylus)
⊹★⋆ WHAT’S POPULAR ?! ₊˚⊹ sincerely not (gojou satoru) 18+ // wastelands (suna rintarou) 18+ // the sin and the sinner (l&ds sylus) 18+ // blank canvas (ryomen sukuna) 18+
Hey Saint @saintobio 💌! How are youuu. Hope you’re doing well and staying healthy. ❤️
Honestly my sy brainrot is back with a vengeance and I can’t stop thinking about Chapter 15! I’ve been spiraling into full detective mode spinning some theories, and Oh God, I really hope I don’t sound completely delusional or like I’m doing all this overanalyzing for nothing! 😭😂 Here are my predictions/wishes for the final chapter (and please excuse my English if there are any mistakes, I used a translator for some parts! 🫶🏻)
1. I have a strong feeling Gojo and Y/N will leave Japan for good. Now that they’ve decided to turn over a new leaf, staying in Japan after everything that went down feels impossible. There would be too many ghosts, memories they're trying so hard to heal from, and constant scrutiny. I can totally see them moving to NY or some quiet, peaceful country in europe to build their new life in absolute comfort and peace
2. Look, I know we have to keep it realistic considering all what happened and it's not like I'm waiting for a picture-perfect ending after everything they’ve been through, but please lemme be delulu😭🙏🏻, I am begging for a re-wedding🥹! Like a small, cozy, intimate ceremony with only Shoko, Suguru, Yuta, and few other ppl. (No but seriously, imagine Gojo seeing Y/N with a tiny baby bump in her dress, absolutely sobbing like an idiot, and Sachi being the one to hand them the rings?! My Godd, my heart can't take it ☹️☹️).
3. I really hope that with therapy Y/N will be able to find her light again and lives happily with her little family. I’m manifesting a baby girl who looks just like her! I’m so excited to see how attentive Gojo will be throughout the remaining journey, how he’ll stay by her side during labor, and his chaotic/emotional reaction to seeing the baby for the first time dhshshshsjjs. (it'll make up for everything he never got to experience or live through with Sachiro🥹)
4. Akemi, you might have been a b!tch throughout the story, but I lowkey feel bad for you. I genuinely hope she recovers from her cancer and gets to live a happy life with Nanami (:
5. I hope Y/N’s relationship with her family doesn't completely end. At the very least, I’d love for her to maintain some kind of bond with Gen
Anyway, sorry for rambling so much! I just trust your writing completely. I know you’ll give us an ending that satisfies all of us as readers, and finally give Gojo and Y/N the peace and happiness they’ve deserved for so, so long. 🫶🏻✨
love hearing the theories/predictions <3 i’ve heard many different takes on the ending too, so i think i may not be able to satisfy everyone 🙂↕️ but i do wish the very best for every character in this series, no matter what and whichever way. it’s been fun to write them all :’) and thanks for being here w me since the beginning!
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.
“And why,” the therapist asked gently, “do you keep finding your way back to him?”
You stared at the fern in the corner, at the tired leaves curling inward like fists. You thought of all the doors you had closed, only to stand before them again with your knuckles raised.
Because love like that doesn’t end cleanly—it lingers. In the quiet. In the almosts.
“Because when it’s good,” you said, softly, “it’s really good.”
Her curious eyes glossed over your features. “And when it’s bad?”
Only faintly did you smile. “I remember how good it can be.”
i’ve been meaning to return to writing on tumblr this week, had my schedule prepared so i know which days to write and which day to post and engage again — but seeing what’s happening to my blog right now, i thought otherwise.
to report my blog’s navigation/masterlist (something i had for years and contains the links to all my works) and get it flagged is literally so vile, i can only think of one reason why some twisted individual would even do this.
i haven’t posted in months yes. you want the sy final chapter? valid. i badly want to finish it, too.
but i am also a human outside of this freaking blog. a person who has to go through different life experiences that may hinder me from even opening a blog, let alone write, especially when i haven’t done it in months.
i get constant pressure to finish the series, which i’d have gladly done, if not for the health issues i’ve had to deal with (and will deal with for the rest of my life). i didn’t choose to be ill, but i chose to take care of my health, to protect my peace, and to focus on living my life outside of my laptop screen.
this is why writers would rather deactivate and disappear completely, because we barely get treated like humans by the same community that we write for.
not that this is anything new, but also, it is absolutely tiring.
thank you for the many others who remain supportive and respectful. you are the reason i even want to continue writing and engaging through this blog. you inspire me to keep in touch with my creative side, and always remind me that i have people who genuinely love what i write.
for the rest, please take time to reflect and realize that kindness doesn’t cost a thing. understand that, just like you, writers also have a life outside of this platform, and they may be fighting to live theirs.
Blind Item Scoop: Top CEO’s ex-wife possibly pregnant again… with HIS child?!
~
According to insiders, a certain CEO known for his playboy image and messy love life may soon become a father again.
A woman matching the description of his ex-wife was reportedly seen leaving a private obstetrics clinic in Shibuya earlier this week. Witnesses claim the two arrived separately but left together in the same car.
The former couple, once considered the “it pair” of Japan’s corporate elite, divorced last year following rumors of his infidelity. His recent involvement with her close friend also reignited rumors about their messy affair. Despite that, the two have reportedly been spotted together multiple times over the past few months, particularly her late-night visits at his penthouse.
Her family, a long-standing household in the finance industry, allegedly did not want to do anything with the ex-husband and cut ties to their heiress after she returned to him.
Neither party has confirmed the pregnancy, but sources close to the CEO’s company claim “there’s been a lot of secrecy lately” and that “his schedule is being cleared for personal reasons.”
Could love really be making a comeback for this scandal-ridden couple, or is it just another PR storm waiting to explode?
~
[COMMENTS]
1. [+987, -42]
We all know this is G*** S***** and his ex-wife 💀 who else fits that description??
2. [+883, -56]
Can’t believe she went back to him… girl, after he slept with your best friend?? i’d rather eat glass 😭
3. [+672, -89]
i think it’s love tbh. like toxic, soul-destroying love, but still love.
4. [+534, -120]
WAIT. she’s back with him??? after everything he did?? girl, the self-respect is on sabbatical.
5. [+401, -23]
He’s lucky she’s softhearted. Any other woman would’ve buried him alive by now.
6. [+366, -9]
Not her family disowning her over this… all this for a man with white hair and trauma
7. [+355, -112]
Lmao if it’s true, that baby’s already born into drama. hope it inherits her sanity, not his ego.
8. [+301, -8]
i can’t even be mad. their chemistry was crazy. every time they were seen together, you could feel the tension.
9. [+280, -77]
his PR team probably passed out reading this.
10. [+214, -5]
if this is who i think it is, that baby’s about to be prettier than 90% of us combined 😭
11. [+190, -15]
funny how people hate her for going back when none of us know what it’s like loving someone like that. it’s toxic but real. we don’t know these people to be judging them.
12. [+166, -33]
y’all forget she’s always been soft for him. he snaps his fingers, and she folds.
13. [+152, -4]
Their life is literally a K-drama at this point.
14. [+99, -2]
not trying to start anything but… i work at the hospital where their kid got admitted last month. they weren’t acting like exes at all. he was there the whole time and you could tell they still cared about each other. like, a lot. everyone on the ward was talking about it for days. we all thought they were back together already lol.
15. [+88, -6]
hope she’s okay tho. internet’s about to eat her alive once this becomes official.
when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.
genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+
tags/warnings. explicit smut, violence, jealousy, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of cheating
notes. 7.6k wc. don't have much to say for now :'D i'll pour it all out on the last chapter. thank you for waiting on this one!
series masterlist -> episode fifteen (finale)
There were days, you realized, that were more forgiving than the others. At least you could say that in your world. You were so used to enduring the worst that life could throw at you—drained by endless tears, heartbreak, and disappointment. Yet, every so often, there came days when life granted you a brief reprieve from the pain. Perhaps it was to prepare you for another storm. Or perhaps it was a sign that your heart might finally find peace.
You hoped it was the latter. Because today seemed to be a better day, as the morning light broke across the whitewashed walls of the hospital as if to signal a new beginning. The rain had finally stopped, taking with it the gloom it had cast over the city for the past week.
After days of anxiety and sterile air thick with disinfectant, the world finally seemed to exhale with you. The doctor said Sachiro was well enough to be discharged. The IV lines were gone, the heart monitor silenced, and the medical tubes pulled out, leaving only small tapes and faint bruises on your son’s soft skin. He looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that made your chest ache, though his smile was bright and unburdened like nothing had happened at all. What a strong boy, you thought in tearful silence. Feeling bad for your son, but also proud of his resilience as a mere 3-year old boy.
“Doctor, I can’t thank you enough,” you said in utmost gratitude to the person who saved your son’s life, “From fixing my heart, and now, Sachiro’s…”
“There’s no need to thank me, Y/N. This is my job,” he replied, smiling, “Besides, your father and I go way back. I know he’d have given me a hard time if I didn't handle yours and Sachi’s cases successfully.”
Your dad joined in with a chuckle. “I’m glad you know.”
While you and your father continued to speak to the doctor about medications, aftercare, follow-up tests, Sachiro sat cross-legged on the bed beside Satoru, eyes wide with child-like determination while in a conversation with his daddy. You caught the gazes they exchanged and didn’t miss the chance to eavesdrop, listening in on them while speaking with the doctor.
“Dada,” he said, with that little boy stubbornness he inherited from his father. “Let’s go home to your house.”
The words made you pause. Even your father did, too. Your dad’s brows even furrowed immediately as concern knitted across his lined face. “Sachiro,” he said gently, speaking as if Satoru wasn’t in the same room. “Grandpa's house is better for you. It’s quieter. You should rest.”
But Sachiro only shook his head, his little fists balled on his lap. “But Sachi want Dada’s house! I like it there.”
Satoru didn’t look at you when his son said it. As though he knew his son’s request was a landmine waiting to be stepped on, which was also why he didn’t interfere. Not one word from Satoru convincing anyone of anything. He simply stayed silent, allowing the decision to be yours and yours alone, even if he was the paternal figure to your broken family. Still, you didn’t miss the sadness that shone on your ex-husband’s eyes. Sachiro choosing to stay with his father seemed to have touched his heart in ways a normally disregarded parent would.
“I’ll come with Sachi.” You stood there, a folder of discharge papers pressed against your chest, suffocating from the weight of your father’s gaze on you before he even spoke.
“Y/N,” your father began, carefully, like he was afraid the wrong tone might make you snap. “It’s not… proper. You staying in another man’s house like that? You’re unmarried.”
His words bit into you sharper than they should have.
Unmarried.
As if the ring once on your finger, the vows you had spoken before God and family, the home you once shared with Satoru Gojou had never existed at all. As if the boy sitting there—your son, with his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s gentle mien—had been born without history, without consequence, without love that once ran so deep it drowned you both.
Your father’s voice then softened, cautious but only because he must have realized his poor choice of words. “People will talk, Y/N. They always do. I don’t want you to go through this again and have Ian clear up your name every time.”
And maybe he was right. Maybe the whole country would, yet again, feast on this rumor like wolves on a carcass—how the divorcee ran back into her ex-husband’s house the moment she had her chance again. How she stayed there with him, nights under the same roof, like his shameless paramour.
But they wouldn’t see the truth, would they?
They wouldn’t see the nights Satoru never left the hospital, slumped over Sachiro’s bed in the same wrinkled clothes, red-rimmed eyes refusing to close even when exhaustion carved shadows into his face. They wouldn’t see the way his hands shook when Sachiro cried in pain, the way his voice cracked when he told him it would be okay.
They wouldn’t see that this wasn’t about romance, or reputation, or whatever fantasy the world wanted to paint over it.
This was about a boy who wanted both his parents in one place because the machines that beeped by his bedside had reminded him—too early, too cruelly—that life could take them away.
Your father sighed beside you. “It isn’t right,” he murmured again, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “You're smart, Y/N. Don't make foolish decisions.”
“Dad, I…” Satoru suddenly spoke up, his voice laced with nervousness, so much so that he didn’t realize he slipped and called your father ‘dad’. “I’ll take good care of them. I’ll be by Sachi’s side until he recovers and I’ll help Y/N with everything she needs. I promise they’ll be—”
“Y/N, we should discuss this outside.” Your father callously ignored Satoru like he wasn’t there. And you watched how he was visibly hurt by the way he was treated by your dad. He didn’t deserve it, no matter how much pain you had suffered because of him, he was still human.
But Satoru wasn’t just any man.
He was your ex-husband.
Your son’s father.
The man who had once memorized every inch of your body like scripture and now hovered silently in the background, tucking Sachiro’s jacket into his overnight bag with hands too careful for someone so outwardly indifferent. He didn’t even try to join the discussion anymore. He gave up with his one attempt and respectfully just let you decide, like your word alone could shift the earth beneath his feet.
And maybe it could.
Because you saw the truth in the little things: how he was genuine about taking care of you and Sachiro, how he was hopeful to be given a chance at letting you stay in his home. He must have seen it as the perfect opportunity to make up with you, especially now that you still had many things to clear up and problems to resolve.
You exhaled slowly. “It’s just for a few days,” you said to your dad, your voice quieter than you expected as you stood by the door. “Until Sachi’s better. My decision is final.”
Your father looked at you like he wanted to argue, but the words never came. Because there was nothing improper about a boy wanting both his parents near. And there was nothing sinful about a mother wanting the same.
––
The days that followed blurred into something almost dreamlike.
Because Satoru Gojou, for all the chaos he carried in his bones, was steady now.
He didn’t outwardly show his joy per se, but the bliss he felt inside glistened like stars in his eyes. He seemed happy, very much so, now that his family was living together with him as if everything had finally settled into perfect harmony.
Satoru rose before you every morning, padding around his penthouse in quiet socks as he prepared Sachiro’s breakfast and made sure you had something warm to eat, too. You could tell he was very specific about what he cooked, choosing healthy ingredients catered to a recovering child and a pregnant lady. He even refilled the humidifier in your room, worried that the air was too dry and could trigger your allergies. He moved through the house with careful treading as this—the son curled up on the couch watching cartoons, you walking slowly through the hallway with one hand instinctively resting on your belly—was something he might wake from if he breathed too loudly.
And he never once touched you without permission. Not once, which was unusual of the Satoru Gojou you knew.
Every time his hand brushed yours when he offered you tea, every time he tugged the blanket higher over your shoulders while you napped on the couch, every time he looked at you like you were something worshipful—he waited. He waited and let you feel his devotion without demanding anything in return.
Maybe that was what softened you.
Because you had told him you needed time. That he couldn’t just slide back into your life like nothing had happened, like there weren’t years of pain and mistakes between you.
But he made time feel weightless.
He made it so easy to forget the ache in your chest when he kissed Sachiro’s hair before bed, when he wordlessly washed the dishes after dinner, when he crouched down to tie your shoes one morning because you had bent down too quickly and he scolded you for it under his breath.
Was he only this sweet because you were carrying another piece of him inside you? You sighed, wondering why you still doubted his love even after the confession you both made that night by the lake. But you just couldn’t help but think deeply sometimes, and maybe stare at the view of the city while thinking of thoughts that should never consume you. Thoughts of whether he would have been this sweet and devoted if it was Akemi carrying his child. Was it cruelty that made you imagine Akemi pregnant with his child just to feed your jealousy, even after she told you she was dying? Or was it spite that kept you from feeling even a flicker of pity when she said Satoru left her like she was nothing? Perhaps you even took pleasure in knowing that after all her desperate wishing to have a baby with him, you were the one he had gotten pregnant, without even trying, for the second time around.
You were never an angel to begin with, especially not after everyone around you had been brutal and malicious. She didn't deserve to suffer that much, obviously. But life was simply never fair, and she wasn’t exempt from it.
The funny thing was, Satoru wasn’t even aware of the spiteful thoughts that plagued you during those silent afternoons. He had no idea how you would manage to work yourself into a fury over imagined scenes of him and Akemi in this very penthouse—repulsed by the visions your own mind conjured. Maybe you were being petty. Maybe it was just the hormones. But every time Satoru walked by, oblivious and unbothered, you were simmering hotter than before.
But maybe he sensed it in the way you protectively held your stomach sometimes when you thought no one was looking. Perhaps he noticed how your replies had shrunk to single words, or how you would send him an accusatory glare when he was merely trying to start a conversation. Maybe he felt it, too, in the way you looked at him—as if this man, this flawed, beautiful man, was somehow your greatest enemy.
Damn it. Perhaps it was time to admit it—was it truly jealousy burning through you, or was it the ache of being untouched by the man who supposedly was in love with you?
The room was quiet, and you sat at the edge of the bed in your nightgown, watching Satoru’s long frame as he got out of the shower, only a towel covering his lower half. His head tilted down like he didn’t dare meet your eyes too long. He looked almost anxious, though he would never admit it.
And he had been so careful with you. Too careful that it bothered you.
“Is Sachi asleep?” He cleared his throat once and tried to strike a conversation. But you didn’t answer. You ignored his pitiful attempt at talking to you, busying yourself by putting lotion on your legs. It felt humorous to have the upperhand now, with him clearly on edge, and you acting like you didn’t owe him any interaction. “...Y/N, did I do something wrong?”
You didn’t return his gaze. Instead, you closed the lid of the lotion and placed it carefully atop the nightstand. “No.”
Next thing you knew, the man was already standing in front of you, his damp white hair dripping down his toned body as he crouched down to meet your eyes. “You’ve been angry with me for three days now. Please tell me what I’m not doing right, I’ll fix it.”
“Leave me alone,” you muttered, still avoiding his gaze while opening the drawer, only to see an unopened box of condoms. They weren’t meant for you, clearly. He had probably saved it for when Akemi used to visit. And he knew that was exactly what you were thinking the moment he saw the box, too.
“That’s not…” He tried to explain, but what was the point? You knew they were sexually involved before her illness had worsened. Satoru could only sigh under his breath, the sound closer to defeat than frustration, then placed his hands on your knees with bright blue eyes that begged for your understanding. “I’ll throw it away.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You clearly knew what a condom is,” you shot back, your tone sharp enough to cut. “Should’ve used it on me that night at the cabin.”
For a moment, he was caught off guard by your remark, but then he shook his head and let out a soft chuckle like something had just clicked in his mind, something that made all this absurdly amusing.
“What?” you asked, irritation sharpening your tone.
Satoru reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face before lightly pinching your cheek. “Nothing,” he murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You acted like this when you were pregnant with Sachi, too.”
“What are you talking about?” You slapped his hand away, scowling.
He only laughed quietly, moving closer until his warmth pressed against your side. One arm slipped around your waist, the other covering your hand. “You were always irritated with me back then,” he said, voice gentle, teasing. “And jealous. A lot.” He nuzzled your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “Are we having a boy again?”
You hated it. The way your chest tightened, that stupid rush in your heartbeat. It only ever happened because of Satoru. You couldn’t even remember the last time your heart fluttered wildly like this, but somehow the memory was still there, vivid enough to shatter every wall you had put up.
“Why do you keep your distance?” you finally asked, your eyes meeting his ocean blues. “Why ask me to sleep in the same room as you when it would be more proper to sleep apart?”
He wasn’t oblivious—he had to know what you were implying, how your words really pointed to his reluctance, his lack of intimacy, and the insecurity you were feeling because of it.
“We just got out of the hospital,” he explained, almost cautious. “And you’re pregnant. I wanted to look after you but still respect your space. I thought… maybe you needed time.”
But you had laughed, incredulous, pulse fluttering. “Time?”
And that was all it took. Because then his arms dropped to his sides. His shoulders straightened. His blue eyes darkened, and you knew—you knew—that thin rope of restraint was about to snap.
“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice was strained, like a puppy being deprived of treats. “Every night I lie next to you, and all I can think about is you. Touching you. Tasting you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering by his confession. “But you—”
“And how you wearing this thin nightgown,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine, “does unspeakable things to me.”
Literally so. Because you didn’t need to look down to see the bulge growing under his towel. You didn’t need to search his face to find the lust brewing behind his eyes. And somehow, his reaction excited you. His visible restraint woke all the desire you had been craving to satiate.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Satoru’s voice dropped low as he caught your chin between his fingers. “There’s a reason you end up pregnant every time I touch you.” His eyes lingered on your mouth, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Let me remind you why.”
It was him who crossed the line first. Him who kissed you, loud and passionate, pulling you tighter by the waist as if he might burn alive if he didn’t. He groaned into your mouth with a raw, guttural sound that went straight through you, hands gripping your hips like he was finally done pretending he didn’t want this. When he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and made you straddle him, his mouth never left yours. Not once. His kiss was everywhere: down your throat, across your collarbone, all over your chest, tracing fire over your skin.
And when his fingers tugged the strap of your nightgown, you realized just how long he had been holding himself back.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your neck.
You grabbed a fistful of his white hair. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all he needed.
He had ripped your nightgown easily, though careless, and elicited a shriek from you. That was the last thing you thought he would do, but Satoru was getting rougher by the second, clearly because of your provocation. He was acting like an animal released from being in a cage for too long. He was hungry. Very hungry. And putting his mouth on your bosom was his first favorite treat.
You leaned against him as he circled his tongue along your nipple—teasing, suckling, and a little bit of biting. “H-Hey!”
“Sorry.” He displayed a smug smile before proceeding to suck your other tit. “Got carried away.”
While his mouth was on your breast, his hand was kneading the other. He massaged the slope with both a gentle yet rabid touch, flicking the nipple, and then back to squeezing your tit as if he was touching it for the first time. It was at that point where you couldn’t suppress your moans anymore. You shamelessly melted into his touch, driven half-mad by the days of unspoken want that had finally come undone.
And in your own sensual frenzy, your hand reached down to just where his bulge was. It was hard, begging to be released, and twitching underneath the towel. He moaned from your slightest touch. Then, got too excited when you started rubbing him, he almost couldn’t breathe.
“Y/N…” He pulled away, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re driving me insane.”
“Did I tell you to stop?” you asked, almost sternly, which only excited him even more.
His smirk was that of a man who had won the jackpot. How arrogant! And so, he continued kissing your breasts, one after the other, and especially enjoyed when his face was between them. He didn’t have time to do all this back at the cabin, since that moment was unexpected and it was your first time reuniting in bed after many years. But you remembered Satoru loving your pair, giving them equal attention and leaving every inch of skin with marks that belonged to him.
Did he love doing this to Akemi, too? Did he kiss her body like this? Left marks all over her skin like this?
Out of sheer frustration, you pushed Satoru back. His eyes went wide, startled, as if to ask what was wrong, but your glare silenced him. You stepped between his legs and yanked at the towel around his hips. There, his hard member stood, pulsating and dripping at the tip. Your finger traced the veins on his throbbing cock, making it angrier than it already was.
“Y/N, please…” His face begged you to do more.
And it sure was entertaining to see him like this after a long time. Back when you two were married, you did it everyday like animals in heat. You were so smitten, so passionate, so intoxicated with your toxicity that every push-pull ended in the most satisfying, most mind-blowing sex.
You were on your knees as he looked at you, his entire length being stroked by your hand, before you placed your tongue flat on his tip. Satoru cursed under his breath and threw his head back, but you continued to roll your tongue along the head—the pink and swollen head—then finally started wrapping your lips around his girth.
Even with Toji, you never enjoyed giving head the way you did with Satoru. Perhaps it was the connection, or perhaps, it was simply because you prefer doing it to someone you really loved.
“Fuck,” your ex-husband growled, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you sucked every inch of him. “That feels so fucking good.”
You even kissed the sides, the ridges, then put him back completely in your mouth. This time around, you forced it all the way down your throat, resisting the gag reflex but still ended up choking on his cock. Goddamn were you horny. You knew this was the pregnancy hormones, but you wanted more and you couldn’t be stopped.
“Y/N.” He sat up as you jerked his member, his entire length coated by your saliva, while he started pulling you up. You stood before him as he was face level with your tummy, and his hands began tracing your legs, your hips, until he was able to playfully squeeze your bum. Satoru looked up at you, then. With eyes that screamed of bliss, his chin resting on your belly where your baby would be in. His breath ragged as he looked at you. All of you. His hands traced your curves, lingering over your belly as though it was sacred, before he kissed lower, lower, worshipping you with his mouth until you were trembling, arching, gasping his name like a prayer. “Can I…?”
Nodding, you could feel him give your buttocks a final squeeze before he started lifting your leg over his shoulder. The other stayed on the floor, which gave him the best access to see your pussy. And of course, he didn’t waste any second before he dove in.
“Satoru—”
His lips were on your clit in a snap, tongue lapping between your folds—slurpling, suckling, and tasting your slick inside. The deeper he was, the weaker your legs felt. But his strong arms held you in place, fingers digging into your thighs as though he could hold you here forever. Although one hand switched places with his mouth every now and then—one moment his hand would palm your pussy, the next his mouth would be kissing your entrance, his tongue swirling in it and around it.
“God, you taste so good,” he groaned, two fingers now stretching your core and entering you in and out, “Been dreaming about this… about you… every damn night.”
“Mhmm—”
He sure took his sweet time with the foreplay that by the time he made you lay in bed, you were already catching your breath. Your legs were already shaking, and your head was already dizzy. But it was not enough, no. Not for the both of you. You wanted him inside just as he wanted to be inside you.
So by the time he finally had you in a perfect, comfortable position, he spread your legs apart and placed his tip at your entrance. His lengthy cock teased, circled, and then rubbed against your clit. Again and again. Purposefully so, because he chuckled at the way you glared at him impatiently.
“Hnng—! Just put it inside.”
He did it slowly when he slid into you, careful but deep. You swore you felt the world tilt off its axis. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven, like he was trying to keep it together even now. You could see his girth coated with slick, with every entrance to your pussy making you clench around him tighter.
“Mm—fuck!”
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, hips snapping harder now, and faster, too. Each thrust shaking through you until your words broke into gasps. “All I want… all I ever want… is you.”
You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled sharp and hot in your belly. He kissed you through it, swallowed your cries, held you so close it felt like he might break you apart just to keep you. His bed was steady enough not to make any noises through the walls, but it was your moans that echoed loud enough across the room. The squelching, the whimpering, the snapping of skin-to-skin.
“Satoru, I’m gonna…”
He held your hips in place, slamming himself balls deep into you, and watching your breasts bouncing all over the place as he raced to chase his climax. “Me, too, baby.”
Both of you were tangled in sweat, and the sound of your own ragged breathing filled the room until he released thick ropes of cum inside you. You couldn’t tell how much, but he stayed inside you for a minute or two, giving your lips a sweet peck before he finally pulled out. Almost immediately, his cum came spilling out of you. They dripped out of your hole as if they were too full and no longer had space inside.
It was filthy and tender all at once—love and obsession and devotion and ruin. And you remembered his words earlier, how this was why he could get you pregnant so easily. Funnily enough, it wasn’t just about how much of his semen was inside you. Not literally. It was the love and passion he was pouring into your lovemaking. It was how your body would always recognize his, as though you two were perfectly made for each other.
When it was over, he scooped you into his arms, wrapped tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. He kissed your temple softly, reverently this time.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how much I love you, Y/N. Through anything and everything. You’re my only one.”
––
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the living room curtains, warm and golden, catching in the strands of Satoru’s hair as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Sachiro perched in his lap. You sat beside them on the couch, one hand idly resting on your belly, watching the way Satoru absentmindedly fixed the cowlick in Sachi’s hair while the boy leaned against him, still groggy from his sleep.
It felt domestic in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Too peaceful. Too comfortable. Like the war between your hearts had quieted for this one stolen moment.
“Good morning, Mama!” your little boy greeted.
“Morning, my baby.” You added it with a kiss to his forehead. “Did daddy make you breakfast?”
Sachiro hugged his teddy bear as his eyes fixed on the television screen. “Yes, Mama. Sachi ate pancakes!”
Satoru gave you a quiet look then. It wasn’t anything naughty. In fact, he had a very thoughtful gaze, seemingly worried that he might have gotten too rough with you last night. “I’ve prepared you a plate there and some apple juice.”
“Thank you,” was your simple reply. No morning kisses, no overly sweet gestures. Your son still wasn’t aware that his parents were expecting again, so you were treading the situation carefully. It also helped that Satoru could read through your movements and respected you enough to handle it at your own pace.
“Hey, Sachi,” you began softly.
He turned to you, wide-eyed, curious. “Yeah, Mama?”
You swallowed, glancing once at Satoru before you said it. “You’re… going to be a big brother soon.”
For a moment, there was silence.
And then—
“Huh?!” Sachiro twisted in Satoru’s lap so fast the man almost lost his balance. “A baby? Like… a real baby? In your tummy? Right now?!”
You nodded, lips twitching and unsure what to make of your son’s reaction. “Yes, right now. Mama is pregnant.”
His jaw dropped like you had told him the moon was moving into the guest room. “But… but… how did it happen?” He blinked rapidly, the picture of childlike innocence, before his little nose wrinkled. “Wait… don’t tell me. I think I know.”
“Oh, do you now?” Satoru acted surprised, poking his son’s cheek. You smothered a laugh into your palm. He didn’t even bother hiding his.
“Yeah,” your son said confidently, looking between the two of you with all the gravity of a seasoned detective. “It’s because you and Mama love each other again, right? That’s how it works! Auntie Gen told Sachi babies are born when the mama and dada love each other.”
You froze for half a second. Love? You quickly forced a smile. “Something like that.”
But then Sachiro tilted his head again, eyes darting between you and Satoru like he was connecting even bigger dots. “Is Dada going to be Mama’s husband?”
The words fell into the room like pebbles into still water. Quickly enough, your body went still and Satoru’s hand froze midair on his son’s back. The boy looked between you both expectantly, as if marriage was the obvious next step, as if it was the only logical conclusion to his parents having another baby on the way.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, then forced a small, gentle smile. Sometimes, Sachiro was a little too smart for his age. “That… is for another conversation, my sweetie.”
Satoru stared at you for a good minute, careful not to cross any boundaries and give answers unaligned to your own. But you could tell how much he had wanted to say yes to Sachiro, to say that his dream of bringing his family back together was no longer far-fetched.
Meanwhile, Sachiro squinted like he wanted to protest, but then his face lit up, wide and beaming, his entire little body vibrating with joy as he threw his arms around Satoru’s neck. “I’m gonna be a big brother!” he announced, muffled against Satoru’s shoulder. “Dada, we need to buy a big house like grandpa’s now!”
Satoru chuckled then. “Of course, buddy.”
And for that moment, with Sachiro grinning like Christmas had come early, you let yourself believe in this fragile, imperfect little happiness. But still, there were many things to worry about. When your son mentioned his grandfather, you were immediately reminded of the things you still need to clear out before you can fully live in this dream-like fantasy.
It didn’t surprise you how soon Satoru joined you in the kitchen the moment his son had become too engrossed in the cartoon he was watching. He knew there were things he had to clarify, so approaching you for a private talk was the next thing he did.
“You told him,” mentioned Satoru, reaching for your hand. “Does this mean you’ll keep our baby?”
You solemnly looked into his eyes. “It’s ours.”
His warm lips pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “Thank you for letting me be a father to them, Y/N. I promise I’ll live my whole life serving you and our kids.”
Sighing, you squeezed his hand. “But Satoru, we still have to tell them.”
He looked up, confused. “Tell who what?”
You hesitated, lips pressing together before you exhaled slowly. “I mean, my family. My dad, Gen—them.” The words felt strange on your tongue, even though they were your family, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “They’re not going to take it well, Satoru,” you warned softly. “After everything, they’ll think I’m out of my mind.”
He didn’t flinch. Not at all. He simply wrapped his arms around you, his gaze softening in a way it only did for you. “You’re right,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “They need to hear it from us first before anyone else. I know they won’t accept it right away, but I’ll fight for you. I promise I’ll do everything until I earn their trust again. Maybe not fully, but even a scrap is enough. Even just trusting that I won’t ever hurt you again. Because I know I won’t.”
“Satoru…”
“I mean it, Y/N.” He pressed his forehead against yours like a groom reciting a vow. “I lost this once. I’m not losing my family again. Not you. Not our kids.”
You stared at him, this man who had once been reckless with your heart, now speaking like he would burn down the world just to keep it safe.
And for the first time in years, the idea of a future with him didn’t feel like a betrayal of yourself.
It felt like coming home.
––
The Creston mansion never felt so cold in your years of living there. It was the opposite of the Gojou mansion, where the air of toxicity lingered in every corner of their estate. But to your own family’s place, you couldn’t remember the last time those beige walls felt so lifeless. Its marble pillars, the polished brass of its doors, the cold gleam of chandeliers—everything felt hostile tonight. It had always been your father’s pride, his empire, the seat of his authority. But as you stepped inside with Satoru’s hand brushing lightly against your waist, you felt like a criminal walking into the gallows.
Am I simply overthinking? You took a deep breath, but even the air felt shallow.
Gen was there first, rising from the velvet chair with a smile that faded the moment she saw Satoru trailing behind you. Your father sat across the room, his reading glasses low on his nose, glancing briefly at the two of you before setting aside the papers in his hand.
“Gen, Dad,” you spoke first, cutting the tension before it could rise. “How are you?”
“We’re fine. How’s Sachi doing?” Gen asked as soon you both sat on the couch. “Is he recovering well? I thought you were going to bring him today when you texted me you’d stop by.”
You offered a small smile. “He’s pretty great, actually. He still needs more rest, but Satoru takes good care of him.”
Your dad nodded. “Are you going to bring him next time?”
“Of course, Dad.”
There was small talk at first. Forced politeness. Gen asking about Sachiro’s daily maintenance. Your father commenting about the food his grandson should eat. They both pretended like the air didn’t reek of tension while Satoru sat silently beside you, respectful, composed, with his hands folded in front of him.
But it was that one question. So plain, so harmless on the surface—yet heavy with implication that unsettled you.
And it came from your father. “Since Sachiro’s getting better, I suppose you’ll be coming back home in a few days, right?”
“I… I’m not sure about that one, Dad.”
Your father’s gaze hardened at your answer. “What do you mean?”
You drew in a deep breath, deep enough it could’ve filled an entire oxygen tank. The words sat heavy in your throat, but you couldn’t force them out, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much you had to. Maybe it was fear. But of what? That your family wouldn’t approve? You already knew they wouldn’t. That they’d demand you return to the mansion immediately? That wasn’t even the worst of it.
So you said nothing. You just sat there, lost in the storm of your own thoughts, not until Satoru’s fingers slipped over yours, squeezing your hand gently. It was his silent way of reminding you that you weren’t alone. That whatever came next, he was staying. Because his love was worth fighting for.
Your father, displeased to see your hand-holding, broke the silence. “Y/N, what is this—”
“Dad, I’m pregnant.”
The house fell into stillness.
Even the birds outside stopped chirping.
“WHAT?!”
Gen blinked rapidly. Your father froze mid-motion, one hand still on a teacup that crashed onto the floor later. It was like the air thickened in a single breath, everyone caught in it, everyone waiting for the obvious name to be spoken.
“Toji’s, right?” your father finally asked, voice flat, cold. It was intentional. The question was disgustingly intentional that you couldn’t believe it came from your father at all.
“No!” you quickly denied, “You know we’ve broken up months ago, Dad. It’s not his!”
You could see Gen shaking her head, a hand pressed to her face as if holding herself back from exploding. But her sharp, furious eyes found Satoru in an instant. She seemed to have seen this coming, but refused to believe that her suspicions had actually come into fruition. “Is it the night of Shoko and Suguru’s wedding?” she demanded, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “The one that turned into a cheating scandal—again—involving my sister?”
Your ex-husband swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. “It is.”
Your father’s eyes darkened.
And then he moved.
It happened so fast, the way he lunged at Satoru before anyone could speak, his fist slamming across your ex-husband’s jaw with a sickening crack. “You goddamn son of a bitch—!”
“Dad, stop!” you screamed, but nothing could stop an angry father whose daughter got hurt over and over. He grabbed Satoru by the collar, spitting words like fire as his fist landed on him again and again. “Dad, please! Don’t hurt him!”
Even Gen tried to help out. “Dad, that’s enough.”
“You bastard! You despicable bastard!” he roared, his voice shaking with fury you had never seen in him before, not even when Satoru’s first cheating incident tore your world apart. “You already ruined her life once—humiliated her, made her suffer—and now you trap her again? Another child? Another lifetime of misery with you?!”
Satoru took the hits, grunting, stumbling, but not once raising a hand in defense. He let your father vent every ounce of hatred into his body until finally, he caught his breath and pushed back.
“I love her,” Satoru declared, jaw bloodied, eyes wild. “I’m s-sorry. I know it didn’t seem like it, I know I’ve hurt her far too many times for you to believe it, but I fucking love her, and I’m not going anywhere this time! I already wake up every day hating myself for the things I did to her. But this—” He reached for you even as your father shoved him back, “—this is my family. And I will fight for them, with or without your blessing.”
“Blessing?” your father seethed, “You dare speak of blessings after wrecking my daughter’s life?” He turned to you then, his face red, his eyes full of both fury and heartbreak. “If you choose him, Y/N… you choose this bastard and you are no longer my daughter. No longer a Creston. No inheritance. No name. Nothing.”
“Dad, please,” you sobbed, stepping between them, your hands shaking as you held your father back. “Please don’t do this. Please.”
But your dad wouldn’t listen. His voice cut through the room like a blade, speaking words that you never in your life thought he would utter. Words that even Gen herself, no matter how callous she was, could never speak to you.
“If you walk this path with him, Y/N, you walk it alone,” warned your father, “You will be disowned by this family. Completely.”
You felt the world shatter under your feet.
Satoru tried to reach you, his hand trembling as he whispered, “Please don't do this to Y/N—”
But the guards came before he could finish. At your father’s command, they grabbed Satoru by the arms, dragging him toward the door as he struggled, shouting your name. “Y/N! Please, Y/N!”
“Stop!” you begged and cried and pleaded to everyone in the room, but no one listened.
And the more Satoru resisted, the more they were aggressive to him. “Let me go! I need to talk to her! Y/N!”
His voice echoed through the marble halls until the heavy doors slammed shut, leaving you behind, shaking, sobbing, frozen solid to your place as your father’s ultimatum rang in your ears like a death sentence.
––
Satoru didn’t remember how he got home.
One moment he was being thrown out of the Creston mansion like a criminal, and the next thing he knew, he was in the penthouse alone, pacing like a madman, replaying the events in his head until it made him sick.
You didn’t come out of the mansion. You didn’t walk out the door. Not even when they dragged him out like he was nothing. Not when he called your name with his voice breaking in half.
You stayed. You stayed behind.
And Satoru knew what that meant.
Blood ran thicker than water, after all. And Satoru envied you for it—for the way your family stood together, for how naturally you fought for one another. His own family was nothing like that. Broken, dysfunctional, poisoned from the inside out. He couldn’t quite grasp how yours could love so fiercely, so selflessly. It didn’t sink in right away why you would choose them over him, why cutting them off wasn’t as simple for you as it had been for him and his own family.
His chest caved under the pain of it. He staggered into the living room and slammed his fist into the wall so hard the frames rattled. Again. And again. Until his knuckles split and the sharp pain screamed up his arm, but never enough. He wanted to break something, everything. Maybe himself most of all.
“Why,” his voice cracked, “why can’t I fix this?!”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was it God? Was it his subconscious? Regardless, the questions fell out like prayers no one would answer. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands, tears spilling freely now, the mask ripped off until only the wreck of a man was left behind.
He thought about you. About the way you had stood there between him and your father, crying like the world was ending. About how he had ruined everything once before, and now here he was again, cursed to repeat it like some sick punishment.
“God, I just want my family back! Please… Please, I’m s-sick of this! I’m fucking sick of it!” he choked out, his voice breaking as his fists hit the wall again, with each punch harder than the last. The plaster cracked and his knuckles throbbed, so much so that he wondered if he broke his hand, but he liked it that way. He wanted to feel it burn, wanted it to hurt because he deserved it, because maybe if it hurt enough, it would erase the never ending guilt crawling under his skin.
And he would’ve gone on like that if not for the tiny, fragile voice behind him. “Dada?”
That was the only thing that made Satoru freeze. He turned around to see Sachiro standing there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and the other holding onto his teddy bear. He looked so small, so breakable, and his innocent gaze moved from the blood dripping down Satoru’s knuckles to the tears on his face.
“Are you… okay?”
Something in Satoru snapped then, not from anger this time but from the sight of his son looking at him like that. He quickly dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms so tightly Sachiro squeaked at the suddenness of it.
“I-I don’t know, buddy,” he whispered into his son’s hair, his voice shaking so hard it hurt. “I don’t know what’s going to h-happen to us.”
“Dada, why you crying?”
“Because…” Satoru shut his eyes, inhaling sharply, “because I keep messing everything up. I-I can’t bring your mommy back. I’m sorry, Sachi. I’m so sorry I can’t give you the family you deserve. I… I failed you. I failed mommy and our baby. I’m so lost.”
Sachiro wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck like he was trying to hold him together even though he was too small to fix anything. “I’m here.”
Even his tiniest, most innocent gesture was enough to split Satoru open. Because after everything, after convincing himself, even for a fleeting moment, that he could be a perfect father to his kids, he was reminded over and over that he would never be.
He couldn’t even manage to be a decent husband, let alone a good man. A cheater. A coward. A pathetic excuse of a man who had ruined everything good that ever reached for him. He disgusted himself down to the marrow. He was a piece of shit, an asshole, a useless good-for-nothing scumbag—
The doorbell rang. Once.
Damn it!
Then, again.
God fucking dammit!
“Dada.” His son tugged at his shirt. “Someone’s at the door.”
Satoru stiffened, wiping his face with his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to face the police, not after he had just broken down in front of his son, and still drowning from the heartbreak of losing you. Couldn’t your father give him even a little bit of mercy and just let Sachiro stay the night?
Satoru felt like he was losing his mind.
The lock clicked. Footsteps crossed the threshold.
He turned toward the door with his heart pounding, Sachiro following him behind.
...
...
And there you were.
Standing with your bags, eyes red from crying, looking at him like there was never any other choice but him.
notes. drabbles and one-shots from the sn/sy-verse. all side stories are canon to the series unless stated otherwise (eg. episode 02). may contain spoilers of the series. timelines are not chronological.
ep. 01 sera x sukuna
ep. 02 christmas au with gojo and sachiro (not sy-canon)
ep. 03 what’s wrong with gojo sachiro?
ep. 04 dear parents
ep. 05 blue christmas
ep. 06 the love of satoru’s life (soon!)
ep. 07 letters to my dear wife, akemi (soon!)
ep. 08 his death is my freedom (soon!)
ep. 09 yn’s affair (soon!)
ep. 10 a bora bora summer (soon!)
ep. 11 the curious case of yuuta okkotsu (soon!)
ep. 12 megumi’s best friend… or so he thinks (soon!)
when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.
genre. heavy angst, amnesia, modern au, 18+
tags/warnings. explicit smut, violence, jealousy, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of cheating
notes. 7.6k wc. don't have much to say for now :'D i'll pour it all out on the last chapter. thank you for waiting on this one!
series masterlist -> episode fifteen (finale)
There were days, you realized, that were more forgiving than the others. At least you could say that in your world. You were so used to enduring the worst that life could throw at you—drained by endless tears, heartbreak, and disappointment. Yet, every so often, there came days when life granted you a brief reprieve from the pain. Perhaps it was to prepare you for another storm. Or perhaps it was a sign that your heart might finally find peace.
You hoped it was the latter. Because today seemed to be a better day, as the morning light broke across the whitewashed walls of the hospital as if to signal a new beginning. The rain had finally stopped, taking with it the gloom it had cast over the city for the past week.
After days of anxiety and sterile air thick with disinfectant, the world finally seemed to exhale with you. The doctor said Sachiro was well enough to be discharged. The IV lines were gone, the heart monitor silenced, and the medical tubes pulled out, leaving only small tapes and faint bruises on your son’s soft skin. He looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that made your chest ache, though his smile was bright and unburdened like nothing had happened at all. What a strong boy, you thought in tearful silence. Feeling bad for your son, but also proud of his resilience as a mere 3-year old boy.
“Doctor, I can’t thank you enough,” you said in utmost gratitude to the person who saved your son’s life, “From fixing my heart, and now, Sachiro’s…”
“There’s no need to thank me, Y/N. This is my job,” he replied, smiling, “Besides, your father and I go way back. I know he’d have given me a hard time if I didn't handle yours and Sachi’s cases successfully.”
Your dad joined in with a chuckle. “I’m glad you know.”
While you and your father continued to speak to the doctor about medications, aftercare, follow-up tests, Sachiro sat cross-legged on the bed beside Satoru, eyes wide with child-like determination while in a conversation with his daddy. You caught the gazes they exchanged and didn’t miss the chance to eavesdrop, listening in on them while speaking with the doctor.
“Dada,” he said, with that little boy stubbornness he inherited from his father. “Let’s go home to your house.”
The words made you pause. Even your father did, too. Your dad’s brows even furrowed immediately as concern knitted across his lined face. “Sachiro,” he said gently, speaking as if Satoru wasn’t in the same room. “Grandpa's house is better for you. It’s quieter. You should rest.”
But Sachiro only shook his head, his little fists balled on his lap. “But Sachi want Dada’s house! I like it there.”
Satoru didn’t look at you when his son said it. As though he knew his son’s request was a landmine waiting to be stepped on, which was also why he didn’t interfere. Not one word from Satoru convincing anyone of anything. He simply stayed silent, allowing the decision to be yours and yours alone, even if he was the paternal figure to your broken family. Still, you didn’t miss the sadness that shone on your ex-husband’s eyes. Sachiro choosing to stay with his father seemed to have touched his heart in ways a normally disregarded parent would.
“I’ll come with Sachi.” You stood there, a folder of discharge papers pressed against your chest, suffocating from the weight of your father’s gaze on you before he even spoke.
“Y/N,” your father began, carefully, like he was afraid the wrong tone might make you snap. “It’s not… proper. You staying in another man’s house like that? You’re unmarried.”
His words bit into you sharper than they should have.
Unmarried.
As if the ring once on your finger, the vows you had spoken before God and family, the home you once shared with Satoru Gojou had never existed at all. As if the boy sitting there—your son, with his father’s blue eyes and his mother’s gentle mien—had been born without history, without consequence, without love that once ran so deep it drowned you both.
Your father’s voice then softened, cautious but only because he must have realized his poor choice of words. “People will talk, Y/N. They always do. I don’t want you to go through this again and have Ian clear up your name every time.”
And maybe he was right. Maybe the whole country would, yet again, feast on this rumor like wolves on a carcass—how the divorcee ran back into her ex-husband’s house the moment she had her chance again. How she stayed there with him, nights under the same roof, like his shameless paramour.
But they wouldn’t see the truth, would they?
They wouldn’t see the nights Satoru never left the hospital, slumped over Sachiro’s bed in the same wrinkled clothes, red-rimmed eyes refusing to close even when exhaustion carved shadows into his face. They wouldn’t see the way his hands shook when Sachiro cried in pain, the way his voice cracked when he told him it would be okay.
They wouldn’t see that this wasn’t about romance, or reputation, or whatever fantasy the world wanted to paint over it.
This was about a boy who wanted both his parents in one place because the machines that beeped by his bedside had reminded him—too early, too cruelly—that life could take them away.
Your father sighed beside you. “It isn’t right,” he murmured again, his hand squeezing your shoulder. “You're smart, Y/N. Don't make foolish decisions.”
“Dad, I…” Satoru suddenly spoke up, his voice laced with nervousness, so much so that he didn’t realize he slipped and called your father ‘dad’. “I’ll take good care of them. I’ll be by Sachi’s side until he recovers and I’ll help Y/N with everything she needs. I promise they’ll be—”
“Y/N, we should discuss this outside.” Your father callously ignored Satoru like he wasn’t there. And you watched how he was visibly hurt by the way he was treated by your dad. He didn’t deserve it, no matter how much pain you had suffered because of him, he was still human.
But Satoru wasn’t just any man.
He was your ex-husband.
Your son’s father.
The man who had once memorized every inch of your body like scripture and now hovered silently in the background, tucking Sachiro’s jacket into his overnight bag with hands too careful for someone so outwardly indifferent. He didn’t even try to join the discussion anymore. He gave up with his one attempt and respectfully just let you decide, like your word alone could shift the earth beneath his feet.
And maybe it could.
Because you saw the truth in the little things: how he was genuine about taking care of you and Sachiro, how he was hopeful to be given a chance at letting you stay in his home. He must have seen it as the perfect opportunity to make up with you, especially now that you still had many things to clear up and problems to resolve.
You exhaled slowly. “It’s just for a few days,” you said to your dad, your voice quieter than you expected as you stood by the door. “Until Sachi’s better. My decision is final.”
Your father looked at you like he wanted to argue, but the words never came. Because there was nothing improper about a boy wanting both his parents near. And there was nothing sinful about a mother wanting the same.
––
The days that followed blurred into something almost dreamlike.
Because Satoru Gojou, for all the chaos he carried in his bones, was steady now.
He didn’t outwardly show his joy per se, but the bliss he felt inside glistened like stars in his eyes. He seemed happy, very much so, now that his family was living together with him as if everything had finally settled into perfect harmony.
Satoru rose before you every morning, padding around his penthouse in quiet socks as he prepared Sachiro’s breakfast and made sure you had something warm to eat, too. You could tell he was very specific about what he cooked, choosing healthy ingredients catered to a recovering child and a pregnant lady. He even refilled the humidifier in your room, worried that the air was too dry and could trigger your allergies. He moved through the house with careful treading as this—the son curled up on the couch watching cartoons, you walking slowly through the hallway with one hand instinctively resting on your belly—was something he might wake from if he breathed too loudly.
And he never once touched you without permission. Not once, which was unusual of the Satoru Gojou you knew.
Every time his hand brushed yours when he offered you tea, every time he tugged the blanket higher over your shoulders while you napped on the couch, every time he looked at you like you were something worshipful—he waited. He waited and let you feel his devotion without demanding anything in return.
Maybe that was what softened you.
Because you had told him you needed time. That he couldn’t just slide back into your life like nothing had happened, like there weren’t years of pain and mistakes between you.
But he made time feel weightless.
He made it so easy to forget the ache in your chest when he kissed Sachiro’s hair before bed, when he wordlessly washed the dishes after dinner, when he crouched down to tie your shoes one morning because you had bent down too quickly and he scolded you for it under his breath.
Was he only this sweet because you were carrying another piece of him inside you? You sighed, wondering why you still doubted his love even after the confession you both made that night by the lake. But you just couldn’t help but think deeply sometimes, and maybe stare at the view of the city while thinking of thoughts that should never consume you. Thoughts of whether he would have been this sweet and devoted if it was Akemi carrying his child. Was it cruelty that made you imagine Akemi pregnant with his child just to feed your jealousy, even after she told you she was dying? Or was it spite that kept you from feeling even a flicker of pity when she said Satoru left her like she was nothing? Perhaps you even took pleasure in knowing that after all her desperate wishing to have a baby with him, you were the one he had gotten pregnant, without even trying, for the second time around.
You were never an angel to begin with, especially not after everyone around you had been brutal and malicious. She didn't deserve to suffer that much, obviously. But life was simply never fair, and she wasn’t exempt from it.
The funny thing was, Satoru wasn’t even aware of the spiteful thoughts that plagued you during those silent afternoons. He had no idea how you would manage to work yourself into a fury over imagined scenes of him and Akemi in this very penthouse—repulsed by the visions your own mind conjured. Maybe you were being petty. Maybe it was just the hormones. But every time Satoru walked by, oblivious and unbothered, you were simmering hotter than before.
But maybe he sensed it in the way you protectively held your stomach sometimes when you thought no one was looking. Perhaps he noticed how your replies had shrunk to single words, or how you would send him an accusatory glare when he was merely trying to start a conversation. Maybe he felt it, too, in the way you looked at him—as if this man, this flawed, beautiful man, was somehow your greatest enemy.
Damn it. Perhaps it was time to admit it—was it truly jealousy burning through you, or was it the ache of being untouched by the man who supposedly was in love with you?
The room was quiet, and you sat at the edge of the bed in your nightgown, watching Satoru’s long frame as he got out of the shower, only a towel covering his lower half. His head tilted down like he didn’t dare meet your eyes too long. He looked almost anxious, though he would never admit it.
And he had been so careful with you. Too careful that it bothered you.
“Is Sachi asleep?” He cleared his throat once and tried to strike a conversation. But you didn’t answer. You ignored his pitiful attempt at talking to you, busying yourself by putting lotion on your legs. It felt humorous to have the upperhand now, with him clearly on edge, and you acting like you didn’t owe him any interaction. “...Y/N, did I do something wrong?”
You didn’t return his gaze. Instead, you closed the lid of the lotion and placed it carefully atop the nightstand. “No.”
Next thing you knew, the man was already standing in front of you, his damp white hair dripping down his toned body as he crouched down to meet your eyes. “You’ve been angry with me for three days now. Please tell me what I’m not doing right, I’ll fix it.”
“Leave me alone,” you muttered, still avoiding his gaze while opening the drawer, only to see an unopened box of condoms. They weren’t meant for you, clearly. He had probably saved it for when Akemi used to visit. And he knew that was exactly what you were thinking the moment he saw the box, too.
“That’s not…” He tried to explain, but what was the point? You knew they were sexually involved before her illness had worsened. Satoru could only sigh under his breath, the sound closer to defeat than frustration, then placed his hands on your knees with bright blue eyes that begged for your understanding. “I’ll throw it away.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You clearly knew what a condom is,” you shot back, your tone sharp enough to cut. “Should’ve used it on me that night at the cabin.”
For a moment, he was caught off guard by your remark, but then he shook his head and let out a soft chuckle like something had just clicked in his mind, something that made all this absurdly amusing.
“What?” you asked, irritation sharpening your tone.
Satoru reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face before lightly pinching your cheek. “Nothing,” he murmured, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “You acted like this when you were pregnant with Sachi, too.”
“What are you talking about?” You slapped his hand away, scowling.
He only laughed quietly, moving closer until his warmth pressed against your side. One arm slipped around your waist, the other covering your hand. “You were always irritated with me back then,” he said, voice gentle, teasing. “And jealous. A lot.” He nuzzled your cheek, his breath warm against your skin. “Are we having a boy again?”
You hated it. The way your chest tightened, that stupid rush in your heartbeat. It only ever happened because of Satoru. You couldn’t even remember the last time your heart fluttered wildly like this, but somehow the memory was still there, vivid enough to shatter every wall you had put up.
“Why do you keep your distance?” you finally asked, your eyes meeting his ocean blues. “Why ask me to sleep in the same room as you when it would be more proper to sleep apart?”
He wasn’t oblivious—he had to know what you were implying, how your words really pointed to his reluctance, his lack of intimacy, and the insecurity you were feeling because of it.
“We just got out of the hospital,” he explained, almost cautious. “And you’re pregnant. I wanted to look after you but still respect your space. I thought… maybe you needed time.”
But you had laughed, incredulous, pulse fluttering. “Time?”
And that was all it took. Because then his arms dropped to his sides. His shoulders straightened. His blue eyes darkened, and you knew—you knew—that thin rope of restraint was about to snap.
“You think it’s easy for me?” His voice was strained, like a puppy being deprived of treats. “Every night I lie next to you, and all I can think about is you. Touching you. Tasting you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering by his confession. “But you—”
“And how you wearing this thin nightgown,” he whispered in your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine, “does unspeakable things to me.”
Literally so. Because you didn’t need to look down to see the bulge growing under his towel. You didn’t need to search his face to find the lust brewing behind his eyes. And somehow, his reaction excited you. His visible restraint woke all the desire you had been craving to satiate.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” Satoru’s voice dropped low as he caught your chin between his fingers. “There’s a reason you end up pregnant every time I touch you.” His eyes lingered on your mouth, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Let me remind you why.”
It was him who crossed the line first. Him who kissed you, loud and passionate, pulling you tighter by the waist as if he might burn alive if he didn’t. He groaned into your mouth with a raw, guttural sound that went straight through you, hands gripping your hips like he was finally done pretending he didn’t want this. When he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing—and made you straddle him, his mouth never left yours. Not once. His kiss was everywhere: down your throat, across your collarbone, all over your chest, tracing fire over your skin.
And when his fingers tugged the strap of your nightgown, you realized just how long he had been holding himself back.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped against your neck.
You grabbed a fistful of his white hair. “Don’t you dare.”
That was all he needed.
He had ripped your nightgown easily, though careless, and elicited a shriek from you. That was the last thing you thought he would do, but Satoru was getting rougher by the second, clearly because of your provocation. He was acting like an animal released from being in a cage for too long. He was hungry. Very hungry. And putting his mouth on your bosom was his first favorite treat.
You leaned against him as he circled his tongue along your nipple—teasing, suckling, and a little bit of biting. “H-Hey!”
“Sorry.” He displayed a smug smile before proceeding to suck your other tit. “Got carried away.”
While his mouth was on your breast, his hand was kneading the other. He massaged the slope with both a gentle yet rabid touch, flicking the nipple, and then back to squeezing your tit as if he was touching it for the first time. It was at that point where you couldn’t suppress your moans anymore. You shamelessly melted into his touch, driven half-mad by the days of unspoken want that had finally come undone.
And in your own sensual frenzy, your hand reached down to just where his bulge was. It was hard, begging to be released, and twitching underneath the towel. He moaned from your slightest touch. Then, got too excited when you started rubbing him, he almost couldn’t breathe.
“Y/N…” He pulled away, only to bury his face into the crook of your neck. “You’re driving me insane.”
“Did I tell you to stop?” you asked, almost sternly, which only excited him even more.
His smirk was that of a man who had won the jackpot. How arrogant! And so, he continued kissing your breasts, one after the other, and especially enjoyed when his face was between them. He didn’t have time to do all this back at the cabin, since that moment was unexpected and it was your first time reuniting in bed after many years. But you remembered Satoru loving your pair, giving them equal attention and leaving every inch of skin with marks that belonged to him.
Did he love doing this to Akemi, too? Did he kiss her body like this? Left marks all over her skin like this?
Out of sheer frustration, you pushed Satoru back. His eyes went wide, startled, as if to ask what was wrong, but your glare silenced him. You stepped between his legs and yanked at the towel around his hips. There, his hard member stood, pulsating and dripping at the tip. Your finger traced the veins on his throbbing cock, making it angrier than it already was.
“Y/N, please…” His face begged you to do more.
And it sure was entertaining to see him like this after a long time. Back when you two were married, you did it everyday like animals in heat. You were so smitten, so passionate, so intoxicated with your toxicity that every push-pull ended in the most satisfying, most mind-blowing sex.
You were on your knees as he looked at you, his entire length being stroked by your hand, before you placed your tongue flat on his tip. Satoru cursed under his breath and threw his head back, but you continued to roll your tongue along the head—the pink and swollen head—then finally started wrapping your lips around his girth.
Even with Toji, you never enjoyed giving head the way you did with Satoru. Perhaps it was the connection, or perhaps, it was simply because you prefer doing it to someone you really loved.
“Fuck,” your ex-husband growled, seeing your head bobbing up and down as you sucked every inch of him. “That feels so fucking good.”
You even kissed the sides, the ridges, then put him back completely in your mouth. This time around, you forced it all the way down your throat, resisting the gag reflex but still ended up choking on his cock. Goddamn were you horny. You knew this was the pregnancy hormones, but you wanted more and you couldn’t be stopped.
“Y/N.” He sat up as you jerked his member, his entire length coated by your saliva, while he started pulling you up. You stood before him as he was face level with your tummy, and his hands began tracing your legs, your hips, until he was able to playfully squeeze your bum. Satoru looked up at you, then. With eyes that screamed of bliss, his chin resting on your belly where your baby would be in. His breath ragged as he looked at you. All of you. His hands traced your curves, lingering over your belly as though it was sacred, before he kissed lower, lower, worshipping you with his mouth until you were trembling, arching, gasping his name like a prayer. “Can I…?”
Nodding, you could feel him give your buttocks a final squeeze before he started lifting your leg over his shoulder. The other stayed on the floor, which gave him the best access to see your pussy. And of course, he didn’t waste any second before he dove in.
“Satoru—”
His lips were on your clit in a snap, tongue lapping between your folds—slurpling, suckling, and tasting your slick inside. The deeper he was, the weaker your legs felt. But his strong arms held you in place, fingers digging into your thighs as though he could hold you here forever. Although one hand switched places with his mouth every now and then—one moment his hand would palm your pussy, the next his mouth would be kissing your entrance, his tongue swirling in it and around it.
“God, you taste so good,” he groaned, two fingers now stretching your core and entering you in and out, “Been dreaming about this… about you… every damn night.”
“Mhmm—”
He sure took his sweet time with the foreplay that by the time he made you lay in bed, you were already catching your breath. Your legs were already shaking, and your head was already dizzy. But it was not enough, no. Not for the both of you. You wanted him inside just as he wanted to be inside you.
So by the time he finally had you in a perfect, comfortable position, he spread your legs apart and placed his tip at your entrance. His lengthy cock teased, circled, and then rubbed against your clit. Again and again. Purposefully so, because he chuckled at the way you glared at him impatiently.
“Hnng—! Just put it inside.”
He did it slowly when he slid into you, careful but deep. You swore you felt the world tilt off its axis. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven, like he was trying to keep it together even now. You could see his girth coated with slick, with every entrance to your pussy making you clench around him tighter.
“Mm—fuck!”
“You drive me crazy,” he muttered, hips snapping harder now, and faster, too. Each thrust shaking through you until your words broke into gasps. “All I want… all I ever want… is you.”
You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure coiled sharp and hot in your belly. He kissed you through it, swallowed your cries, held you so close it felt like he might break you apart just to keep you. His bed was steady enough not to make any noises through the walls, but it was your moans that echoed loud enough across the room. The squelching, the whimpering, the snapping of skin-to-skin.
“Satoru, I’m gonna…”
He held your hips in place, slamming himself balls deep into you, and watching your breasts bouncing all over the place as he raced to chase his climax. “Me, too, baby.”
Both of you were tangled in sweat, and the sound of your own ragged breathing filled the room until he released thick ropes of cum inside you. You couldn’t tell how much, but he stayed inside you for a minute or two, giving your lips a sweet peck before he finally pulled out. Almost immediately, his cum came spilling out of you. They dripped out of your hole as if they were too full and no longer had space inside.
It was filthy and tender all at once—love and obsession and devotion and ruin. And you remembered his words earlier, how this was why he could get you pregnant so easily. Funnily enough, it wasn’t just about how much of his semen was inside you. Not literally. It was the love and passion he was pouring into your lovemaking. It was how your body would always recognize his, as though you two were perfectly made for each other.
When it was over, he scooped you into his arms, wrapped tight like he couldn’t bear to let you go. He kissed your temple softly, reverently this time.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, “how much I love you, Y/N. Through anything and everything. You’re my only one.”
––
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the living room curtains, warm and golden, catching in the strands of Satoru’s hair as he sat cross-legged on the floor with Sachiro perched in his lap. You sat beside them on the couch, one hand idly resting on your belly, watching the way Satoru absentmindedly fixed the cowlick in Sachi’s hair while the boy leaned against him, still groggy from his sleep.
It felt domestic in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Too peaceful. Too comfortable. Like the war between your hearts had quieted for this one stolen moment.
“Good morning, Mama!” your little boy greeted.
“Morning, my baby.” You added it with a kiss to his forehead. “Did daddy make you breakfast?”
Sachiro hugged his teddy bear as his eyes fixed on the television screen. “Yes, Mama. Sachi ate pancakes!”
Satoru gave you a quiet look then. It wasn’t anything naughty. In fact, he had a very thoughtful gaze, seemingly worried that he might have gotten too rough with you last night. “I’ve prepared you a plate there and some apple juice.”
“Thank you,” was your simple reply. No morning kisses, no overly sweet gestures. Your son still wasn’t aware that his parents were expecting again, so you were treading the situation carefully. It also helped that Satoru could read through your movements and respected you enough to handle it at your own pace.
“Hey, Sachi,” you began softly.
He turned to you, wide-eyed, curious. “Yeah, Mama?”
You swallowed, glancing once at Satoru before you said it. “You’re… going to be a big brother soon.”
For a moment, there was silence.
And then—
“Huh?!” Sachiro twisted in Satoru’s lap so fast the man almost lost his balance. “A baby? Like… a real baby? In your tummy? Right now?!”
You nodded, lips twitching and unsure what to make of your son’s reaction. “Yes, right now. Mama is pregnant.”
His jaw dropped like you had told him the moon was moving into the guest room. “But… but… how did it happen?” He blinked rapidly, the picture of childlike innocence, before his little nose wrinkled. “Wait… don’t tell me. I think I know.”
“Oh, do you now?” Satoru acted surprised, poking his son’s cheek. You smothered a laugh into your palm. He didn’t even bother hiding his.
“Yeah,” your son said confidently, looking between the two of you with all the gravity of a seasoned detective. “It’s because you and Mama love each other again, right? That’s how it works! Auntie Gen told Sachi babies are born when the mama and dada love each other.”
You froze for half a second. Love? You quickly forced a smile. “Something like that.”
But then Sachiro tilted his head again, eyes darting between you and Satoru like he was connecting even bigger dots. “Is Dada going to be Mama’s husband?”
The words fell into the room like pebbles into still water. Quickly enough, your body went still and Satoru’s hand froze midair on his son’s back. The boy looked between you both expectantly, as if marriage was the obvious next step, as if it was the only logical conclusion to his parents having another baby on the way.
You opened your mouth, then closed it, then forced a small, gentle smile. Sometimes, Sachiro was a little too smart for his age. “That… is for another conversation, my sweetie.”
Satoru stared at you for a good minute, careful not to cross any boundaries and give answers unaligned to your own. But you could tell how much he had wanted to say yes to Sachiro, to say that his dream of bringing his family back together was no longer far-fetched.
Meanwhile, Sachiro squinted like he wanted to protest, but then his face lit up, wide and beaming, his entire little body vibrating with joy as he threw his arms around Satoru’s neck. “I’m gonna be a big brother!” he announced, muffled against Satoru’s shoulder. “Dada, we need to buy a big house like grandpa’s now!”
Satoru chuckled then. “Of course, buddy.”
And for that moment, with Sachiro grinning like Christmas had come early, you let yourself believe in this fragile, imperfect little happiness. But still, there were many things to worry about. When your son mentioned his grandfather, you were immediately reminded of the things you still need to clear out before you can fully live in this dream-like fantasy.
It didn’t surprise you how soon Satoru joined you in the kitchen the moment his son had become too engrossed in the cartoon he was watching. He knew there were things he had to clarify, so approaching you for a private talk was the next thing he did.
“You told him,” mentioned Satoru, reaching for your hand. “Does this mean you’ll keep our baby?”
You solemnly looked into his eyes. “It’s ours.”
His warm lips pressed a soft kiss on the back of your hand. “Thank you for letting me be a father to them, Y/N. I promise I’ll live my whole life serving you and our kids.”
Sighing, you squeezed his hand. “But Satoru, we still have to tell them.”
He looked up, confused. “Tell who what?”
You hesitated, lips pressing together before you exhaled slowly. “I mean, my family. My dad, Gen—them.” The words felt strange on your tongue, even though they were your family, you knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “They’re not going to take it well, Satoru,” you warned softly. “After everything, they’ll think I’m out of my mind.”
He didn’t flinch. Not at all. He simply wrapped his arms around you, his gaze softening in a way it only did for you. “You’re right,” he agreed wholeheartedly. “They need to hear it from us first before anyone else. I know they won’t accept it right away, but I’ll fight for you. I promise I’ll do everything until I earn their trust again. Maybe not fully, but even a scrap is enough. Even just trusting that I won’t ever hurt you again. Because I know I won’t.”
“Satoru…”
“I mean it, Y/N.” He pressed his forehead against yours like a groom reciting a vow. “I lost this once. I’m not losing my family again. Not you. Not our kids.”
You stared at him, this man who had once been reckless with your heart, now speaking like he would burn down the world just to keep it safe.
And for the first time in years, the idea of a future with him didn’t feel like a betrayal of yourself.
It felt like coming home.
––
The Creston mansion never felt so cold in your years of living there. It was the opposite of the Gojou mansion, where the air of toxicity lingered in every corner of their estate. But to your own family’s place, you couldn’t remember the last time those beige walls felt so lifeless. Its marble pillars, the polished brass of its doors, the cold gleam of chandeliers—everything felt hostile tonight. It had always been your father’s pride, his empire, the seat of his authority. But as you stepped inside with Satoru’s hand brushing lightly against your waist, you felt like a criminal walking into the gallows.
Am I simply overthinking? You took a deep breath, but even the air felt shallow.
Gen was there first, rising from the velvet chair with a smile that faded the moment she saw Satoru trailing behind you. Your father sat across the room, his reading glasses low on his nose, glancing briefly at the two of you before setting aside the papers in his hand.
“Gen, Dad,” you spoke first, cutting the tension before it could rise. “How are you?”
“We’re fine. How’s Sachi doing?” Gen asked as soon you both sat on the couch. “Is he recovering well? I thought you were going to bring him today when you texted me you’d stop by.”
You offered a small smile. “He’s pretty great, actually. He still needs more rest, but Satoru takes good care of him.”
Your dad nodded. “Are you going to bring him next time?”
“Of course, Dad.”
There was small talk at first. Forced politeness. Gen asking about Sachiro’s daily maintenance. Your father commenting about the food his grandson should eat. They both pretended like the air didn’t reek of tension while Satoru sat silently beside you, respectful, composed, with his hands folded in front of him.
But it was that one question. So plain, so harmless on the surface—yet heavy with implication that unsettled you.
And it came from your father. “Since Sachiro’s getting better, I suppose you’ll be coming back home in a few days, right?”
“I… I’m not sure about that one, Dad.”
Your father’s gaze hardened at your answer. “What do you mean?”
You drew in a deep breath, deep enough it could’ve filled an entire oxygen tank. The words sat heavy in your throat, but you couldn’t force them out, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much you had to. Maybe it was fear. But of what? That your family wouldn’t approve? You already knew they wouldn’t. That they’d demand you return to the mansion immediately? That wasn’t even the worst of it.
So you said nothing. You just sat there, lost in the storm of your own thoughts, not until Satoru’s fingers slipped over yours, squeezing your hand gently. It was his silent way of reminding you that you weren’t alone. That whatever came next, he was staying. Because his love was worth fighting for.
Your father, displeased to see your hand-holding, broke the silence. “Y/N, what is this—”
“Dad, I’m pregnant.”
The house fell into stillness.
Even the birds outside stopped chirping.
“WHAT?!”
Gen blinked rapidly. Your father froze mid-motion, one hand still on a teacup that crashed onto the floor later. It was like the air thickened in a single breath, everyone caught in it, everyone waiting for the obvious name to be spoken.
“Toji’s, right?” your father finally asked, voice flat, cold. It was intentional. The question was disgustingly intentional that you couldn’t believe it came from your father at all.
“No!” you quickly denied, “You know we’ve broken up months ago, Dad. It’s not his!”
You could see Gen shaking her head, a hand pressed to her face as if holding herself back from exploding. But her sharp, furious eyes found Satoru in an instant. She seemed to have seen this coming, but refused to believe that her suspicions had actually come into fruition. “Is it the night of Shoko and Suguru’s wedding?” she demanded, her voice trembling with restrained anger. “The one that turned into a cheating scandal—again—involving my sister?”
Your ex-husband swallowed hard, guilt flickering across his face. “It is.”
Your father’s eyes darkened.
And then he moved.
It happened so fast, the way he lunged at Satoru before anyone could speak, his fist slamming across your ex-husband’s jaw with a sickening crack. “You goddamn son of a bitch—!”
“Dad, stop!” you screamed, but nothing could stop an angry father whose daughter got hurt over and over. He grabbed Satoru by the collar, spitting words like fire as his fist landed on him again and again. “Dad, please! Don’t hurt him!”
Even Gen tried to help out. “Dad, that’s enough.”
“You bastard! You despicable bastard!” he roared, his voice shaking with fury you had never seen in him before, not even when Satoru’s first cheating incident tore your world apart. “You already ruined her life once—humiliated her, made her suffer—and now you trap her again? Another child? Another lifetime of misery with you?!”
Satoru took the hits, grunting, stumbling, but not once raising a hand in defense. He let your father vent every ounce of hatred into his body until finally, he caught his breath and pushed back.
“I love her,” Satoru declared, jaw bloodied, eyes wild. “I’m s-sorry. I know it didn’t seem like it, I know I’ve hurt her far too many times for you to believe it, but I fucking love her, and I’m not going anywhere this time! I already wake up every day hating myself for the things I did to her. But this—” He reached for you even as your father shoved him back, “—this is my family. And I will fight for them, with or without your blessing.”
“Blessing?” your father seethed, “You dare speak of blessings after wrecking my daughter’s life?” He turned to you then, his face red, his eyes full of both fury and heartbreak. “If you choose him, Y/N… you choose this bastard and you are no longer my daughter. No longer a Creston. No inheritance. No name. Nothing.”
“Dad, please,” you sobbed, stepping between them, your hands shaking as you held your father back. “Please don’t do this. Please.”
But your dad wouldn’t listen. His voice cut through the room like a blade, speaking words that you never in your life thought he would utter. Words that even Gen herself, no matter how callous she was, could never speak to you.
“If you walk this path with him, Y/N, you walk it alone,” warned your father, “You will be disowned by this family. Completely.”
You felt the world shatter under your feet.
Satoru tried to reach you, his hand trembling as he whispered, “Please don't do this to Y/N—”
But the guards came before he could finish. At your father’s command, they grabbed Satoru by the arms, dragging him toward the door as he struggled, shouting your name. “Y/N! Please, Y/N!”
“Stop!” you begged and cried and pleaded to everyone in the room, but no one listened.
And the more Satoru resisted, the more they were aggressive to him. “Let me go! I need to talk to her! Y/N!”
His voice echoed through the marble halls until the heavy doors slammed shut, leaving you behind, shaking, sobbing, frozen solid to your place as your father’s ultimatum rang in your ears like a death sentence.
––
Satoru didn’t remember how he got home.
One moment he was being thrown out of the Creston mansion like a criminal, and the next thing he knew, he was in the penthouse alone, pacing like a madman, replaying the events in his head until it made him sick.
You didn’t come out of the mansion. You didn’t walk out the door. Not even when they dragged him out like he was nothing. Not when he called your name with his voice breaking in half.
You stayed. You stayed behind.
And Satoru knew what that meant.
Blood ran thicker than water, after all. And Satoru envied you for it—for the way your family stood together, for how naturally you fought for one another. His own family was nothing like that. Broken, dysfunctional, poisoned from the inside out. He couldn’t quite grasp how yours could love so fiercely, so selflessly. It didn’t sink in right away why you would choose them over him, why cutting them off wasn’t as simple for you as it had been for him and his own family.
His chest caved under the pain of it. He staggered into the living room and slammed his fist into the wall so hard the frames rattled. Again. And again. Until his knuckles split and the sharp pain screamed up his arm, but never enough. He wanted to break something, everything. Maybe himself most of all.
“Why,” his voice cracked, “why can’t I fix this?!”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Was it God? Was it his subconscious? Regardless, the questions fell out like prayers no one would answer. His shoulders shook as he buried his face in his hands, tears spilling freely now, the mask ripped off until only the wreck of a man was left behind.
He thought about you. About the way you had stood there between him and your father, crying like the world was ending. About how he had ruined everything once before, and now here he was again, cursed to repeat it like some sick punishment.
“God, I just want my family back! Please… Please, I’m s-sick of this! I’m fucking sick of it!” he choked out, his voice breaking as his fists hit the wall again, with each punch harder than the last. The plaster cracked and his knuckles throbbed, so much so that he wondered if he broke his hand, but he liked it that way. He wanted to feel it burn, wanted it to hurt because he deserved it, because maybe if it hurt enough, it would erase the never ending guilt crawling under his skin.
And he would’ve gone on like that if not for the tiny, fragile voice behind him. “Dada?”
That was the only thing that made Satoru freeze. He turned around to see Sachiro standing there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and the other holding onto his teddy bear. He looked so small, so breakable, and his innocent gaze moved from the blood dripping down Satoru’s knuckles to the tears on his face.
“Are you… okay?”
Something in Satoru snapped then, not from anger this time but from the sight of his son looking at him like that. He quickly dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms so tightly Sachiro squeaked at the suddenness of it.
“I-I don’t know, buddy,” he whispered into his son’s hair, his voice shaking so hard it hurt. “I don’t know what’s going to h-happen to us.”
“Dada, why you crying?”
“Because…” Satoru shut his eyes, inhaling sharply, “because I keep messing everything up. I-I can’t bring your mommy back. I’m sorry, Sachi. I’m so sorry I can’t give you the family you deserve. I… I failed you. I failed mommy and our baby. I’m so lost.”
Sachiro wrapped his little arms around his father’s neck like he was trying to hold him together even though he was too small to fix anything. “I’m here.”
Even his tiniest, most innocent gesture was enough to split Satoru open. Because after everything, after convincing himself, even for a fleeting moment, that he could be a perfect father to his kids, he was reminded over and over that he would never be.
He couldn’t even manage to be a decent husband, let alone a good man. A cheater. A coward. A pathetic excuse of a man who had ruined everything good that ever reached for him. He disgusted himself down to the marrow. He was a piece of shit, an asshole, a useless good-for-nothing scumbag—
The doorbell rang. Once.
Damn it!
Then, again.
God fucking dammit!
“Dada.” His son tugged at his shirt. “Someone’s at the door.”
Satoru stiffened, wiping his face with his sleeve. He wasn’t ready to face the police, not after he had just broken down in front of his son, and still drowning from the heartbreak of losing you. Couldn’t your father give him even a little bit of mercy and just let Sachiro stay the night?
Satoru felt like he was losing his mind.
The lock clicked. Footsteps crossed the threshold.
He turned toward the door with his heart pounding, Sachiro following him behind.
...
...
And there you were.
Standing with your bags, eyes red from crying, looking at him like there was never any other choice but him.
“God, I-I just want my family back! Please… Please, I’m s-sick of this! I’m fucking sick of it!” he choked out, his voice breaking as his fists hit the wall again and again, with each punch harder than the last. The plaster cracked and his knuckles throbbed, so much so that he wondered if he broke his hand, but he liked it that way. He wanted to feel it burn, wanted it to hurt because he deserved it, because maybe if it hurt enough, it would erase the never ending guilt crawling under his skin.
And he would’ve gone on like that if not for the tiny, fragile voice behind him. “Dada?”
That was the only thing that made Satoru freeze. He turned around to see Sachiro standing there in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and the other holding onto his teddy bear. He looked so small, so breakable, and his innocent gaze moved from the blood dripping down Satoru’s knuckles to the tears on his face.
“Are you… okay?”
Something in Satoru snapped then, not from anger this time but from the sight of his son looking at him like that. He quickly dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms so tightly Sachiro squeaked at the suddenness of it.
“I-I don’t know, buddy,” he whispered into his son’s hair, his voice shaking so hard it hurt. “I don’t know what’s going to h-happen to us.”
“Dada, why you crying?”
“Because…” Satoru shut his eyes, inhaling sharply, “because I keep messing everything up. I-I can’t bring your mommy back. I’m sorry, Sachi. I’m so sorry I can’t give you the family you deserve. I… I failed you. I failed mommy and our baby. I’m so lost.”
I didn’t expect to get noticed aaaa, it’s so thrilling to know that my art managed to boost your interest back for the fic!
Honestly speaking, I just wanted to share my support and love for your work, but now I take pride by the fact I at least somehow rekindle that interest of yours to start writing for the fic once more. 😭🫶 (your fic motivated me to fight through my art block😆)
Thank you so much for noticing my artwork for your fic! I couldn’t help but share my sketch last week regarding the latest chapter— the ending scene has me hollering and kicking my feet. I’ll enjoy this chapter and scene for now, because I am so not ready for the next chapters knowing you…😖
I also drew Y/N’s dress from Shoko’s wedding, I think I did well? (I took it from your SY gallery, btw!) As well as Mama!Y/N hanging outside along with her son– with Papa!Satoru waiting for the two. (His silhouette can be seen, Sachiro’s facing him! It’s only his back shoulder, though, lol!) All are fashionista!
Anywho! Welcome back to the fic, dearie author! Happy writing and life. We and your readers will be waiting. 🩷
when a twist of fate led their marriage to the path of a quintessential tragic romance, two past lovers go through another series of experiences on love, heartbreak, identity, illness, and trauma along the road to a happily ever after.
notes. 5k wc. please note that the last few sy chapters will be shorter than usual. but on another note, thank you for the kind comforting words on my last post. i’m very grateful for all of you.
series masterlist -> episode fourteen
“I’m pregnant,” you finally confessed, voice breaking as you watched the faint tears that slipped from Satoru’s eyes. “I don’t wanna have this baby.”
He should’ve known why. He should’ve seen it coming—should’ve expected the next words that would come out of your mouth after announcing your pregnancy.
Yet the admission, as firm as it sounded, still tore at your chest. And the silence that followed felt deafening. His gaze flickered to your stomach, then back to your face, searching for something—understanding, hope, or maybe a way to convince you otherwise. He also seemed to be struggling with the intense contradiction of his emotions, whether to celebrate your pregnancy or whether to be horrified by it.
That was why Satoru took a shaky breath as he reached out a hand. “Y/N,” he began, stepping closer to you, “Don’t say that. We… We can figure this out. Together. Please.”
Your whole body trembled at the irony of ending your own life soon as you announced the beginning of another. But at the moment, it felt right. That jumping into the vast space beyond you was the best choice—for him, for Sachiro, for the baby, and for yourself.
But seeing the father of your children at the verge of breaking down was shaking your resolve. All the guilt, the shame. You felt it all at once.
Satoru’s hands tightened around yours the moment he was able to reach you. And before you knew it, you were being pulled down, falling straight into him as he caught you perfectly in his arms. Like you were always meant to be there. “Y/N, please…” he whispered, his hands cupping your cheeks, ocean-blue eyes swimming with desperation. “I got you. Don’t do this. Don’t give up on this baby. Don’t give up on us.”
“I can’t, Satoru,” you choked out, shaking your head. “I can’t bring a child into this mess. What kind of life could I possibly give them? What kind of life could we give them? I don’t even deserve to live.”
“You don’t understand, Y/N. Having you here with me right now is already the greatest blessing in my life,” he said quickly, embracing you even tighter as if afraid you’d slip further away. “I swear, I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll be there every step of the way. I’ll… I’ll be a good father. I know I’ve made mistakes, Y/N. I’ve hurt you, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. But this—this is something I can do right. Let me prove it to you.”
You turned your face away, sobbing quietly. No, Satoru. It’s too late. You had heard of these same promises before, and only a fool would let herself believe it twice.
“Look at me, Y/N,” he pleaded. “Please, just look at me. I love you. I love this baby. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone. I don’t care how hard it gets—I’ll be here. I’ll stay. I’ll be the man you need me to be. And the man that I should’ve always been.”
His words hit you like a tidal wave, never once allowing you to breathe or call for his name. You were stuck underwater, fighting the strong current of emotions. Time and time again, and only Satoru Gojou was able to make you feel like this.
“I swear on everything, Y/N,” he whispered, “I’ll be better. I’ll fight for you, Sachi, and this baby every single day. Just… don’t make this decision now. Not like this.”
The vulnerability in his eyes and the sheer rawness of his plea made your heart ache. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you saw the Satoru you had once loved—the man who would have moved mountains for the woman he had vowed to cherish. The man who pulled everything he can just to bring happiness to the woman he adored.
Your chest tightened as the weight of your decision pressed down on you, and a shiver ran through your body as if you could feel your baby’s heartbeat. “Satoru…” you whispered, your voice trembling with the fragile thread of your emotions. “I’m…”
Before you could finish, the flood of guilt, sorrow, and exhaustion eventually overtook you. And his glistening blue eyes were the last thing you saw before the world blurred and you surrendered to the darkness.
— —
Satoru stood just outside the hospital room, leaning against the cold, white wall with his face buried in his hands. His heart was pounding and his thoughts were nothing but a chaotic mess. He had almost lost you—again. This time, in a way he hadn’t even anticipated.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, and when he looked up, it was your older sister, Gen, who was walking toward him, her face a mix of concern and restrained anger. She stopped in front of him, crossing her arms and clearly displeased with his presence.
“She’s resting,” Gen informed him, her voice steady but sharp. “The doctor says she needs time. Physically, she’ll be fine, but mentally? I don’t know.”
Satoru nodded, his throat tightening. “I—I’m sorry, Gen. For everything.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to meet her piercing gaze. “I know I’ve been the worst. Back then, now… I never meant to hurt her.”
“I don’t even know what to say to you,” she replied in a haste and brutally honest manner. “First, my nephew, and now, my sister? Both of them were hospitalized because of you. All you do is bring in a series of bad luck to our family. Have some shame.”
He knew she was right, and he was ashamed. But despite the hurtful truth, he accepted it all. He was a martyr ready to take all the pain away, if it meant taking it from you and your children. “I know I messed up, Gen. And I don’t deserve another chance. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love her. That I will love her until the day I die.” His eyes pooled with genuine tears. “I just want to be here for her. She’s my life.”
Gen sighed, her arms falling to her sides. “Satoru, you say you love her. You say you care about her. But look where we are. She’s always been the one paying the price for your mistakes. Always getting the short end of the stick.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes narrowed. “And now? There’s a rumor about her because of you. Do you even know what that’s doing to her?”
He clenched his fists, his head hanging low. “I know. I saw it. I—I’m already drafting a statement. It’ll be released soon. I’ll clear her name, Gen. I’ll take full responsibility. I won’t let anyone drag her through the mud because of me.”
Gen studied him carefully, her expression softening slightly, though her voice remained firm. “Words are one thing, Satoru. Actions are another. She’s given up so much for you. Do you even realize how much of herself she’s lost?”
“I do,” he said, his shaken voice barely audible. “I see it every time I look at her. I see the woman I fell in love with slipping away, and it’s my fault. But I swear to you, Gen, I’ll fix this. I’ll do everything I can to keep her, to keep our family together. I’ll be the man she deserves, the father our kids deserve.”
Gen’s lips pressed into a thin line as she looked away, her gaze distant. “Love isn’t just words, Satoru. It’s not just showing up when things get hard. It’s being there even when things are mundane, even when she doesn’t need saving. It’s about choosing her, every single day. And you haven’t done that.”
Her words cut deep, but he took them all, letting them sink into his bones. He had been selfish, careless with the one person who mattered the most. And now, he was paying the price.
“But you’re still here.” Gen’s voice eventually softened, as if this situation couldn’t be saved anymore. “And she’s still here. I don’t know why, after everything, my sister still loves you… but she does. I wouldn’t want you for her, frankly. I’d rather she’d be single her entire life than be stuck with you. But I know her stubborn heart all too well. And if you really mean what you say, if you’re truly ready to step up and be the man she deserves, then prove it. You’d better mean that, Satoru. Because if you break her again… I don’t think there’ll be any pieces left to put back together.”
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the muffled hum of the hospital. And in sincerity, Satoru nodded, tears welling in his eyes. This wasn’t exactly Gen forgiving him, this was her choosing what makes her sister happy. “I love her, Gen. I’ve always loved her. And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it.”
——
A dull beeping sound echoed in your ears, steady and rhythmic, as the world around you slowly came back into focus. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled your nose, and the soft hum of distant voices murmured through the hospital walls. The fluorescent lights above were too bright, causing you to squint as you tried to take in your surroundings. White sheets, an IV drip, and the unmistakable cold of a hospital bed beneath your fingertips.
You were in the ER.
Memories of the day before hit you all at once—the weight of exhaustion, the way your body had given up on you mid-conversation, and Satoru’s voice calling your name just before everything faded to black.
A gentle warmth enveloped your hand. You turned your head slightly, heart skipping a beat when you saw Satoru sitting beside you. His snow-white hair was disheveled, his usually confident demeanor subdued. There were dark circles under his eyes suggesting how little he had rested.
“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. There was relief laced in his tone, but also something heavier. He reached out, brushing stray strands of hair from your face. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “How’s my… baby?”
For someone who said she wanted to get rid of her unborn child, your concern put a relief on Satoru’s face. “Baby’s okay,” he admitted, his thumb absently tracing circles on your belly. “You passed out, and they brought you here to monitor you. But you’re okay now. The doctor said you were just exhausted. You’re being discharged soon.”
Your mind was sluggish, still struggling to process everything. But then, the most important thought struck you.
“Sachiro,” you breathed, fear clawing its way up your throat. One after another. “His surgery—”
Satoru squeezed your hand gently, stopping you before your panic could take hold. “It was a success.” His lips curled into a small, tired smile. “While you were resting, everything went well. The doctors said it was a textbook procedure—no complications. He’s stable, recovering in the suite room now.”
“H-He’s okay?” Your voice broke on the last word, and Satoru nodded.
“He’s okay.”
A choked sob left your lips as you covered your face with your hands, overwhelmed. After everything, after all the sleepless nights and the heart-wrenching fear of losing your first born, he had made it through. At his young age, having to suffer such a complicated heart disease was something he didn’t deserve, but truly, he was a strong kid. And for that, you were grateful.
Satoru didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding you, anchoring you. “Y/N,” he murmured, his lips ghosting against your temple. “Sachi’s strong. He got it from his mommy.”
You let yourself melt into him for a moment, closing your eyes and breathing him in. You didn’t know what this meant for the both of you—if anything had changed, if anything ever could. But for now, none of that mattered.
All that mattered was that Sachiro was waiting for you.
Satoru pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your arms. “Do you wanna go see him?”
You met his gaze, eyes still shining with unshed tears, and nodded. “Yeah.”
——
Down the pristine white halls, past nurses and doctors bustling about their duties, your feet carried you with a singular purpose while Satoru walked beside you, his pace matching yours.
And then—there.
Room 721.
You hesitated only for a second before pushing the door open, breath catching the moment your eyes landed on Sachiro. Your poor son. Your poor little boy lay in the hospital bed, looking small and fragile against the white sheets. Tubes and wires were attached to him, aside from the steady beeping of the monitors that signaled his heart’s vitals. A ventilator was also there to help him breathe, and his tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm was a sight that both reassured and shattered you at the same time.
“Sachi,” you whispered sweetly, stepping closer. “Mommy’s here, baby.”
Your fingers trembled as you brushed his hair back, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment. He was still asleep, sedated for recovery, but his face was peaceful—far more peaceful than the nights you’d spent watching him struggle.
Behind you, Satoru stood motionless. His normally vibrant eyes were dulled with exhaustion, his face gaunt from two days without sleep. Yet, despite it all, he remained standing, his entire being focused on Sachiro.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Your family surrounded you, offering support, love, and quiet reassurances. Nurses came and went, checking on Sachiro’s vitals, updating you on his condition. The visiting hours brought waves of people—friends, colleagues, even some of Satoru’s acquaintances who had come to check on him.
But through it all, Satoru never moved.
While conversations hummed around him, while people embraced and whispered their worries, he remained by Sachiro’s bedside. His hand rested on his son’s small fingers, his thumb occasionally brushing against his skin.
He didn’t speak much. Didn’t react to the noise around him.
He just… watched.
Watched the slow rise and fall of his child’s chest. Watched the way the monitors flickered with steady readings. Watched the way his son fought to live.
And even as the hours stretched, as your family said their goodbyes, as the night deepened and visiting hours ended—Satoru remained.
His exhaustion was evident. The bags under his eyes had darkened, his shoulders heavy with weariness. But when a nurse suggested he get some rest, he merely shook his head.
“I’m not leaving him.”
And so, he stayed.
With red-rimmed eyes and a body begging for sleep, Satoru Gojou sat beside his son, never once looking away.
You could see the torment in his eyes as he looked at Sachiro, the helplessness of a father who could do nothing but watch. You just couldn’t bear the silence any longer, so you finally spoke. “Satoru… just go home.”
He froze at the sound of your voice, as if caught off guard, but quickly shook his head and wrapped your belly under a warm blanket. “Did I wake you up?”
“I can look after Sachi by myself,” you urged, disregarding his question. “You need to rest.”
But again, he refused. “No.”
“But—”
You opened your mouth to speak again, to reason with him, but before you could, Satoru’s voice cut through the air, breaking in a way you had never heard before. “Y/N, let me be a father to my kids… Please.” His voice cracked, the raw emotion spilling out as he looked at the ceiling with somber, tearful eyes. It was the heartbreak in his voice that made you realize that you were the only family Satoru had left. And it was the tremor in his hands that made you see through the trauma he had developed after he was led to believe for three years that his son had never existed. In a way, you felt responsible for the pain you had caused him, too. “Just please let me love you and our babies. Don’t take them away from me.”
For a moment, silence became your friend. Yet, the quiet that enveloped the room was more of a tender moment suspended in time as you let Satoru embrace you in his arms. You both remained there, connected by the warmth of his hand over yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his breath. He caressed your belly as if you were going to take his baby away—that if he closed his eyes, even for a second, he would wake up to see his unborn child gone.
But then, a soft knock on the door shattered the stillness.. Satoru’s grip on your hand loosened as the nurse poked her head into the room with an apologetic expression on display.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. and Mrs. Gojou,” she began, her voice quiet and gentle, “but you have a visitor.” Satoru’s brows furrowed slightly, but before he could ask, the nurse continued, “Her name is Ms. Akemi.”
At the mention of her name, he immediately sat up, his body tense as he instinctively prepared to stand. You felt the shift in his demeanor, the way his hand slipped from yours as he moved to the edge of the bed. You stayed still for a minute, processing the sudden change, and your heart sinking at the thought of yet another intrusion by her.
You took a deep breath as you began to pull away, already bracing yourself for what was to come, and for the inevitable exit he would make. Like always. Choosing another woman over you. Choosing another woman over his own child. Of course, that’s what he’s about to do, right? You started to gather the strength to let him go, to retreat back into your thoughts, until the nurse spoke again.
“Oh… Actually,” she said, her eyes flicking between you both, “Miss Akemi wants to see you, Ms. Y/N… not Mr. Gojou.”
——
Two things about this moment caught you off guard. First, Satoru’s sudden overprotectiveness—firmly insisting to the nurse that Akemi had no right to call for you again and that you shouldn’t be meeting her just to “talk.” And second, the fact that Akemi actually wanted to see you.
What was the catch?
What was her motive?
You wondered if this was going to be another Sera moment.
And you knew, even if your mind told you that you owed Akemi nothing, you were still curious about what she had to say. Would she demand Satoru’s time that you were taking from her? Or was she about to make a scene and call you a homewrecker?
Strangely, of all the places, Akemi wanted to meet you at the hospital chapel.
She was already there when you came, sitting at the last row amongst the empty pews, staring at the altar as if her brown eyes were glued to the massive cross in the center. In her solitude, you silently slipped into the opposite side of the pew, not exchanging any eye-contact until she noticed your presence.
When she turned, she seemed startled to see you. “Y/N.”
You said nothing, only staring at the cross in front of you.
“I was just…” She trailed off, glancing toward the altar before looking back at you. “I was praying for Sachiro. I heard his surgery was a success.”
Your arms crossed over your chest, but your voice was steady. “It was.”
“I’m glad.” A small, genuine smile plastered over her lips. “I really am. He’s a strong boy… just like his mom.”
A scoff threatened to rise in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t here to fight. Not anymore. Not when you were far too grateful for Sachiro’s successful operation to still be holding grudges on others. But that didn’t mean you had to fake being happy next to Akemi. All you did was nod in appreciation.
But Akemi hesitated, then spoke again about what seemed to be her main concern of going here. “Has Satoru been here? I mean… all this time?”
“Yes.” A pause. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression, but your rigid expression appeared to have intimidated her. “If you’re here to ask him to go home with you, then—”
“I’m sorry, Y/N.”
You blinked. Of all the things you expected, an apology wasn’t one of them.
“For everything,” she continued. “For being with Satoru even when I knew who you were to him. For pretending I didn’t see the way he looked at you, the way he still loved you. I was selfish. I let my delusions get to me, thinking that he’s exactly who I needed in my life to feel whole again.” She then let out a bitter laugh, one that lacked amusement. “You don’t know this, but I used to envy you. Your life. Your place in his heart. The way you had people around you. The way he loved you… The way you have a beautiful son and an equally beautiful husband. I wanted that for myself. I thought if I tried hard enough, if I gave him everything, if I tried to be like you, maybe he’d love me the same way.” Her voice wavered. “But no matter how much time passed, it always felt like he was looking past me. Like he was imagining someone else by his side. And I knew. I always knew.”
You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the edge of the pew. You weren’t expecting to hear all of those things from her. Not after everything that had happened.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Akemi admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. “But I needed to say this. Because I know you’re not happy that Satoru’s been visiting me, too. At least, until he ended things officially between us. And probably until he learned about your pregnancy… Is it true?”
Your breath hitched, but you remained still.
“The baby’s a blessing, Y/N.” She lifted her chin, meeting your eyes with quiet resignation. “It’s exactly what I had hoped for myself… but I’m sick. I’m critically ill. Stage three endometrial cancer, to be exact.”
For the first time, something shifted in you. Shock. Pity. Confusion. You ended up returning her gaze—her lachrymose brown eyes that seemed to envy your entire being.
“H-He feels bad for me,” she continued, her voice softer now. “That’s why he’s been coming back and forth. He doesn’t love me—not the way I wanted—but he can’t turn away from someone who’s suffering. That’s who he is.”
You looked away, pressing your lips together, not knowing how to navigate a conversation with the sick friend who betrayed you.
“I don’t expect anything from him anymore. And I don’t expect anything from you, either.” Akemi’s lips curved into a sad smile. “I just wanted you to know that… I’m letting go. Of him. Of the past. Of everything.”
You held your breath back.
“I hope, one day, you can forgive him. Maybe even me. I know I lost a good friendship because of my bad decisions.”
She turned towards you, reaching for your hand that she soon softly squeezed. In that millisecond, you caught a glimpse of Nanami standing by the door, seemingly waiting for Akemi to finish her last words with you.
“Take care of him, Y/N. And take care of yourself.”
——
When you returned to the room, Satoru was pacing back and forth, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw clenched in barely restrained nerves. The second he caught sight of you in the doorway, his shoulders sagged with relief, but his expression remained taut with worry.
“Y/N,” he exhaled, striding toward you in a rush. “What did she say? Was she rude to you? Did she—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Before he could spiral further, you grabbed him by the collar and silenced him with a firm kiss.
For a brief, stunned moment, he stiffened—his breath catching against your lips. Then, just as quickly, he melted into you, hands coming up to cradle your face as if you’d disappear if he let go. His lips moved over yours, not demanding, not desperate—just seeking, just holding.
When you finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still half-lidded with dazed confusion.
“Stop overthinking,” you murmured, fingers gently brushing the nape of his neck.
Satoru swallowed hard, searching your face for answers. “Y/N…”
But a soft noise from the hospital bed cut the moment short. Both your heads snapped toward Sachiro, who was stirring beneath the sheets, and his tiny fingers twitching as his eyelids fluttered open.
Satoru let out a shaky laugh, a watery grin spreading across his face as he rushed to his son’s side. “Hey, Sachi,” he choked out. “You’re awake.”
You moved closer, blinking away the sudden sting in your eyes as Sachiro groggily turned to look at both of you. “My baby…”
“Mama…? Dada…?” His voice was weak, but the way he reached for both of you made your chest ache.
You took his small hand in yours, pressing it against your cheek as Satoru smoothed down his hair, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. “We’re here, baby,” you whispered. “We’re right here. How are you feeling, my sunshine?”
The nurses came shortly after, and then his doctor also took a visit. According to him, Sachiro showed good signs of recovery and ordered the medical staff to remove the devices attached to your son one by one as his progress looked promising. Soon enough, with the doctor’s advice, Sachiro could even start his rehab to be able to resume his normal activities. Everything you were hearing were positive outcomes, nothing but good news. You couldn’t help but feel as if things were too good to be true, and wondered if there was anything substantially bigger that’d come and wreck you.
The father of your child seemed to have noticed the moment you became silent, swallowed by the anxious thought of what was to come, and he came to wrap his arms around you, securing you in his embrace, and rubbing your belly from behind.
You could see the nurses noticing your little display of affection and so you tried to push Satoru off, but he didn’t budge. He only held you tighter and buried his face into your shoulder.
“Let me just recharge here for a bit,” he mumbled, as though you were the battery that was giving him energy. “Just let me hold you, please.”
——
You hadn’t addressed the elephant in the room yet, and the only real chance to do so came the following night, when Sachiro’s nanny took over in the suite. She kept you updated on his condition, while you—following your doctor’s advice—chose to finally get some proper rest at home.
But knowing your family, they’d bombard you with questions about Satoru the moment you walked through the door. Maybe that’s why you agreed to his suggestion—to stay the night at the penthouse. The same home you once shared as husband and wife.
Was it a rash decision? An impulsive one? Maybe exhaustion had driven you here, standing under the warm stream of his shower as he waited outside. It was strange how comforting this place still felt. How familiar, yet mind-warping it was. This was the same home where he had slept with Akemi. How could you feel both at ease and deeply unsettled?
By the time you stepped out, you stood in front of the vanity mirror, drying your hair as your gaze fell to your barely noticeable bump. You weren’t showing just yet, and knew that there was still time to decide. Did you want this baby? Keeping it meant Satoru would be even more tied to you. Letting it go meant sparing it from a toxic environment and the possibility of inheriting your heart condition.
Lost in thought, you barely heard Satoru’s knock before he entered, carrying your old pajamas. Without a word, he helped you into them with quiet care, his touch gentle but respectfully distant. He guided you like a loving husband would to his pregnant wife, up until you were settled under the warm duvet of your old bed, where he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Is there anything you want for breakfast?” he asked, “Anything you’re craving? Lemon bars? PB&J? I can run to the grocery store now if you want.”
His reminder of your old pregnancy cravings squeezed at your heart. It took you back to the days where you were immensely, unselfishly in love with him. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I’d do anything for you and baby.”
Maybe this was his way to consume you with guilt, knowing you still haven’t really decided if you wanted to keep the baby, yet here he was doing his everything just to show you how he wanted to care for his youngest. Would you be too cruel to ruin his fantasy?
“I’ll sleep in the guest room,” he murmured when he didn’t get any answer. “Call me if you need me.”
“Wait.” You regretted your words the moment you opened your mouth. “Stay.”
Because why? Just why did you ask him to stay? Why did you want him beside you? Why did you enjoy his warmth and his presence and his love? This was the same man who wrecked you to shreds, to pieces. How could you betray yourself and still trust him?
You didn’t need the answer right now, all you needed was Satoru’s gentle gaze, his careful embrace, and the way he caressed your face as he joined you in bed. You could tell he wanted to try for a kiss, but decided not to cross any lines you weren’t comfortable with.
“I’m dreaming, am I?” he asked, seemingly musing at the thought.
You sighed. “I’d hope so.”
“Y/N.” His voice was soft as he said your name. “I love you.”
It’s been three years since I started reading your work— how many times have I already reread? More than 20th times, that’s for sure. I really love the overall story despite all the heartbreaks, you’ve captivated me with the way you write the characters and how the story flows.
As a gift, I wanted to share my quick doodle from the characters of your work— Satoru, Pregnant!Y/N and their absolutely cutie of a baby, Sachiro! I gave the three their own matching earrings— a seashell. Resilience, protection and pilgrimages. The ability to endure and grow through life’s challenges, I think this is very fitting of Satoru and Y/N’s story.
I cannot wait to devour the remaining chapters— I’m just hoping it doesn’t cause me another devasting feeling like the previous season. I’ll die, literally. (Kidding)
All those aside, I’m hoping you are recovering and doing well in life, dearie author. Whatever you are facing right now, I hope you pass and work through it. You’re strong. 🩷🫶
oh woooow thank you for this my dear 🥹 you have the talent i wish i had. i love this so much! and funny thing is, i had been thinking of sy!gojoyn for a few days now (satoru’s haunting me lol) and this precious gift seems to be a sign for me to revisit this universe :’) thank you for the support and for loving the series the way you do <33 i do hope that one day i get to finally give readers the closure you all deserve 😭
pairings. cloud strife x tifa lockhart (ffvii: advent children)
tags. 1.4k wc, post-AC, affectionate cloud, domestic fluff, slice of life, pre-established relationship, self-indulgent cloti fic honestly i just love them. divider by anitalenia.
“Tifa, wake uuuup!”
“Wake up, Tifaaa!”
The morning started with an unusual chaos from Marlene and Denzel, both bursting into her room with a lopsided breakfast tray and two proud grins—toast sliding dangerously close to the edge, eggs slightly overcooked, and orange juice trembling in its glass.
Tifa blinked herself awake and accepted it like it was the finest banquet in the world. “Good morning, you two,” she said with a fond smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “What’s all this about?”
Marlene beamed, almost bouncing on her feet. “It’s for you!”
“Me?”
Denzel cleared his throat, his shyness a resemblance of a particular blond with spiky hair, “Because you’re… well you’re our Tifa.”
She let out a small chuckle, tilting her head. “What did I do to deserve all this?”
“It’s Mother’s Day,” Marlene announced as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh…” Right. Mother’s Day. She wasn’t their mother—not in the way that counted by blood, but she had been there. She had fed them, worried over them, stayed up at night when they were sick, listened when they were sad. And somewhere along the way, she’d started thinking of them as hers. Theirs. After everything she’d lost, after all the empty spaces left behind, she couldn’t imagine her life without them.
“Well… thank you, both of you.” Tifa leaned down, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “If this is how my day starts, I think it’s already perfect.”
––
When she came down to the bar, Cloud was already waiting by the door in his riding jacket. “You’re coming with me today.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Where to?”
“You’ll see. Jacket.” His tone left no room for protest, but his eyes were warm.
And so, while she was on Fenrir with her arms snugly around him, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the start of something new. It had been a month—or probably two—since Denzel had recovered from Geostigma, since Cloud had begun to forgive himself for the things he couldn’t change. But Tifa had been patient, as she always was, never forcing him forward, never demanding more than he could give. She knew grief didn’t vanish; it lingered in shards and shadows, waiting for moments of weakness to resurface. Relapse was always a possibility.
But as the road stretched ahead, and his steady presence anchored her in place, she trusted that he would always come home now. That he wouldn’t run from her, from them, again. And for Tifa, that was enough.
“You okay there?” Cloud called out, the rumble of the engine almost canceling the sound of his voice. Halfway through the ride, he reached one hand down from the handlebars and found hers where it was looped around his waist, interlacing fingers without a word.
Tifa blinked at the gesture. “I’m okay.”
They stopped at a rise in the countryside, where tall grass swayed under the sun. The air smelled fresh here, untouched by smoke and steel that clouded over Edge. The fields were in bloom, dotted with small white flowers. Cloud steered Fenrir onto a dirt path that led to the perfect spot overlooking the horizon.
“It’s beautiful here,” she murmured in a quiet awe. Her gaze swept over the scene before her—the sky brushed in soft gold, the horizon kissed by the last rays of the setting sun. She couldn’t remember when she had last seen such a vibrant sunset.
She didn’t see the way Cloud was looking at her. To him, the view wasn’t really the landscape, but her. The light in her eyes, the unguarded and peaceful smile on her face. It struck him more deeply than any sight nature could offer.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes glued to the woman before him. “Beautiful.”
While she basked in the warm glow of the setting sun, Cloud was already moving with quiet purpose. From Fenrir’s side compartment, he pulled out a small box, wrapped simply in plain paper, the edges neatly folded as if he’d taken his time to make it just right.
“Tifa,” he called softly and held it out to her. “For you.”
Her brows knit in surprise as she accepted it, carefully peeling away the paper to reveal a silver heart locket. As she opened it, she found two photographs—on one side, Marlene and Denzel smiling together, and on the other, a candid shot of all four of them, their little patchwork family caught in a moment of unguarded joy. In that moment, her chest tightened. But maybe in a good way. The thing was, the locket was more than jewelry—it was something to remind her, every single day, that this was her home, her family, her reason to keep going.
“Cloud, this is…” Her voice faltered, trembling with an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Gratitude, yes, but also disbelief. She had never expected something like this from him. Not a gift. Not a gesture so personal.
He stepped closer, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. His hand lingered for just a moment. “You’ve been such a great mom to them,” he said quietly. “You keep all of us together. And I don’t say it enough, but… I cherish you for it.”
Words weren’t needed. Cloud had never been one for long speeches, and she had long since learned that his silence often carried more meaning than anything spoken aloud. Still, he knew better than to let the moment pass without showing her—without letting her feel—that she meant far more to him than she could ever guess. And one best way to do it was to lean in, close the space between them, and press his lips to hers. It was soft at first, tentative in the way only Cloud could be, but it deepened quickly, his arm sliding around her waist to draw her closer.
He kissed her again. And again. Not because the first hadn’t been enough, but because he couldn’t stop himself. They didn’t do this often. Hardly ever, in fact, and maybe that was why it felt so consuming now, as if every unspoken thing between them was being poured into the spaces where their mouths met.
And somewhere in that haze of breathless closeness, Tifa’s mind wandered in a way that almost made her want to laugh. What was Cloud Strife to her, exactly? The father to their adopted kids, though they weren’t a couple? The man she lived with but hadn’t married? The partner she shared a home and responsibilities with, yet whose heart was still something of a mystery? Whatever the word for it was, she knew one thing—he was hers, in ways no label could fully capture.
“Happy Mother’s Day, Tifa.”
––
When they rolled back to Edge later that afternoon, they walked hand-in-hand until they returned to Seventh Heaven. Cloud held her hand a little too tightly, and Tifa’s cheeks were a tinge of pink from the wind and from him.
Marlene and Denzel stopped dead in their tracks at the kitchen doorway, eyes widening as they took in the sight before them—their guardians, standing close, fingers intertwined. Technically speaking, Cloud was a parent to Denzel, and Marlene still had Barret. But right now, none of that seemed to matter.
“Are you two holding hands?” Marlene asked, her grin stretching ear to ear, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Tifa chuckled, giving Cloud’s hand a little squeeze. “We are, sweetie.”
Cloud, ever the master of subtle deflection, gestured toward the kitchen table. “Wanna show Mom your letters?”
The air stilled for a moment. Both kids blinked at him, and Tifa felt her own breath catch.
Denzel’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Did you just call Tifa our mom mom?”
“Well, isn’t she?” Cloud replied, feigning nonchalance. But Tifa noticed the faint blush creeping up the curve of his ear, betraying him. “Go on, get the letters.”
The kids darted off with renewed excitement and their giggles trailing behind them. Before they could return, Tifa tugged gently on Cloud’s hand, pulling him just close enough to press a kiss against his cheek. “I could get used to this.”
“To what?” He glanced at her lips, then her deep red eyes.
“This. Us. Taking care of two kids, and you.”
“Tell me that again when it’s not just two kids anymore,” he said, a faint smirk lifting on the corner of his lips.
amidst the tale of sweetest love and bitterest revenge, the fallen empress is cast back ten years into the past to correct her sins and avoid eternal damnation, even at the price of betraying her once husband, the very cause of her downfall.
♱ pairings. gojo satoru, fem!reader
♱ genre. enemies-to-lovers, period piece, medieval au
♱ tags. ooc, regression, crown prince!gojo, noble lady!reader, politics, classism, clan wars, religion (catholicism), misogyny, violence, war, rebellion, suggestive, smut, gore, double life, explicit language, more to be added
♱ notes. this fic draws heavy inspirations from the webnovel ‘sister, i am the queen in this life’ and manhwa of the same name. it’s basically a fanfic of that series bc i am obsessed with it :’D
♱ status. on-going (slow updates)
♱ SECOND TIMELINE TO AS YOU LIKE IT ♱
PROLOGUE.
ACT I. THE LADY
ACT II. THE CROWN PRINCE
ACT III. THE KNIGHT
ACT IV. THE STAR CROSSED LOVERS
ACT V. THE BLESSED
ACT VI. THE SIN
ACT VII. THE REVELATION
ACT VIII. THE ENEMY
ACT IX. THE LOVER
ACT X. THE EMPRESS
EPILOGUE.
PROLOGUE
Like plunging beneath the surface of water and then, abruptly, breaking through to the air above—your body jolted as if awakening in a new world altogether. You drew in a long breath, your eyes fluttering open to reveal the ceiling, both familiar yet unfamiliar in its greeting. Swiftly, you surveyed your surroundings, noting with growing recognition the confines of your old room within the De Roma estate. The estate!
You were not in the palace of Caelum, but in the estate of House De Roma. A surge of realization flooded through you as you dashed towards the nearest mirror, confronting your reflection with wide, startled eyes.
No... could it be... that you have returned to your body, ten years prior?!
In the mirror, the reflection staring back at you was not that of the notorious wife of the tyrant Emperor Satoru, but of a 20-year-old maiden, the eldest daughter of Duke de Roma, with fuller cheeks and a more youthful appearance. You could not shake the feeling of disbelief, wondering if this was all just a dream, so you reached out to touch your arms and felt the flesh beneath your fingers, trying to convince yourself that this was an unexpected reality.
Oh, you were back. You found yourself returned to your former self, a decade younger, but now armed with the knowledge of your past life's actions and their consequences. Alongside this newfound understanding, the gift of clairvoyance had also been bestowed upon you.
And for what? Why had the heavens above returned you to your body? Was it for revenge, a second chance, or perhaps punishment?
Suddenly, a loud, deafening sound pierced your ears, and a blinding white light enveloped your vision. Your body became as still as a statue, and it felt as though your soul was transported to a fourth dimension where divine intervention seemed a lot more plausible to exist.
As your soul hovered in the liminal space between life and death, you found yourself standing before a figure cloaked in billowing robes, her presence commanding and her gaze piercing. This figure was Fortuna, the ancient Caelan goddess of fortune and fate, her visage austere and unforgiving.
“Are you aware of the sins that stain your soul?”
“Have you felt the weight of your transgressions, the consequences of your actions that have wrought suffering upon your people and brought ruin to your empire?”
Her voice echoed through the realm with the divine judgment that weighed upon your conscience, while her gaze penetrated to the core of your being and demanded honesty and accountability in the face of your past misdeeds.
“Will you atone for your sins?”
“Will you seize this opportunity for redemption, or will you squander it in self-pity and remorse?”
As you stood in the presence of the ancient goddess, grappling with the heaviness of your sins and the daunting task ahead, a brilliant light had all of a sudden illuminated the space around you. From the heart of this radiant glow emerged the figure of Archangel Raphael, his presence heralded by a chorus of angelical voices and the stirring of celestial winds.
Clad in robes that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of celestial light, Archangel Raphael's presence commanded attention, his wings unfurled behind him in a display of resolute authority. If Goddess Fortuna was intimidating, the archangel was fearsome all the more. His gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over you with a gravity that left no room for evasion or deceit.
“Empress of Caelum,” he spoke, his tone firm and unyielding, and his voice carrying a billion years of heavenly existence, “You stand accused of grievous sins, crimes that have shaken the very foundations of your empire and brought suffering upon your people.”
There was no trace of softness in Archangel Raphael's demeanor, no room for mercy in the face of wrongdoing. His presence was a testament to the uncompromising nature of divine justice, his strictness a reflection of the solemn duty entrusted to him as an Archangel of the Almighty. This, no doubt, was the face of a true and formidable executor of justice.
And you, the subject, had angered the divine beings that guarded the Caelan Empire, so much so that God himself sent the goddess of the land and one of his archangels to mitigate your rightful punishment.
“By the decree of the Almighty, you are granted a second chance to amend your sins and redeem your soul. You shall return to the mortal realm, to live your life anew and correct the sins that have stained your soul.”
“Should you fail to rectify your past transgressions, should you stray from the path of righteousness and succumb once more to the temptations of darkness, know that the consequences shall be severe and eternal.”
“For those who squander the gift of divine mercy shall be cast into the deepest depths of hell, where they shall endure a punishment of unending torment and suffering.”
In the presence of Archangel Raphael and Goddess Fortuna’s equally stern gazes, you were keenly aware of the magnitude of your transgressions and the severity of the judgment that awaited you. But even as you trembled beneath the weight of their scrutiny, you knew that their presence also offered you the opportunity for redemption, with your only task to prove yourself worthy of divine mercy.
Indeed, it was by your very hands that hundreds and thousands of Christian souls shed their blood. Innocent lives, both young and old, were cruelly taken at your command. The citizens of Caelum who fell sick from the spread of the plague. The esteemed Caelan advisors of your husband’s primogenitors, skinned alive and speared in pikes by the Tiber River. The wrongly accused maid who suffered the indignity of serving your husband, paraded unclothed through the streets and subjected to the brutality of the pear of anguish. The gallant and dignified knight, tortured mentally and physically in the atrocious dungeon. Now, you find yourself thrust back into the horrors of your former life ten years hence. A life of a noble lady who ought not to be blinded by her destructive love for the empire’s crown prince.
Yet, could you truly navigate this life without ascending to the position as his empress?
As you tried to commune with the divine beings afore you, a haze in your vision transported you away from the heavenly space, realizing that you were already drawn back into the reality of your chamber, inhabiting the youthful frame of a twenty-year-old daughter of a duke. You found yourself too astonished to move, too shaken to speak, and too afraid to take any action in this new lease of life blessed upon you. At that very moment, your state of reverie was disrupted at the arrival of your maid, who entered your chamber in a humble servant garb.
Milena. The maid whose life was cut short by your hand in your past existence due to petty thievery. “My lady,” she spoke with a hint of respect and urgency, unaware of the ill-fate you had given her in your past life, “A visitor has arrived at the gates and requests an audience with you. Shall I show them in?”
Too soon? Need it truly be so soon to engage with the people from your past life immediately after awakening to your old, yet younger body? Gazing upon your maid through the mirror, you asked, “Who is that intruder you speak of?”
She bowed her head, her stance shifting into one of apologetic deference. The way she firmly stood by your door was a message to you that the intruder was not someone you could easily reject the presence of.
“The visitor is His Highness, Crown Prince Satoru.”
