⁀➷ a really burnt-out writer and artist. I hope to pick back up drawing soon. AO3 (I don’t post as much as I’d like to.)
multi-fandom blog
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Of course, like everyone, I have my boundaries. I’m only here to dump away my thoughts.
My opinions are my own about different topics and everyone is entitled to their own.
With that being said, I will not tolerate any bigotry or any bigots. Racism, homophobia, transphobia, zionism, ableism, and/or any other form of discrimination or hatred will be an immediate block from me. I do not care to hear from you if you participate in this.
I do sometimes interact with nsfw posts, so minors dni.
Fandoms I lurk in as of right now.
TSC
NIJI EN
BNHA
AOT
Redacted Audio/Redactedverse
ZSaku/Sakuverse
Love and Deepspace
Haikyuu!! ( Iwaoi, MatsuHana, Bokuaka, and Kuroken brainrot)
Bungou Stray Dogs
Jujutsu Kaisen
Genshin Impact
Banana Fish
Sk8 the infinity
Given
Millionaire Detective (DaiHaru lives in my head rent free)
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.
✧ synopsis: you remember the days when suguru was still in your life, the days when you believed in love. once he left, you've had to relearn how to live, and once he returned... it was all pointless.
✧ pairing: post deflection! suguru x childhood lover! f! reader
✧ warnings: angst, major character deaths, gore, canon compliant, timeskip, hurt/no confort, mutual yearning, multiple pov's, no mercy we die like men, satoru cameo.
✧ a/n: my entry for the lovely @hotties4gojo 's tarot collab<3 《 fanart cr: @/MrJieshisu on X 》 wc: 4.4k
february 3rd, 2005.
it was you and suguru's first year at jujutsu tech, but far from the first birthday the two of you had spent together. you've accommodated well around the new space, even made some friends, but eachothers company still had remained the perfect gift; one you'd meant to cherish for as long as you live.
the comforting warmth of your dorm room still stood strong against the frigid february air. each others presence, along with the young love that bloomed in your hearts, filled the space with familiarity and glee as you dragged suguru in by the hand, still dressed in the slack jujutsu attire after that day's lessons.
you knew big parties or over-the-top gifts were not exactly suguru's thing—which was probably fortunate considering all of your pocket money was your allowance (which was limited). you guided him to sit on the bed before heading over to your dresser, after tossing a few shirts and trousers around, you managed to find it—a small, modest box caging in his birthday present. a locket necklace.
"found it…" you mumbled to yourself, hiding the box to your back as you turned to face suguru.
"you got me something? you shouldn't have," suguru huffed, though his shy gaze and sheepish smile betrayed him.
"haaappy birthdayyy!" you exclaimed in a sing-song voice, handing him the leather-cased present.
suguru opened it with careful hands, his eyes melting into hearts once seeing the locket and the photograph inside it.
it was a picture of the two of you; suguru was kissing your cheek and hugging your side. you had the biggest smile on your face while butterflies wreak havoc in your chest. everything felt so pure.
it was taken on the day you found out you got admitted into jujutsu tech. the happiness could've been felt even though the lens—you were so excited for what was to come, so keen to be doing it together.
"it's a picture of us," suguru reaffirmed quietly, maybe just to himself. he studied the locket, the metal detailing on its case and the way it hugged the small photograph. he smiled, soft and genuine; mentally stuck in the memory. "it's beautiful… thank you."
you're beautiful.
"so you never forget me," you teased, sitting next to him. "i got one for both of us, so you're safe, too."
as if you needed that to remember him.
"i could never forget you in the first place, pretty girl."
september 19th, 2007.
what a lie.
you remember it as if it were yesterday, the moment you found out suguru left. the moment professor yaga uttered those words that made your heart drop.
"suguru killed everyone in the village."
"—killed his parents."
a subject to execution.
tears welled up in your eyes, afraid to fall, afraid of making all of it feel real. it couldn't be, right? yet the look on yaga's face told a different story, and even satoru was nowhere to be seen.
no, it doesn't feel real.
the truth of suguru no longer being next to you was not one your heart can handle.
have you been blind all this time?
blind to who suguru really is? no, you've known him better than anyone.
did you, really?
you loved him.
…but did he?
was any of it real?
what happened?
the air felt somber, hitting you all too hard in the chest. your mind was weighed by the harsh possibility you didn't want to believe. impulse guided your body as you backed away from the instance, stepping through the gray halls that once felt so familiar.
the dorm room you considered a sanctuary not long ago became the worst reminder of everything that was. polaroids hung on the walls like any of it meant something. that one sweatshirt you stole from him, tossed next to your pillow after hugging it to sleep because you missed him during his last mission. even the faint trace of suguru's earthy cologne still lingered in the air, except now it was making it hard to breathe.
your pillow was soaked with tears and no answers that night. sobbing until your body ached and slumber took over in pity, waking up to your head pounding, needles of everything that happened the day before blazing mercilessly through your skull.
your eyes flutter open, puffy and heavy with dry tears. slivers of light find their way through your curtain, making you wince, illuminating the room that mirrors the mangled mess in your heart. photographs laid on the ground and dresser, ripped from the walls and thrown into the air; part of you wishing they'd catch fire.
your hand drifted instinctively around your neck, a mindless action, though a fragment of your heart still hoped to find the locket necklace matching suguru's, hoped to see his face again, even if it were through a picture. but no, it was shoved in the back of a drawer, away from the light it once brought you.
did suguru keep his? you can't help but ask yourself, or did he throw it away? bury it in the past, just like his life with you?
you knew the answer… why even bother?
pulling yourself up from the bed, you look at the small alarm clock on your nightstand, it read 11:26 am — good thing it was a weekend, not that you cared, anyway. your gaze drifts next to it, blinking twice after seeing a foreign, neatly folded piece of paper lying next to the clock.
you almost don't dare picking it up.
but you do. not knowing what you'd hoped to find.
i want to preface this with saying i'm sorry. i know you deserve a better explanation than just words on a piece of paper.
i'm sure you've heard by now. and what i did may have no excuse, so i'm not careless enough to ask you for forgiveness, but i believe you know me well enough to come to a point of understanding, whenever that may be.
you have every right to be angry at me, to be hurt. i've always encouraged you not to bottle up your emotions, and i still do; i know you tend to do that. my time hasn't come to an end yet, but you can mourn me still. don't lock yourself out. live.
my actions should not reflect on you, so you shouldn't feel any trace of guilt or doubt regarding that. the world we live in needs improvement, and you don't deserve to pay the price of it.
as of now, jujutsu tech is the safest place for you, so don't look for me. putting a target on your back because of me is not a risk i'm willing to take. your security is non-negotiable.
thank you for being the best part of me and of my life. i'll always love you.
yours, suguru.
the words got blurry after the first few sentences, blended together as the ink bled into the paper, tears falling down your cheeks and staining the letter more with each paragraph.
your hands trembled, burdened by too many emotions flooding in all at once. reality set in. sharp, and final. like a stab to the heart.
suguru was gone.
the boy you once knew was gone.
your first and only love.
you don't remember much of what followed that day, or the ones after. they were a blur, a spiral you couldn't escape no matter how much you would have tried—even though you didn't.
with each passing day resentment dug its roots deeper and deeper in the shattered crevices of your soul. hours spent staring into an abyss, replaying each word of suguru's letter in your head. you wondered what went wrong—when? were you being ignorant?
could you have done anything?
suguru never showed anything. even days before his last mission, he's had the same warm and collected expression—
(for the past year, he's tried so hard to shield you from what was happening inside his mind. too afraid to be a burden to you. you didn't deserve it.)
— the same gentle, loving voice.
(how could he not? it was you.)
it felt so intimate.
so why?
why did he have to be so selfish?
why did he leave you all alone?
why does your life still feel senseless without him?
the man who killed a whole village.
the man who killed his parents.
the man who killed your heart.
you were afraid of what suguru had become. but most of all you were afraid of what would become of you.
you re-read that letter over and over again until the words become etched in your mind. until all you've thought about was what happened, what suguru said… what would you have said?
you tried turning it all in your head until something made sense.
all you were left with back then was the realisation that hate was easier than love.
february 3rd, 2012.
most of you has managed to make peace with the fact that suguru left.
most of you.
the memory of him never left you. it's not like you ever truly let yourself forget him, but no matter. suguru lingered everywhere you went. in every woody–warm scent that entered your nostrils—you smelled him. in every love song you've listened to—he was always the answer. in every dream you've had—you saw him.
the years that have passed since then changed you. experience brought maturity. maturity brought wisdom. wisdom brought the ability to see from a different perspective.
a part of you still wanted to hate suguru for leaving you. for making you believe that love was a myth you were too young and naive to believe in. but it doesn't change the part of you that admits he'll always be a part of you. that in the back of your mind you still loved him, and believed he was the purest and realest thing you've ever felt.
before the evil of the world seeped into your bones.
and you couldn't help but wonder, is suguru's ideology really that wrong?
you traced each event carefully. from riko's death, to haibara's. to the burden of having to absorb all the negativity and evil of humanity.
suguru was only fifteen when the two of you joined jujutsu tech. seventeen when he left.
a young boy's moral compass was broken under the pressure of everyday witnesses. he didn't grow into his ideology; it was forced upon him. a last resort. a one way trip.
it's difficult for you to blame him now.
it's difficult to admit that missing him wasn't chipping away at your soul.
that's how you find yourself in your old dorm room. plopped down next to your bed on the carpeted floor, holding the locket that once matched suguru's. it had been left untouched for the past five years, in the cold shadow of your drawer, right next to the letter you've read more times than you care to count. the photograph showed the way it slightly aged through time, how the silver pendant darkened around its engravings, how the colours of the trapped memory seemed to fade.
seeing suguru's much younger face brought back a terrifying sense of nostalgia, and it made you feel as whole as it did empty.
it was his birthday today.
he used to spend every birthday with you. and now you've officially missed more anniversaries than you've even attended.
you couldn't stop the tears that gently slid down your cheeks.
you mourned him. you mourned your lover, and the boy you used to run hand in hand with when you'd be late to classes.
a life without suguru was not one you've ever imagined. but now that's all you knew. barren days and rehearsed interactions. numbness you'd wield like armour.
you'd known suguru, long before the bitter taste of curses had managed to taint your love. and you missed him. you missed his laugh, the way he looked at you, and how you understood each other without any words; but god, most of all, you missed his heart. his loving, and honest heart. the one that was given to you without any hope for anything in return, without any demand.
even now, getting out of bed felt like a demand to you sometimes. emotions felt forced, trying to face them felt like getting your heart torn out. suguru was the only one who could get past your walls, and now he was not here anymore—and your walls came crumbling down, leaving you for dead under the suffocating rubble of your own self.
you wondered what he was up to these days. was he happy? fuffiled? did the people around him love him as deeply as you did? as deeply as he deserved?
you hoped the answer was yes.
did he keep the same routine he had when you knew him? start his day with a steaming hot cup of red tea and two cubes of sugar?
did he still prefer books over movies?
did he ever think about you?
you let your tears fall along with the hope of ever getting answers.
suguru couldn't bring himself to wonder about you.
he knew the answer.
he knew you've been struggling to this day.
he knew he didn't deserve to have you on his mind.
suguru would lie awake in the soft but unfamiliar warmth of his bed. his long digits tracing the X scar slashed into his chest, as if to remind himself again why he's doing this.
the answer would usually be because the jujutsu world was ineffective. that it was corrupt. that it was using sorcerers like lab rats—which was true.
but was it really worth it to pay the price of losing you?
waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night because he'd have a nightmare about you being killed, and him not being there to protect you.
back then, he'd convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. that he would make this world one where you'd be safe. that he'd be protecting you from the darkest parts of himself.
you didn't deserve to see that. not you.
never you.
how the filth of humanity and their weakness had rubbed off on him. what it brought out of him. violence and disgust.
but the truth is, suguru didn't recognise himself anymore. he's absorbed thousands of curses in his life, each one plaguing his mind and slowly undoing his sanity.
but you, you undid his soul.
he's watched you over the years. scarce visits from afar, never leaving a trail behind. as little as he would allow himself without taking the risk of being seen.
you became a teacher at jujutsu tech meanwhile—after forcing yourself to do something with your life—and he'd often catch you with the students. teaching them. comforting them when they'd mess up. always so loving. so great with the kids. mimiko and nanako would love you, suguru thought to himself.
the gift he'd allow himself on his 22nd birthday was to envision you in his arms, holding you tight against his chest like he should've done a hundred times more while he was around. imagining your soft skin and the peaceful pace of how your heart beat next to his.
he felt sixteen and in love again.
suguru slept well for the first time in a long time that night.
he knew it then, and he knows it now, that if he came to personally give you an explanation about the day he left, the world he'd invisioned would not stand a chance against a future with you.
and making a better world for you was his priority.
you are his priority.
no matter how much it hurt him, suguru had to let you go.
november 24th, 2017.
alarms blared throughout the propriety of jujutsu high, countless sorcerers running around in a frenzy and grouping together in the front yard.
what happened?
you follow their trail, rushing down a flight of stairs and making your way through the sea of people. familiar faces sprang up—the students were there, along with professor yaga and even nanami.
you step forward, trying to catch a better understanding of what was going on. there was nothing, with the exception of way too many people bunched up in one space.
after hearing a man in the distance ask something along the lines of "what's that in the sky?!" your gaze lifted, eyes turning wide upon seeing the oversized bird flying in your direction.
that can't be a bird.
it takes less than a minute until it has landed. it was a curse.
a curse from which suguru geto just got off.
your heart stopped for a few seconds, and even the possibility of having hallucinations settled in your mind.
suguru geto.
your eyes were fixed upon the man standing less than 20 feet from you, seeing right through the people in front of you that seemed like they didn't even exist in that moment.
he looked nothing like the boy you once knew. now standing tall with a confidence that radiated from him. his hair was longer, cascading over his broad shoulders and down his chest like spilled ink, dressed in monk's robes that somehow fitted perfectly.
he hasn't even seen you. maybe a part of you was glad.
standing behind him were other people, each you could tell was a strong curse user.
were those the people he considered his family now?
before long, satoru has made his appearance, gracefully slipping through the masses as he approached suguru.
you'd kept your spot, somewhere hidden through the many people present. seeing suguru for the first time in ten years awakened something within you that you thought was buried. too many emotions you couldn't pinpoint crashing into you like a train at full speed.
everything was happening so fast in your mind. suguru's voice rang in your ears, unfamiliar and commanding; yet you were still unsure when you heard him declare war.
december 24th. a month from now.
everything you thought you knew got scrambled in your memory, and your body moved without you, stepping back as if to escape the current reality.
if only you could.
yet your eyes still searched for suguru's, even as he revealed the bloody plans of the near future.
another curse sprang from the ground, bigger, definitely more dangerous, and the perfect distraction for him to swiftly take his leave.
you couldn't register what was happening, your brain firing more thoughts than it can handle. your eyes burned, tears of sorrow flowing down your face. you watched him still, watched him look at you before turning his back with permanence—
suguru looked at you.
unmistakably, the fraction of a second that lingered, your eyes locking together in something that neither of you could deny. his gaze faltered, somewhat soft and almost apologetic, but heavy with the weight and guilt of the words he knew you've heard just moments ago.
the look in his eyes did not match the plan of his actions.
you felt sick. the course of the past ten minutes blended together, stirred in your stomach until your mind and body were overwhelmed.
the walk back to your room felt endless. fingers trembling as you anxiously played with the hem of your sleeve, burning tears streaming down your cheeks without hope.
you felt seventeen and powerless all over again.
were you really meant to fight against him in this so called war?
would suguru hurt you if he had the chance?
would you hurt him?
through already knew the answer to that.
every gut-wrenching thought spiraled back to the way he looked at you, as if you'd been brought back to the days when you'd understand each other with a simple glance.
you couldn't seem to grasp the true purpose of this war, but what you did understand was that somewhere deep down, a part of your suguru still remained.
december 24th, 2017.
time moved by you, careless of what awaited, each day rushing on to the next before you'd even manage to let yourself breathe. and it was suffocating, turning around each scenario in your mind of what could go wrong—if anything could go right.
but judgement day has come at last, the past month snapping by in the blink of an eye. you couldn't consider yourself prepared, but then again—when would you ever be?
the cold rays of the december sun have enveloped the hurried city of shinjuku in a hundred ethereal shades of yellow and orange, momentarily taking away the fact that before long, it will become a warzone, and that you'd be on the front lines.
you bite back the bile that rose in your throat, being afraid will not do you any good. you were a capable grade one sorcerer, rarely unable to handle yourself during missions.
but to you, this wasn't about the usual curses, no.
it was about the crudest one of them all.
love.
how it hurt worse than any physical attack.
how it brought you up to this point, only for you to hope that it doesn't mark the end.
sundown came fast, and the shallow streets were now crawling with curses. you looked around, not seeing any familiar faces, nobody that mattered.
you took a deep breath, working out your balance in order to steady yourself. drawing out your sword from its sheath, it let out a screeching sound, sharp and high pitched. cursed energy was flaring around you and your weapon, almost mirroring a small beacon of power.
you took each curse one by one, sliding your sword through them as they burst up into dimming flames of cursed energy. some gave you more troubles than others, some putting on a fight.
your moves were swift and deliberate, mind clear of anything that might set your attention astray. your focus was undivided from the curse in front of you; it was strong, grade 2 at least. but nothing haven't handled before.
the alleyway in which you were was narrow, the setting sun leaving but darkness in it's ominous wake. you had trapped the curse in the dead end side of the small street—you had it cornered, this was your time to strike the final blow.
your instincts fire, centering yourself in order to get the best accuracy. you only get to set your right leg forward before your entire body freezes on the spot.
this was not the time.
your stance does not move, as if all the strength had vanished from your limbs. you were helpless.
helpless against the wave of panic that surged through you. you feel the change in the air, even filthier somehow and only getting stronger. you sense another one behind you, creeping in closer, sending shivers through your frozen body. you can't even scream.
the realisation settled in fast and without doubt— you were surrounded, and there was nothing you could do about it.
unsettling growls were heard from every direction, it's uncanny energy caressing your body and setting fear deep in your bones.
you've heard the phrase "no sorcerer dies without regret" one too many times for you to ever forget it.
you just hoped it wouldn't be true for you.
it was over.
the weight of too many truths pressed against your ribs, aching to come out.
too bad you'll never get the chance again.
you couldn't scream. you couldn't move. not even when their razor sharp teeth nestle into your flesh.
again, and again.
the bites didn't feel like anything else you've ever been cut with. as if the foul and viciousness sank into your body until it tore it to shreds.
only then do you fall to your knees, no longer able to keep up. defeated.
when consciousness begins to slip away, it feels like the closest you could've gotten to serenity. crimson soaked the dark fabric of your uniform, though the pain seemed to fade. and so do you. eyes closing with finality, with so many things that were left to do.
maybe in the next life.
your mangled body was far too much, too gone even for shoko to handle. satoru teleported you as soon as he found you, though it was late.
far too late.
satoru was about to lose two of the people he cared most about. only a few minutes have passed since he met with his best friend again.
suguru laid against the frigid concrete wall, his body slowly giving up on him as blood continued to pour from his right shoulder.
yet, a weak smile finds its way on suguru's lips.
"is my family okay?" he panted.
"they are. every one of them managed to escape." suguru was glad to hear that. but something else hid in satoru's voice, something hurting, laced with a darkness he could not pinpoint.
"is… is she safe?" just asking about you felt inappropriate, wrong. like he had no right to worry about you anymore.
he didn't, not really.
"she's dead, suguru."
satoru's words hurt harder than all the blood he's shed.
he didn't want to believe it, but the words echoed in his mind, telling him otherwise.
"she was killed by one of your curses," satoru confirmed, the pain in his voice making it sound ragged.
suguru's throat closed up, nothing but a choked cry escaping him.
his final moments bleed into a vast void of stinging loneliness and guilt. this was not supposed to happen.
with the last remaining strength in his body, suguru's hand reached up to his neck, finding the silver locket hiding beneath his dishevelled robes and ripping it off. his gaze lingered on the pendant—blood now staining it red. not a day had gone by without looking at your picture, silently naming all of the regrets that drove him away from you.
suguru brings the pendant to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to the dirtied metal. the closest he'll ever get to you.
he doesn't have the strength left to open it, but god, he wishes he could, yearning to see your face one last time.
but it's okay, he doesn't deserve to anyway. he knows that.
the life force drains from his injured body, his surroundings growing blurred and hazy due to the loss of blood. the lack of strength in his arm lets it fall into his lap, yet his grasp on the necklace never ceases.
satoru never gets to unleash his technique before suguru lets his body wither in the memory of you. in the memory of how much he's hurt you.
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.
“I want a divorce,” you tell him.
“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes too long.”
“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”
“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.
“You committed a crime first.”
“Getting married isn’t a crime—”
“Fraud is.”
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?” you’d asked.
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.
You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”
“There are photos?”
“Francis had a camera.”
“What?”
“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”
“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.
“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”
“Then we can’t go there.”
“I called ahead.”
You gape at him. “Three months ago?”
“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”
“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”
“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”
“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”
“That’s your fault by proximity.”
“That’s not a legal standard.”
“I’m making it one.”
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.
“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”
“You’d better not,” you say.
“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.
“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”
“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”
“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“Satoru—”
“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”
“Vegas,” you echo.
“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”
“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”
“I said what I said.”
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.
“I was nervous,” he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!
“Were you,” you say.
“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.
“We’ll see.”
“Satoru.”
“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
“Fuck,” you groan.
“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”
“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”
You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?
“He might live here,” Satoru says.
“Francis?”
“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”
“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.
“It’s nearly one.”
“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”
“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
“No,” you say.
“There’s a window.”
“I see that.”
“It’s open!”
It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”
“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”
“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Obviously.”
“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”
“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”
“I’m not being a lookout.”
“You just said—”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.
“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.
“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”
“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.
“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.
“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”
“Were you?” he asks.
“Yes. Were you?”
“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.
“We should take them,” Satoru says.
“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”
“They look pretty developed to me.”
“Satoru, they’re damp—”
“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”
“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”
“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”
There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”
“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”
“What?”
“I’m asking genuinely.”
“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”
“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.
“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.
“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”
It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”
“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
“I want to see them again,” you announce.
Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.
“About which part?”
“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.
“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”
“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
“Hi,” Satoru says.
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.
“I said hi.”
“Hi,” you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.
“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”
“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”
You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.
“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.
“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”
“I need you to, hah, just—”
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
“Satoru… please, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”
He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”
“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
“Ride me?” he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone.
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.
“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”
He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”
You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.
“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.
“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”
“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
“Morning,” you say.
“My credit card,” he says.
“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”
“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”
“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”
“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”
“I liked those rings.”
“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his.
“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”
“Yep.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.
“We came back,” you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”
You produce the white box.
“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”
“We forgot something the first time,” you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
呪術廻戦 after overhearing you playing piano, satoru seems to have fallen hard for you. the only problem? he's not allowed to date. but who's to stop him.
TAGS ⎯⎯ pianist f! reader & soccer player! gojo ┆ 9.7k words . fluff , a bit of angst , unsupportive parents , geto will be ooc (?) college au , brief smut, gojo falls first and hard . fic reupload art by @/soyboba91 on twt
If you were to tell gojo three years ago that he had fallen in love during college, the boy would have laughed in your face.
But it's true, Gojo is in love.
And not with a cheerleader from his games, a sorority he'd hooked up with or a stripper he'd have charmed with his stupid grin.
But with a pianist.
A very gorgeous and talented one who he would sit down next to hours on end, listening to the new song you had learned to play. a beauty he would die for. And most importantly, the girl that he is one minute away from getting down on a knee for.
And it all started with a forgotten notebook.
⟢
"Where the fuck is my notebook." Gojo muttered, searching his backpack twice. Then he looked in his locker, his gym bag, under the bench, even. His eyebrows furrowed until a groan left his lips.
It wasn't like it magically grew a pair of legs, but he still looked behind the vending machine as well. Just to be extra sure.
"This cannot be happening.." The last he needed was losing the one journal he actually used and the one that had his homework in it, especially not after a long night of practice that had his limbs feeling like spaghetti noodles. He just wanted to go home and drool into his pillow, sleeping off into another world.
"Looking for something?" Suguru chimed in, watching as his friend pulled out everything from inside his locker. His soccer uniform dropped onto the floor but Gojo was too exhausted to even care.
He shot a scowl towards the pierced boy. "My notebook man.. I lost it."
Gojo tried to recall where he had last used it. But there was no hope with how fried his brain was. He dropped his body dramatically onto the bench with a whine that sounded like it had come from a child.
"I have Monday's assignment in there."
"For what class?" Suguru slipped on his shirt over his body, closing his locker shut before turning to Satoru. "Biochemistry.." That’s when the memory hit him straight in the face.
He had left the notebook in his class, on the desk he sat in right next to the window.
Gojo immediately stood up, causing his head to feel dizzy, grabbing his bag to place on his broad shoulder. "Gotta go, see ya." He gave his friend a quick harsh pat on his back, rushing towards the door.
How could he be so dumb to leave it behind?
He has been so focused on his upcoming winter game that he was in a rush to get to practice on time.
You’re late three times to practice? You’re out.
The walk to his science class was a blur. Dodging small talk from other teammates and the cold weather practically freezing his balls off.
By the time he reached his biochem room, the hallway was eerily quiet as he slipped into the classroom.
There it was, sitting right there on his desk.
He could almost cry tears of joy.
Gojo let out a breath of relief, retrieving back the journal full of doodles and important notes. But most importantly, a poorly drawn portrait of his professor as a disgruntled frog that would definitely get him in trouble if said professor got his hands on it.
He clutched it close to his chest dramatically.
The door clicked quietly behind him. He was about to head towards his car that was parked in front of the field when a sudden sound floated down the hallway, reaching his ears.
It was music.
Well, a piano.
That's what it was.
The notes were as delicate as the raindrops that were hitting the window.
His head tilted to the side, following where the tunes were coming from in between the crack of the door.
Gojo knew he should have just gone home and attempted to get more than four hours of sleep for once, but the sound had him entranced like a siren call.
And that's when he saw you for the first time.
You looked so focused, eyes locked on the keys under your pretty fingers. You haven’t noticed him yet, peeking through the crack of the door like a creep.
Gojo held himself closer, steadying his body on the door, trying to get a good look at you. Maybe he could make out your face if he leaned in just a bit closer. But he only managed to fall, causing the door to open wide and for you to freeze.
Your fingers hovered over the piano, eyes blown wide completely startled.
"Oh my gosh- I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, pushing himself off the ground, wincing at the feeling of a now forming bruise on his knee. He was tripping over his words, trying to explain why he was even peeking in the first place, but he fell silent when you approached him.
You had to be an angel with the way you were staring up at him. "Are you alright?" your voice was even better. It was so gentle.
'Angels play the piano.. I had no idea' gojo thought.
"Uhhhhh, yeah. yeah, I'm alright." He answered quietly, eyes drawn to your lips. "You play really beautifully"
"Oh, thank you."
"Yup!" With that, he rushed out the door, face blushed to the max and heart beating faster than it does when he's out on the field. 'Holy fuck, who was that beauty?' His hand felt light.
Way too light.
He looked down just to see that he had forgotten his notebook, again.
Gojo would rather dig a hole and die in it than go back and face you after his sudden departure.
Your footsteps clicked on the floor, tilting your head to see gojo standing there, contemplating if he should turn around or not. "Hi again, you forgot this.."
You lifted up his journal.
"R-right, I forgot about that." He let out a nervous chuckle, reaching behind him doing a little grabby motion with his hand, back still turned towards you.
You were confused by his behavior but didn't question it, gently placing the book in his hand.
"Thank you." The flushed boy squeaked out.
You bit back a smile, watching as he tried to discreetly sneak a look at you over his shoulder.
"No problem!" you chirped, turning around to walk back into the music room. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, body now turned to fully face your figure as you walked away.
"... Wow." he whispered.
⟢
"And then she smiled up at me, like the prettiest smile I have ever seen. I'm not even joking that girl is heaven sent. I regret not running after her because oh my god, Suguru- Suguru are you even listening to me?"
"I’ma keep it a buck, fuck no." Suguru grumbled, scrolling on his phone which was far more interesting than the summarization Gojo has been giving him for the past two hours.
"You're an ass." Gojo grumbled, flopping on his belly on his bed, messing up his navy blue covers. "Let me see if she has instagram.. wait fuck, I dunno her name."
"Wait, you have a crush on a girl whose name you do not know?" The black haired boy stared away from the screen, looking up at his enamored best friend.
"Well like I was saying, she slipped from my fingers last night. I was too shocked from her ethereal face to even process anything"
"Then I don't fucking know what to tell ya, just leave me the hell alone."
Gojo hummed. "Whatever." he swung his feet in the air, twirling around his hair as he thought back to you. His friend gave him a look of disgust because never in his 15 years of being friends with Satoru had he ever seen him in love.
It freaked him out.
⟢
Gojo brought the ice pack to his cheek, mumbling a curse under his breath. The daydreamer was knocked out of his pondering when the soccer ball hit him straight in the cheek bone, smacking him hard enough to bruise.
He received a quick scolding from his coach on how he needed to get his head out of his ass and start playing harder now that the final game was closing in.
One second he was imagining you and your sweet smile and the other he was on the ground. He physically couldn't stop thinking back at you and the events of last night. Gojo threw away the bag with the now melted ice in a nearby trash can, slowly making his way to the music room.
'please be there, please be there, please please please!'
And then..
"Thank you god..." he whispered at the sight of you.
You were walking so peacefully, flipping the pages full of music in your hands, trying to pick which song to practice tonight. A stupid smile grew on Gojo's face. You had on a simple but cute white blouse and a brown skirt, the typical outfit you'd expect a pianist to wear.
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, too focused to notice the 6 foot boy practically stalking you in the dark. He did a little inner cheer, beaming with happiness after you finally looked up, making eye contact with him.
"Oh, hello." You greeted him sweetly. "You're the guy who face planted yesterday, right?"
He froze, embarrassed.
"Yea.. I'm Satoru." He held the door open for you, watching as you entered before closing the door behind him. He flashed you his dorky but genuine smile but quickly regretted it. 'Why the hell did I do that? What's wrong with me?' Any negative thoughts disappeared the second you giggled, making his brain short-circuit.
"I'm y/n."
He gave himself a pat on the back at achieving your name. "y/n, huh?" He tested it out himself, looking around to prevent himself from ogling you.
"So um, last night, I didn't get to listen to you finish playing that song."
You grabbed the back of your skirt, sitting down on the piano chair, patting the fabric down so it didn't stick up awkwardly.
"The one I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me?" Your focus shifted back onto him, scooting on the piano seat to make room for him.
He was surprised at the offer, but quickly acted on it. The muscular boy happily sat down next to his new crush.
"I can play it again if you'd like. It was love me by Elvis Presley." You positioned your fingers on their assigned keys, glancing at Satoru.
The simple eye contact drove him crazy. Gojo could feel the back of his neck heating up but shook it off as you began to play.
Your fingers glided around the keyboard out of pure memory. It made him hold his breath so he wouldn't miss hearing a second. His eyes weren't set on your hands but on your face, fully focused. It was enough for his heart to run wild. Not like it wasn’t already.
You ended the song with one final push on the keyboard, looking up at him and the stupid smile that was plastered on his face.
"That was good.. really good"
"I know." You grinned. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as his tongue darted out to lick his slightly chapped lips.
"Do you play?"
Gojo hummed. "Nah. I’d like to, but I’m too busy with soccer."
"You play soccer?" You asked curiously.
"Yeah, you couldn't tell from my sweat?"
"I thought you just had a bad sweating problem."
Gojo let out a groan. "that's fuckin' embarrassing." He dragged a hand down his face.
a snort escaped you unknowingly, making him turn to look at you again, forcing you to bring your hand up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry."
"For what?"
He did not care. like at all.
"Um.. nothing. So, is listening to me play the piano all you came back for?"
The hand that previously rubbed his face now made its way to the back of his neck, nervously rubbing it.
"Sort of, I came back mostly because I wanted to get to know you. I've never seen you before and I just.. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me sometime." His own words surprised him. That is not at all the reason he showed up.
A faint blush attacked your cheeks. "Really?" Your voice softened even more.
"Yeah, really."
You were hesitant, but eventually nodded. "I'd really like that."
But he was thankful his mouth spoke involuntarily. “Yeah? Great, that’s great..”
⟢
Gojo gently closed the door behind him, letting out a tired sigh. His hands were covering the bottom half of his face, not being able to process the fact that he asked you out, and you said yes.
He began walking to his dorm, ready to tell Suguru what happened. His hands were shaky, opening up his phone to stare at the new contact on his list. Yours. He clicked on the edit button, replacing the number with your name.
“Suguru!” Gojo yelled after entering his room. “Bro bro bro,” he smacked the exposed back of his friend, to which Suguru responded by smacking it away. “I did it, I asked her out and I got her number.”
Suguru grunted. “So?”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Dude, can you at least pretend to be proud of me? Fuck you so negative for?”
Suguru placed his phone down, shifting to lay against his elbow to face gojo. “Just confused and weirded out that you’re serious about a girl. You’re always sleeping around so yeah, it’s fucking weird that you’re suddenly Mr. Lover Boy.”
Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, I'm sorry if it's so "strange" for you to acknowledge that I can actually feel love."
He felt hurt at the fact that he was seen as incapable of feeling such strong sentiments towards someone. Yes, it was right that he used to stick his dick in every girl that would give him bedroom eyes in the past just for fun, but he's calmed down. And right now, he even more so now that you have entered his life, and he doesn't expect you to leave anytime soon.
"Your parents won't like it if they find out you're getting distracted."
Gojo's parents have this stupid belief that if a woman were to appear in his schedule, it would mess up his future. Soccer has been his top priority since grade school, having games every other month and practices every day for hours. Even when he tried explaining that he no longer enjoyed the sport, he got shamed.
"You have talent, son." His father would remind him.
But Gojo didn't want to kick around a ball.
He never wanted to.
He wanted to push his fingers down the keys of the piano, just like you did. He wanted to learn how to read music and to perform on big stages that didn't consist of roaring crowds cheering when a goal was scored, but a quiet audience that appreciated the art he was creating.
That was a dream that he cherished for years, keeping it a secret from everyone, especially from his un-supportive family. If they found out he would rather play an instrument rather than play a sport? He’d be a huge disappointment.”
"They don't have to know." Gojo shot back.
"They'll find out eventually. Just don't waste your time with her, we both know how batshit crazy your family is."
"I'm fucking aware and I don't need to hear it from you right now."
Suguru was sitting properly now, scowling up at the now agitated boy. He knew he was being an ass, but he was just looking out for gojo. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
"You clearly do if you're actually considering going out with her."
"I'm not considering, I am going out with her."
It was a back and forth argument that seemed as if it had no end.
"Whatever, you better not come crying to me when they hear about this. You already know what I will say."
I told you so.
Gojo was already making his way to his room, shutting the door loudly. He hated getting reminded of his parents. Even in college when he thought he'd finally get away from them, they still continue to haunt him.
He fell over his bed, taking off his shirt and bringing the covers up to cover his torso. He took deep breaths, scrolling on his phone before opening up your contact again.
His fingers began moving.
Satoru
'Hellooo. Me, you, cafe tomorrow?'
He held his breath, awaiting your response.
You replied shortly after, which he was thankful for.
You
'Hi! Yes sounds yum! what time?'
Skipping practice shouldn't harm him. He hasn’t missed any yet, so it’d be his first strike. If it meant sacrificing it for you, he would do it.
'Does 3 work for you?'
'Mhmmm, I have to be back before 8 tho!'
He chuckled. Did you have a curfew at 20 years old?
'Alright, noted. See you then.'
'Okay goodnight ! <3'
Oh my god.
You sent a heart and you said goodnight.
That clearly meant something right? You are interested in him, you sent a heart. He bit his inner cheek to prevent a stupid giggle from slipping out. He hearted your message, exiting the app.
From outside his door, he could hear Suguru turn on the tv, probably to play some video game of his. Gojo sighed, standing up to go join him despite the previous argument. He was still his best buddy at the end of the day.
"Make room." He murmured, pushing the black haired boy's feet off the couch to make space for him to sit on.
Suguru handed him the second controller without a question, splitting the screen into two. They played in silence until the sun fully set and the moon rose.
⟢
You patted down your blouse, turning to your side to stare at yourself in the mirror. Is this too little for a first date? Or was it too much? No boy has ever asked you out, not because you were unattractive, far from that actually, but because you always kept to yourself.
Many saw you as boring, shy, timid, unapproachable. But Gojo saw past that.
You did a little spin for yourself, showing off your pretty outfit. This should be good.
Gojo on the other hand was panicking as well.
He didn't know if he should just throw on another of his polo shirts or a sweater. He had his clothes spread out on his bed to make it easier for him to choose.
He settled on a brown patterned sweater with his white shirt underneath and his usual black jeans.
After receiving the message that you were ready, he rushed out the door, bringing the car’s engine to life.
Gojo went over potential lines, like the hopeless romantic he had grown to be.
"Looking as gorgeous as ever." No, way too soon to say that. "Nice rack." No no, definitely not that. Shit, should he have gotten you flowers? Wait, he doesn't know which you prefer. He should first figure that out and then get you some. You looked like a tulip girl, or maybe roses?
His nose scrunched up. Did he put on cologne today? Did he stink? what if you thought he smelt bad.
What about his hair? Did it look greasy? He took a double shower today, shaved his entire body, just in case.
All negative thoughts left his head once he reached your house. You were standing out there waiting for him, looking around cutely with your hair blowing around a bit from the winter wind.
He clenched his jaw close, not wanting it to fall open.
Your eyes landed on his car, face brightening. You gave him a little wave, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder as you made your way down the street to him.
Gojo came back to earth, jumping out of his seat to go over to the passengers side, opening the door. "You're so pretty." he complimented, watching you sit down.
"Thank you!" You happily chirped.
He walked over to his side once again, typing out the location of the cafe on the console, previously where your address was written.
You both began with small talk. How your classes were going, why you even chose the university, all of that.
“So, why soccer?” You asked.
“Well, like I said, my parents wanted me to do something impressive, y'know? I’ve been playing since I was like five. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
“I highly doubt that.”
Your words made his cheeks warm up.
“Why piano?” He forced himself to speak, praying you hadn't noticed the way his hands were gripping the steering wheel.
You hummed in thought. “I don’t know actually. I’ve always liked music and I thought the piano was cool, so I just stuck to it. I tried out guitar before but piano was easier for me.”
Gojo listened intently, almost as if your words were the most important things to ever exist.
“I play for the school from time to time.”
"Is that so? I'll go and support you if you promise to come to my game."
You nodded. "Deal! I'll even wear your jersey."
Fuck. he'd like that. a lot.
"Noted." A breathy chuckle left him.
Your destination wasn't far, but traffic made it seem as if it was. "Think we're here." He looked around, parking the car just as the generated voice set on the map spoke out.
'You have arrived.'
⟢
The date went well, really well.
You even went as far as holding hands as the two of you made your way into the heart of the town center, admiring the Christmas decorations they had set up, laughing at the way they made The Grinch appear.
“Hold on, stand over there let me take a picture!” He pointed over at the cardboard cutout of the character with a silhouette of a person with a hole cut out where the face should be, allowing people to place their head in.
You smiled after posing.
The phone’s camera snapped, taking a couple of pictures.
‘Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.’ Gojo grinned, showing you the captures he had taken to you once you made your way back to him.
“Let’s take one together!” You offered.
His heart beat overtook the holiday music playing, beating loud as hell as you got closer to him for the picture. He gulped, shyly wrapping his arm around your shoulder, forcing himself to look at the camera and not you.
But eventually the day came to an end, and with your curfew hour approaching, he drove you home.
"Hey so um, I was wondering if we could do this again soon?" He internally cringed at how desperate he sounded.
"Of course. I mean, obviously."
Satoru bit back a smile, knowing it was no use with the way his face was shifting to a soft pink color.
He pulled up to your now familiar house, watching you gather your things, unbuckling your seatbelt.
He quickly scrambled out of his seat, rushing over to your side to open the door. You chuckled at how hard he tried, but you appreciated it.
"Thank you."
You both stood in front of each other, the silence heavy. He leaned in, wanting to close the small distance in between you two, but the sound of your neighbor's dog barking snapped him back into reality.
He cleared his throat, taking a small step back. "So um, I'll see you."
"Yeah, see you." You took a couple of steps before turning back around. “I had a lot of fun today, Satoru.”
You reached up on your toes, pecking his cheek gently. A gasp broke from Gojo before hearing the soft clack of your heels disappear with every step you took up to your front door, turning around one last time to wave goodbye at him.
Gojo's hand slowly made its way to touch the area where you had kissed him.
There's no doubt.
He was in love.
Gojo made his way into his dorm room, locking it behind him.
He threw his sweater onto a chair, leaving him in his undershirt, making his way to the couch, plopping down on it. His forearm laid over his forehead thinking back to you and how well your date went.
He smiled softly, clearly satisfied.
Suguru heard the door close, indicating his friend had come home. He went out to greet him but the view of him laying on the couch, eyes closed but smile intact, his face shifted. He knew gojo was in too deep.
And he knew that sooner or later, shit would go down.
⟢
"No no.. that one's an eight note." You pointed at the music sheets in front of you.
"It deadass looks like a sixteenth note." He argued.
"No it doesn't!"
"This is way too complicated.." Gojo groaned, resting his head on his hand all while he averted his gaze from the papers to your pretty face.
He admired you, hand already reaching to fix a strand of hair, thumb lingering on your cheek.
"Satoru focus.." You whined, clearly distressed that your date couldn't understand the difference between two notes.
"Can't. You're too pretty."
His lips grazed yours for just a second, and in that second alone he was able to tell that one kiss wasn't going to be enough.
Your hands placed themselves on his shoulders, previously on the piano seat, returning the sweet short pecks he kept initiating.
His hands went behind your back, bringing your body closer to his.
"Quarter note.. treple clef-" He mumbled against your lips.
"Treble clef." You corrected him.
"Whatever."
After four successful dates, Gojo finally got what, or who, he wanted. You. He finally got you.
And he was the happiest bastard on earth.
“Want to go to the mall, baby?” He said against your lips, tugging at your lower lip.
“Mmm, yeah okay!” You chirped before wincing at his biting. “Ouch! Toru!”
He grinned, licking at where he bit. “Sorry. I just love these pretty lips so much.”
“Yeah yeah..” You rolled your eyes, laughing at the sudden tickle attack he declared against your tummy, poking at the sides.
“Let’s get going.”
⟢
The shoes were put on display so any shoppers could get a brief glance at it before deciding if it was worth buying or not. You stared at them for a while. They were a pretty pair of Mary Jane's. Low heeled but had some chunk put into the platform part and they had a strap that wrapped around the ankle. The bow in the middle of it was small but it added so much to the design.
You always asked your mom for a pair whenever you went out with her and your sister. She always dismissed it, saying they were too expensive. But here they are, only $40.99. Your gaze turned to look at the big poster they had plastered on the window. a new month's deal. 'Buy one get one 50% off!'
Gojo approached you holding a bag full of pizza bits and a single large cup of lemonade intended for the both of you to share from Weltzels pretzels. He took the sight of you looking at a pair of shoes so intently, almost like you were debating buying them.
"Do you like those?" He asked, offering you the small warm bag of food before he took a sip of the drink in his hand. You happily accepted the treats before shrugging. "Not sure."
He hummed. "You've been staring at them for a while now."
"They just remind me of a pair I used to want when I was a kid. But they were always "too expensive" so my mom never got them for me. But she was always willing to drop a grand on bags she would never even use." You saw at the corner of your eyes Gojo reaching to grab a piece of the pizza from the bag.
He didn't say anything for a while, just staring at the shoes as well as he chewed on his pizza bit. Then, he turned and walked off into the store, leaving you standing confused. Your eyes followed as he talked to an employee, pointing at the pair of shoes displayed on the window. Specifically, the pair you wanted. The clerk nodded before disappearing behind the door that read 'workers only!'
"Um, baby?" You whispered out, following him inside the store to where Gojo was standing, still sipping onto his comically large drink.
"Uh hey what are you doing?" You asked once you reached him. He glanced back at you, reaching to grab another piece from inside the bag. "Checking if they have those shoes in your size."
You mumbled his name awkwardly as you shifted the now empty bag in your hands because that biggie ate them all. He took a bite from the treat before feeding it to you. "Shh, I'm working."
The worker returned with a box in his hand. "Size seven?" Gojo nodded, taking the box in his hands, gesturing for you to sit down on the seats provided by the store. "Hey you don't have to.."
"I know," he interrupted. "I want to."
He got down on one knee, placing the cup he was previously sipping on next to you. His hands moved to open up the shoe box, carefully taking out the pair of black mary janes. "Give me your foot" he patted his knee. "Here."
"I can put them on myself.."
"I want to, love." He said sternly, forcing your foot to rest on his knee. "I'm going to stain your pants-" you mumbled embarrassed. He squeezed your calf before slipping off the shoes you were wearing right now, grabbing the shoe, carefully putting it on your right foot. "Not too loose or tight?"
You shook your head. "No.. they're.. they're perfect." He hummed, his skilled fingers adjusted the strap on your ankle handling you like you were the most valuable thing to him. He looked up at you, his expression softened the second your eyes met. "Just like you." Your eyes widened the second he said that, blush overtaking your face.
You tried saying something but nothing came out. Not like you could with the way your throat was drying up. I mean, your boyfriend of what, a month (?) was offering to buy you these expensive shoes out of nowhere. You reached for the cup of lemonade next to you as he worked on your left foot, only to realize he already finished the drink as well.
Is this the type of greed they talk about in the bible?
"Stand up." he ordered in which you complied. You looked down at the fresh pair on your feet, walking around a bit to test them out.
"You like 'em?" he asked again. You turned to him, walking to be right next to him. "Yeah, I like them. A lot"
He hummed in acknowledgment. "Well, go and look for another pair. They have the bogo discount anyway, so might as well take advantage of it." He stood up, brushing his jeans from the small stain you left behind.
"No.. no that's too much! This is more than enough! Besides, you shouldn't be spending so much on me, you already paid for dinner today-"
"Baby, seriously. I don't care if I drop a grand on you, you can make it up to me by allowing me to kiss you numb. Go get another pair." He looked around the store before his eyes landed on a pair of converse. "Get some converse, your black ones are all beat up."
"I like them that way." You argued as you took off the shiny shoes before replacing them with said beat up converse. "Well I don't. makes you look like a sad homeless lady. I want my girl to have pretty clothes to match her pretty face."
You sighed, feeling your heart warm up.
"I'm not throwing these converse away. They hold too many memories."
His hand reached for yours. "Yeah no, we can burn them ceremonially later." He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles one by one with his pink tinted lips.
He was so entranced by your face, he failed to notice the pair of eyes staring you both down.
⟢
“Hey baby!” You coo’ed into the phone, hearing your boyfriend's tired grunts from the other side.
“Morning my pretty girl.” He yawned, dragging a hand over his face.
“It’s four toru, did you just wake up?”
Gojo carefully sat up, watching his bedsheets pool down at his lap, exposing his bare chest. His nipples hardened at the cold air, and he didn’t have to be fully awake to know that he was hard.
Rock hard.
Your voice wasn’t helping out at all.
“Just calling to ask if you’d like to come watch me perform later?”
Your question snapped him from his horny ass thoughts. “What? Baby, you’re having a show later? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
Usually, he knew when you had piano practices and performances.
“I just.. didn’t know if you wanted to sit down for two hours.”
Gojo sighed, not liking the way you even considered thinking he could be bored from watching you do what you love.
“If it meant watching my girl play, I’d gladly sit down for more than a couple hours. I can sit for decades.”
“Toru..”
“I’ll be there. When did you say it was again?” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling his crusties fall down.
“Today at seven.”
He froze for a split second, remembering he had practice. It had completely slipped from his mind.
“Seven..” He repeated softly to himself. Practice was at five, and it lasted two hours and a half.
He had gotten in trouble from ditching last time so he could take you out. ‘Three strikes, you’re out.’ But it would only be his second. He could handle another scolding from his coach. His voice was already echoing through his mind.
The pause rushed to fill it. “It’s okay if you can’t. I know I’m asking last minute, it was just-”
“I’ll be there,” he cut in.
“Are you sure-”
“Positive. I'm positive sweetheart.” His voice was firmer now.
“Wait, don’t you have practice today?” You faintly remembered him telling you a couple days back how his schedule had changed from practice going from every even day to every odd day.
“Yeah, but you really think I need it? I’m as ready as ever”
“Toru..”
“Seriously baby, I’ll be there for you.” His eyes shifted back down to his raging boner. “..Can you come over before you go over to set up your piano though?”
“Oh, yeah, is something wrong?”
“... Just need you.”
Gojo wasn’t a virgin, far from that actually. but with the way his body was warming up and heart beating a thousand miles an hour, he could be mistaken as one.
He waited patiently for you to arrive at his dorm.
Fuck.
Would your panties be pink? Or would they be black.
Or better yet, blue?
“Yo.” Geto knocked at Gojo’s door, despite it already being cracked open. “I’m heading out now to go to practice. You coming?”
“Uh, yeah. I just need to do something quick then I’ll make my way over.”
“Don’t miss again. The coach will be on your ass like last time.” He chuckled, waving bye at the white haired boy.
Gojo bit the inside of his cheek, laying back on his arms, deep in his thoughts as always. You were worth it.
That’s not a question.
⟢
“Oh my god, fuck. Yes baby, fuck!” Gojo closed his eyes, panting like a damn dog on a sunny day.
The way your puffy folds were stretched over him only encouraged him to go faster and harder, hitting your cervix at a perfect angle.
“Pretty fucking pussy, you’re so goddamn pretty, look at you.”
Your performance dress was sitting on the ground while your panties were ripped in the middle, right at your entrance.
“Toru!”
You whimpered, hiding your face in his pillow. "Don't hide yourself from me, baby. wanna see ya.”
The headboard was hitting against the wall with a thud and Gojo could only pray that the other students staying at the dorms couldn’t hear them.
He buried himself deeper into your cunt, bottoming out.
“You’re too big…” you squealed, gripping onto the now wet bedsheets.
“I know. And you’re too tight.”
His hand shifted to grope your ass, fondling the plush meat, hips not stopping or slowing.
Your breathless pleas were like music to his ears.
“My pretty girlfriend.. mmm aren’t you so pretty?” he praised. The veins in his arms were more evident now. One was appearing on his forehead in concentration, trying to figure out the best way to make you cum.
You were a virgin after all.
Profanities spilled from both your lips, feeling yourself clench harder around him. A ring of pre was forming just at the base of his cock, like a damn tattoo.
“Babe! T-think I’m close!”
He grunted lowly. “Don’t cum just yet.” The squelches have now turned sloppier, and louder, and hotter.
His white bangs were sticking to his forehead no thanks to the thin layer of sweat that had formed.
“Not done with you yet.”
His hands placed themselves both on your hips, thick fingertips rubbing you lovingly before flipping you over without slipping out.
He wasted no time smacking at your cunt, watching your wetness fly into the air with each spank.
“Satoru…!” You felt lightheaded in the best way possible. Your drool dripped down your chin, watching him thrust in and out. The hair that trailed down his belly button to join his pubes just made you tighten onto his aching cock even more.
How could your boyfriend be this beautiful?
Gojo hesitated, pulling you closer to his hips, latching a hand lightly to your neck.
“Is this okay?”
You nodded feeling him squeeze it.
The sounds of your breathy moans, messy cunt along with the smack of his balls that hit your ass with every thrust had you both in a trance.
So much so that you didn’t seem to notice the door shutting and the sudden appearance of Geto who was frozen in his place, looking absolutely mortified.
“What the fuck.”
His voice broke through your needy whines. “Satoru!” This time his voice sounded harsher, angrier.
Gojo’s movements came to a halt, keeping his grip on your waist. His body covered you, blocking you from his friends' view. But he knew for a fact that Geto already had in mind who was in the bed with him.
You quickly brought the sheets to your chest in an attempt to cover yourself.
“... Ever heard of knocking?” Gojo mumbled.
“The door was fucking open. I could see you from the kitchen.” Geto did not advance from his spot on the doorframe. “Don’t tell me you actually got with her.”
Gojo hasn't told him about the two of you yet. Or anyone really.
You never questioned it, thinking he’d want to take it slow before he introduced you to his friends let alone family. You had just started dating a couple weeks back. But the way his friend said it ‘don’t tell me you actually got with her.’ left a bad taste in your mouth.
What did he mean by that?
“Geto, seriously get out of the room.”
“Your parents are going to kill you Satoru,” He was more animated now, hands waving in the air angrily. His own thoughts didn’t let him process the way Gojo used his last name on him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now? What the hell are you doing man-”
“I said get out!” You’ve never heard Gojo’s voice beam like that.
Ever.
It got across though. Geto slammed the door shut, storming off.
Gojo sighed, staring at the wall before averting his gaze down to you, smiling softly. “Guess the moment is over, huh?”
Your fingers twitched on his shoulders, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Why’d he say that?”
His eyebrows furrowed, face shifting to one of concern at your shaky voice.
“Hey hey, baby, it’s okay shh..”
His softening cock slipped out of you with a small pop, arms circling around you to bring you into a hug.
“My family.. Is an ass. A big fucking ass. They’re strict with me, especially my love life. They think they know what’s best for me but fuck, no they dont. I know what’s right for me and that’s you, love. It’s you.”
His lips grazed at your cheek, pecking lightly.
“It’s been you since I laid eyes on you.”
⟢
His words looped over and over in your head as you mentally prepared yourself for your upcoming performance.
From behind the curtain, you peeked out to see him sitting in his designated seat, head tilted down at his digital camera, adjusting the settings, waiting for you to come out so he could preserve the moment forever.
Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek, now becoming a new habit of yours, pacing back into the backstage area.
If you've practiced the song multiple times, you shouldn’t be nervous.
Right?
Wrong.
Because the problem wasn’t the notes or the tempo, it was that you’d chosen this song with him in mind.
“Want to watch La La Land?” Satoru mumbled earlier that month, scratching the back of his neck while the other lazily clicked away at the remote control.
“Sure!” You tossed the blanket over your bodies, snuggling close to his warm bare chest. “How are you not cold?” You pressed your cheek against him.
“Hm?” His eyes landed on you after pressing ‘play’. “I am cold. I just want to show off my amazing muscles to my amazing girl.”
“Weirdo.”
Neither of you have watched the film before. but somehow ended up falling in love with it. You with the music, and him with the storyline.
“I hope we never end up like them.” His voice was a whisper, silently wrapping his arms tight around you.
“Toru-”
“Never, ever leaving you, baby. Fuck soccer and you know what, fuck piano too. Don’t leave me.”
You heard your name be called out, indicating you were next.
You quickly patted down your skirt with trembling hands, stepping in front of the mirror to make sure your hair, makeup, posture, everything was perfect.
The stage manager gave you a nod and you finally stepped out.
His eyes landed on you immediately, smiling lovingly up at you. You could feel your chest tighten as you sat at the piano, fingers already hovering over the keys.
From the distance, you could hear the sound of something clicking, his camera.
You inhaled before pushing down your fingers, allowing the melody to unfold. You’d discreetly look over at him, seeing how he stared at you so preciously.
By the final note, your hands had stopped shaking.
The room erupted in applause, the loudest coming from Satoru. You bowed, eyes never leaving him even when you stepped offstage, rushing towards him.
“Satoru!”
He didn’t let another word come out of you, automatically cupping your cheeks, pressing his lips against yours.
“Such a cruel girl.” He pecked again. “You picked that song on purpose didn’t ya?”
You giggled. “Maybe.”
His thumb rubbed under your eye gently.
“You did amazing, sweetheart.”
⟢
Satoru has come to notice that the only way you were able to practice piano was using the school’s.
And with Christmas approaching, he figured it’d only be appropriate if he got you one of your own.
His hands covered your eyes, leading you carefully to the living room where your present was.
“Alright, 3..2..1.”
His hands fell allowing you to see. you blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lights on the tree.
Your jaw dropped.
In front of you was none other than a console piano. It wasn’t like the one in the music room where you practiced in and the only place you knew that had the instrument available for use, but regardless it was beautiful.
And completely yours.
“You like it?” He asked, rubbing your back. You nodded excitedly. “Of course I do! Thank you!” Your face was as bright as the Christmas lights, beaming at the new piano that sat in your living room.
“I'm glad..” he whispered, letting go of you so you could look at it closer.
You squealed, slightly jumping up and down at it. he groaned at the recoil of your ass which was visible under your plaid skirt.
“It's so gorgeous!” your fingers pushed down on the keys.
“Just like you.”
“So cheesy” You said before bursting into laughter as his hands found your stomach, tickling you. You braced yourself on the piano's surface. That's when you felt it.
His very prominent boner that was straining his pants.
Gojo noticed that you noticed.
A smirk appeared on that stupid face of his. “How about we check how sturdy this sucker is.” He placed a hand on your gift.
Gojo’s hips snapped forward with a ruthless pace, each thrust making you hit against the brand new instrument and begin to rattle with all his strength.
His breath was coming out in short pants, chest pressed up against your back, pinning you harder against the surface of the piano. You whispered out his name like a prayer, every sound you made reached his ears and that only seemed to push him even further.
“So goddamn beautiful.” He praised.
At some point, words became too difficult for you to say, resulting in you answering with only moans and whimpers. gojo’s fingers were digging into your hips, leaving crescent like marks on them. He kept pounding into you harshly, tip already brushing against a sweet spot inside you.
“Right there!” You begged along with a loud mewl.
Your skirt was bunched up in his hands, almost tearing the fabric apart as he felt himself grow closer.
“Here?” he began going deeper, watching you fall apart. The bounce of your ass was not helping, especially with the way it slapped against his thighs. His lower lip was in between his teeth, letting out grunts of his own spill.
You were both thankful your parents weren’t home. He wouldn’t want to ruin the image they had of him this quickly. Of the perfect guy for their daughter already fucking her numb over her christmas present.
“Think m’cummin!” You sobbed out, reaching behind you to grab his waist for support. He coo’ed softly, hand leaving your skirt to hold your hand in his. “Me too baby, let’s finish together alright? I'm cumming inside you. no way am i able to pull out this tight fuckin pussy.”
You nodded.
“Please fill me up!” Gojo grinned once he heard that. “If ya say so darling.”
Your legs gave up on you at the feeling of his warm seed filling you to the brim. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth open with sounds still coming out as your orgasm hit you as well.
“Good girl baby.” His arms were wrapped around your waist, pecking your temple lovingly. “Stay with me..”
You both stayed in that position, dick still twitching inside you before softening, forcing him to slip out with a loud squelch that made you cringe.
“M’guessing you loved your gift?” He reached down for your panties, sliding them back on you but not before watching his semen ooze out of your cunt along with yours. He fought the urge to stick his tongue in you to clean the mess up, but he could tell you were already overstimulated, so he decided to eat you out some other time.
And by that I mean in a few hours.
“Yeah.. thank you.. so much..” You whimpered at the sting on your ass after he slapped it. Gojo quickly zipped his pants back up, pushing his hair back with a pant.
“Of course my love. you better play me every song you know on it.”
“Will do..” you smiled weakly up at him.
“I'm gonna go get ya water, cmon sit down on the couch sweetheart.”
You did as he said, carefully sitting down. The feeling of his cum sticking to your panties just made you clench your thighs.
Why did he have to be so sexy?
You stared back at your piano, admiring it. You were already thinking of all the songs you would play from sunrise to sunset.
Gojo walked back to the living room holding a glass of water, handing it over.
“My final game is coming up.. So I have lots of practice to do. Hope the piano keeps you occupied while I’m away.” His arm wrapped over your shoulder, bringing you closer.
“Mmmm that’s right.”
“Wanna head over to a restaurant, baby?” He never hesitated in asking you, and he urged you to never be afraid in asking him for whatever you desired.
“I’d really love that.”
“Good good, let’s get going then.” He stood up, offering his hand to you.
“Uh, no way am I going out to eat like this.”
His eyebrow twitched in confusion. “Like what?”
You motioned downstairs, lifting your skirt to show off the wet mess.
Gojo laughed, smacking your thigh lightly. “No no, you gotta head out like that.”
“Absolutely not!”
⟢
The dinner consisted of nothing but him staring at you.
“Babe, eat.” You urged.
“Can’t, the view is too nice.”
After eating out, you both settled in heading over to his place.
His laugh quieted down as he pulled into the parking lot, seeing two familiar snow colored haired people. He could feel his heart sink and blood boil.
“Stay here darling.” He ordered you, squeezing your thigh. You mumbled a soft ‘ok’, attempting to look behind you out the window to see what was going on.
He got out of the vehicle, walking around to where the people he wanted to see the least were standing. His mother was biting her nails anxiously like a mad woman. His father had his arms crossed over his chest, a serious look displayed on his face.
Then there was Suguru. looking as guilty as ever.
And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.
“Is that the girl?” His mother asked. She had never expected her son to be going out with a girl instead of sticking to his schedule. How dare he? “Is that your little girlfriend?” Her voice rose up.
“What did we say about relationships?” his father reminded him.
But all gojo could think about was the fact that they found out because of the tan boy standing not far away.
“Are you fucking kidding me.” He stared at the one person he thought he could trust. His hands shot out to grab Suguru's shirt collar.
“You told them?!” He was practically screaming in his face. But Suguru kept looking unbothered, as if he didn’t practically ruin Gojo’s life right now.
“Son, calm down.” Gojo's father said sternly.
“No, no how the hell am I supposed to calm down. You all keep getting in the way of my life. My life!” He was at the point of crying tears out of frustration.
“She is just a girl, Satoru.” His mother said. “She woo’ed you with a few tunes so what, it’s not going to bring money into the family, is it? You need to find yourself a good woman. But right now, your focus is on your career. Not a girlfriend, and especially not her.”
“You are no longer the one to decide what you think is best for me. I love her, mom. I don't care what you think, just know that I am not listening to anything you say.”
That shut his mom up real quick, shooting him a death glare, one that would have 6 year old Gojo in tears by now. But he kept his head high.
“Satoru, you have to understand that we want what’s best for you.”
“No,” He interrupted, turning to look at his father now. “You want what’s best for you.”
He then turned his head towards Suguru, whose eyes were set on his shoes, knowing he completely lost his best friend's trust. It's not like he had a choice either but to tell the truth. His and Gojo's family were close, and he knew that if he were to lie to Gojos parents when they asked him why the coach had informed them that their son was on the verge of being kicked from the team, the families would have even more conflicts.
Gojo wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead he walked right past the new stranger.
“Can you hear me out for a second.” Geto caught up to him, ignoring the putrid sobs coming from Mrs. Gojo. “Satoru.” he called out.
“Look man, did you really expect me to lie when they came to the dorm, worried sick that you missed two practices? What was I supposed to say?”
“Tell them I was sick, that an emergency came up, I don’t know but you could’ve come up with a shitty excuse.”
“Just for them to find out I didn't tell the truth and have our families fight over me being a liar?!”
Gojo was breathing heavily, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set tight. but his face fell as soon as he remembered you were still in the car.
He shook his head. “They can stay the fuck out of my life. And so can you.”
Geto froze at that. “You don’t mean that.”
“Trust me, I mean every bit.” The air around them felt heavy. “You chose them over me.”
“Gojo, the families-“
“You're just a damn puppet. Same as I was, but I learned to stop playing the role. Do you think they actually see you as their son? They see you as an accomplishment.”
He rushed down the stairs, approaching his car where you were still in, head hung low nervously as you played with the skin around your fingernails, clearly worried. His parents were standing outside the building, shooting dirty looks towards your way.
“I'm driving you home.” Gojo said after entering the car, closing the door shut and clicking his seatbelt on. “Mind if I stay with you for a bit, baby?”
His eyes met yours.
“… Did they want us to break up?” You asked quietly, scared to hear his response.
He immediately grabbed your hand in his to reassure you. “You know I would never ever do that. You're everything to me no matter what they think or say, I'm not letting things end between us. Got it?”
You hesitated, not wanting his parents to hate their only son because he chose you over them. “But what if they’re right? What if you can do better?”
You heard.
Of course you heard. Not like they were being quiet.
His hold tightened. “Don't you start with that.” That's the last thing he said as he drove to yours, address no longer needed on the ups no thanks to the amount of times he’s been over.
You worried over what his family would think of him now.
Would they hate him because of you?
⟢
The bed felt surprisingly cold.
Your boyfriend's back was turned towards you and even though his back muscles were on full display, you couldn’t ogle without having something eating you up from the inside.
“Toru.. baby can we talk about earlier?”
“Love, if you’re going to tell me that they’re right I swear to god-”
“No,” You sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it down to the small of his back. “I just.. I feel like we shouldn’t wait until morning to discuss it.”
Begrudgingly, Satoru turned around, meeting eyes with you. “I will never ever break up with you because my family thinks they know what is best for me. I cut them off on the spot. They’ve got no say in what I do with my life nor with the woman I love. I told you once and I’ll tell you again. I love you, okay?”
Your heart warmed and you felt your worriness ease. “I love you too.”
“I’ve been wanting to get rid of them for a long ass time anyways.” He yawned, throwing an arm around your waist. “Just finally got a good excuse to do so.”
Your lips met in a small but sweet peck.
“Now let’s go to sleep.. Big game tomorrow.”
⟢
Suguru seems to not have caught on to the fact that his former best friend no longer wanted to be a part of his life anymore.
“Satoru, seriously let’s talk.” He begged like a desperate ex.
The white haired boy only rolled his eyes in response, walking past him to reach his locker. “I don’t need you messing with my head before the game. Told you to stay the fuck away from me and I meant it.”
He quickly tugged off his shirt and replaced it with his white and teal jersey before slamming his locker shut and turning to walk out. Suguru’s hand placed itself on Satoru’s chest only to get pushed off almost immediately.
Satoru walked out, hearing the sound of the crowd cheering. He looked around until he spotted you sitting not too far from the front.
He smiled stupidly at himself knowing he was right where he wanted to be.
⟢
You stared at him like he grew three heads.
“Uhh yeah babe, I think I remember our whole love story. I was there.”
“Okay well yes but I’m retelling it because.. Because..” Satrou groaned, looking off to the side where two waitresses were standing, nodding at them.
Before you could look towards the direction he was staring at, a familiar song started playing.
Love me.
The same one you played for him all those years ago.
“Oh, hey-”
“Shhh..” He brought a finger up to your lips before standing up. Satoru reached into his pocket pulling out a small black box. “Baby.. light of my life.”
Your eyes watered, already knowing where this was going.
He got down on one knee.
“Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”
It’s his fault tonight, as is most times. He loves you. He wishes he could do whatever you asked of him. But, Jujutsu society has other plans for him sometimes.
Work. It’s always work that takes immediate priority. Time and time again.
It’s two in the morning. His brain feels like it’s been scrambled fifteen times over and cooked on medium heat, then refried again and finally lit on fire. The cursed spirit he spent the last eight hours exorcising—with a technique of immediate reincarnation—left him to utilize hollow purple in rural-side Japan to avoid casualties, his reversed curse technique to heal himself constantly when he was exhausted, and then teleport way too far of a distance just to get back to you.
Even if it was hours after the date night you had planned for him.
It makes him wince when he tries to envision it all—candles and rose petals decorating the penthouse. Takeout since you can’t cook for the life of you. Waiting at the dining table in that pretty red dress he bought for you last month, hair and makeup done, practically begging to be ruined by him afterwards. Eating dinner by yourself when you realize that maybe he isn’t showing up and heading off to bed.
He wanted to text you, really. But that fucking curse knocked his phone from his pocket mid-air and sent it into the brush of the prairie—the screen cracked and device completely unusable.
“Sweetheart,” he starts softly, his voice echoing in the uncomfortably empty space. He recalls when he left the place practically vacant aside from his mattress, not even caring to furnish the place until he met you. Made a home with you.
He toes his shoes off and tosses his uniform jacket on the couch as he passes the threshold. His bandage hangs loosely around his neck, his Six Eyes barely able to ascertain anything while a grimace of pain passes his face. His cursed energy reserves are running low, and he doesn’t have the power to heal himself right now.
He can only recharge with you.
He makes his way to the bedroom, stumbling and trying not to trip over his own feet. Exhaustion hangs heavy under his eyes, weighing down his limbs. You’re probably asleep seeing as it’s the middle of the night, but a part of him hopes you’re awake. Even if you yell at him, or hit him.
Pushing your bedroom door open, he sees your form under the sheets, facing away from him. Your breaths are slow, rhythmic.
His chest tightens.
He doesn’t have the battery power to even undress himself, slipping into the sheets beside you. He smells like curse, and he has a feeling you’ll cuss him out in the morning for sleeping without getting cleaned up.
His head hits the pillow, milky hair creating a halo of white around his head. The need for sleep hits him quickly, before you stir.
“I don’t want to do this anymore, Satoru.”
Despite how soft and careful your words are, they hit Gojo like a truck. Air is stripped from his lungs as he stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, despair leaving him to spiral. “Okay. Okay,” he turns over to stare at your back, even though it feels like his ribs are being split. “Uhm, I’m sorry, baby. I know how much this date meant to you and—.”
You push air from your nostrils and Gojo stops talking, his gut churning violently. He can taste bile on the back of his tongue. You then turn to face him, and it’s alarming how composed you look. This decision has probably been weighing on you for quite some time, seeing as this wasn’t the first date where he’d had to stand you up. Letting you down, time and time again.
“Just— stop. I was well aware of your role in the Jujutsu world when we started dating, even if you introduced me to it all. I still am now. I just thought… I’d be able to handle it. I guess I was wrong.”
You aren’t even looking at him, slowly appraising the charred holes in his black compression shirt revealing slips of skin. At some point, Gojo couldn’t hold up Infinity and exorcise the curse simultaneously. So, he lowered it, taking a great number of hits trying to kill the fucker. He’s never looked this disheveled before—his hair a mess and perspiration clinging to his skin. It makes your throat close up.
There’s an awkward moment where you pick at your nails and Gojo can’t peel his eyes from you.
Fuck, he hates this. Hates that he has to contest with both his personal and work life. Again. And again.
If only the fate of the world didn’t hang between his fingers.
You’d never make him choose, either. Abandoning his position to make time to grow the life you both want. Which is why you took the choice from him.
Desperation starts to claw at the edges of his mind, his pulse roaring in his ears. He’s not thinking clearly, lips curling downwards. “Baby, please. I-I know I fucked up, but I’ll make it up to you. I love you. Please, just. Don’t leave me?” his voice, barely a whisper now, wavers with each syllable.
Finally, you look up. You’re both crying. Tears run down his pale cheeks, his eyes a deep crimson red. You’re sniffling, your heart wound too tight.
This hurts. It’s hurt for a while now, and you’re certain it won’t stop hurting. You can’t keeping living like this.
“I don’t think I’ll stop loving you, ‘Toru,” you hiccup. You lean forward, cupping his cheeks in your hands. Your palms are warm against his icy skin. Then, you press tender kisses against his cheeks to erase the tears. “And that’s why I have to leave. I have to. You’re hurting me,” you mumble, chewing against the inside of your cheek.
A sob punches itself from his chest. You’ve never seen him cry before—your pretty boy that teases you incessantly, tugging at your hair and kissing you until you’re flustered. Spoils you like he’s got an endless chest of funds, which he probably does. Finds immense comfort in coming home to you. He’s been adverse to vulnerability since the day you met him, and you can sympathize why. When it gets dark for him, it’s really dark.
His arms, bulky and heavy, ensnare around your waist as he buries his face into your chest. He doesn’t stop crying for a while, your name on the tip of his tongue, the fabric of your chemise damp.
“Stay with me tonight,” he mutters after a while, fingers curling against you. “Please.”
You nod quickly, wiping your tear-streaked cheeks with the back of your hand. “Okay.”
You already feel selfish enough, staring at your packed bags tucked in the dark corner, ready to head out in the morning.
If he needs you for one last night, you’ll give him that. Even if it’s the last thing you’ll give him.
f1 driver!Gojo who left you in college after signing his first contract overseas, telling himself it was the right thing to do because long distance would’ve only dragged you down, and the airport goodbyes would’ve turned into resentment eventually (even though you never once asked him to choose between you and his dreams…)
f1 driver!Gojo told you that he didn’t want you waiting around for him while he chased his dreams, said that he’d rather you hate him now than grow to hate him later. Who actually believed it was “the mature and responsible thing to do”.
f1 driver!Gojo raced with Ferrari at twenty three and threw himself into it headfirst, training until his hands blistered and his body ached, watching his name climb headlines, thinking he’d made the right choice.
f1 driver!Gojo never knew unread messages were sitting in his inbox, never questioned why you suddenly stopped reaching out.
f1 driver!Gojo had five seasons of trophies and interviews and cameras flashing in his face, until he eventually had a bad season and started spiraling. He watched the internet turn on him overnight, scrolled through hate comments at one in the morning in his fancy hotel suite, reading strangers call him “overrated” and “washed up”. Who stared up at the ceiling and thought about the last time someone looked at him without expectations.
f1 driver!Gojo for some stupid reason, drove across the city and stood in front of your door because he couldn’t sit with himself any longer. That, and the fact that you were the only person who ever made him feel loved and supported.
f1 driver!Gojo almost didn’t expect the door to open to your tired face. He also didn’t expect a small kid to run down the hallway, hiding behind your leg, peeking up at him with your hair and his eyes, bright blue and curious.
f1 driver!Gojo almost threw up on your slippers.
f1 driver!Gojo understood before you could say a word. But he listened anyway when you explained that you tried to tell him, that you found out you were pregnant a month after he left. That you called and texted and waited for nothing, because his manager was a piece of shit that never passed along a single message that didn’t fit the image they’d built.
f1 driver!Gojo stood there feeling sick, knowing that you had to go through it all alone – the pregnancy and the birth – while he lived an oblivious life of luxury. Who didn’t get to see first steps, hear first words, or blow out first birthday candles. Who had to acknowledge the fact that he was a stranger in his own son’s life.
f1 driver!Gojo refused to miss anything else. He wanted to see him again and he meant it. He didn’t argue when you reasonably hesitated, agreed to meet at a park the next afternoon because he knew you needed time to talk to your son first.
f1 driver!Gojobarely slept that night from nerves, and showed up early with a small replica of his car in a gift bag because he had no idea how to act around a four year old who’d only heard stories about him. Who had to watch the hesitation in his son’s eyes, the years of distance and disappointment he’d regret for the rest of his life.
f1 driver!Gojo immediately fell in love with this kid though. Listening as he started babbling about racing and different drivers and teams he liked. Who had to swallow down his pride when he learned that his son’s favorite was Verstappen on RedBull instead of him (and the nausea when he innocently mentioned that “mommy thinks he’s cute”).
f1 driver!Gojo loved watching his son light up over the toy car, letting him sit in the driver’s seat of his real one parked nearby, showing him videos from inside the cockpit. Who realized that admiration was easy to earn, that excitement came quick when he had trophies and loud engines and cool stories.
f1 driver!Gojo knew you’d be harder to convince, but he understood that you couldn’t be won over with toys and promises, that you’d been there every day and handled it all alone. Who had to accept that his son reached for your hand first, naturally leaned into your side when he got tired, because trust had been built without him and he’d have to earn his place
f1 driver!Gojo walked back to his car alone afterward, with grass on his jeans and his son’s sweet little voice replaying in his head, desperately trying to figure out how he was supposed to be a father and a Ferrari driver at the same time. But he knew he wanted both.
a/n: this is written very poorly, but my sleep deprived brain is gonna post this anyway without overthinking it
f1 driver!Gojo who left you in college after signing his first contract overseas, telling himself it was the right thing to do because long distance would’ve only dragged you down, and the airport goodbyes would’ve turned into resentment eventually (even though you never once asked him to choose between you and his dreams…)
f1 driver!Gojo told you that he didn’t want you waiting around for him while he chased his dreams, said that he’d rather you hate him now than grow to hate him later. Who actually believed it was “the mature and responsible thing to do”.
f1 driver!Gojo raced with Ferrari at twenty three and threw himself into it headfirst, training until his hands blistered and his body ached, watching his name climb headlines, thinking he’d made the right choice.
f1 driver!Gojo never knew unread messages were sitting in his inbox, never questioned why you suddenly stopped reaching out.
f1 driver!Gojo had five seasons of trophies and interviews and cameras flashing in his face, until he eventually had a bad season and started spiraling. He watched the internet turn on him overnight, scrolled through hate comments at one in the morning in his fancy hotel suite, reading strangers call him “overrated” and “washed up”. Who stared up at the ceiling and thought about the last time someone looked at him without expectations.
f1 driver!Gojo for some stupid reason, drove across the city and stood in front of your door because he couldn’t sit with himself any longer. That, and the fact that you were the only person who ever made him feel loved and supported.
f1 driver!Gojo almost didn’t expect the door to open to your tired face. He also didn’t expect a small kid to run down the hallway, hiding behind your leg, peeking up at him with your hair and his eyes, bright blue and curious.
f1 driver!Gojo almost threw up on your slippers.
f1 driver!Gojo understood before you could say a word. But he listened anyway when you explained that you tried to tell him, that you found out you were pregnant a month after he left. That you called and texted and waited for nothing, because his manager was a piece of shit that never passed along a single message that didn’t fit the image they’d built.
f1 driver!Gojo stood there feeling sick, knowing that you had to go through it all alone – the pregnancy and the birth – while he lived an oblivious life of luxury. Who didn’t get to see first steps, hear first words, or blow out first birthday candles. Who had to acknowledge the fact that he was a stranger in his own son’s life.
f1 driver!Gojo refused to miss anything else. He wanted to see him again and he meant it. He didn’t argue when you reasonably hesitated, agreed to meet at a park the next afternoon because he knew you needed time to talk to your son first.
f1 driver!Gojobarely slept that night from nerves, and showed up early with a small replica of his car in a gift bag because he had no idea how to act around a four year old who’d only heard stories about him. Who had to watch the hesitation in his son’s eyes, the years of distance and disappointment he’d regret for the rest of his life.
f1 driver!Gojo immediately fell in love with this kid though. Listening as he started babbling about racing and different drivers and teams he liked. Who had to swallow down his pride when he learned that his son’s favorite was Verstappen on RedBull instead of him (and the nausea when he innocently mentioned that “mommy thinks he’s cute”).
f1 driver!Gojo loved watching his son light up over the toy car, letting him sit in the driver’s seat of his real one parked nearby, showing him videos from inside the cockpit. Who realized that admiration was easy to earn, that excitement came quick when he had trophies and loud engines and cool stories.
f1 driver!Gojo knew you’d be harder to convince, but he understood that you couldn’t be won over with toys and promises, that you’d been there every day and handled it all alone. Who had to accept that his son reached for your hand first, naturally leaned into your side when he got tired, because trust had been built without him and he’d have to earn his place
f1 driver!Gojo walked back to his car alone afterward, with grass on his jeans and his son’s sweet little voice replaying in his head, desperately trying to figure out how he was supposed to be a father and a Ferrari driver at the same time. But he knew he wanted both.
a/n: this is written very poorly, but my sleep deprived brain is gonna post this anyway without overthinking it
synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.
pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso
wc: 14.8k
content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair
art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333
“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.”
You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?”
“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour.
If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space.
Pack you up and bring you with him.
But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position.
“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips.
“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.”
A routine mission.
It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment.
Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on.
“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.”
“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face.
He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you.
But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play.
Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his.
“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured.
“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.”
He liked the ring of it.
His wife.
All his.
He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time.
Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness.
You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself.
“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud.
“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it.
“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed.
Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed.
The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it.
Soon, you’d have the best.
“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both.
“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed.
“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes.
You wanted to believe him.
“Uh-huh,” you exhaled.
He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you.
His home.
Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.
“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you.
“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.
“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.
“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours.
There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.
But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up.
And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press.
Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.
Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress.
“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it.
Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.
He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too.
You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum.
He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body.
Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay.
“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone.
Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body.
But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck.
He didn’t want to let go.
And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts.
They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot.
He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position.
But he’d get to stay with you.
Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment.
“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in.
“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.
Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out.
You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.”
That was just who you were.
What you’d do.
You gave him what he wanted.
Even when you didn’t like what he asked for.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.”
“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him.
But you giggled, and that was good enough.
“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested.
“We already-”
“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?”
“I just want you.”
Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.
He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.
Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them.
Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become.
Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible.
They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.
It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on.
All just a galaxy away.
It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe.
Risky, sure, but it’d been done before.
And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem.
The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet.
Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter.
No, a more pressing issue had presented itself.
A distress signal was being sent up.
Someone was below – and begging to be rescued.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen.
“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.
Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time.
“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”
“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far.
Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months.
“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded.
“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”
Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.
It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.
And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.
There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.
“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it.
He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.
Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.
“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.”
“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.”
Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave.
There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth.
“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing.
He told himself it was the right thing to do.
That it was what you would expect from him.
He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages.
You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera.
But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up.
“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it.
He wanted to touch the screen.
Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong.
“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it.
And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and-
Holy shit.
“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.”
A baby.
He was going to be a father.
His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.
Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments.
“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie.
No. You surely didn’t mean…?
“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?”
It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space.
Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it.
You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks.
“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.”
Never.
He’d fucking be there.
“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he?
Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four.
“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.”
He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.
But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.
“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze.
Found his mouth opening, about to say no.
Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel.
But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way?
Would he be able to look his children in the eyes?
He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.”
Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it.
He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship.
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You should move on.”
It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.
You couldn’t let go of him.
Six months turned into six years without Satoru.
The one thing you were terrified of had come true.
You lost him.
Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him.
Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks?
You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you.
It’s always someone else.
Until it’s not.
Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come.
“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-”
“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket.
You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father.
Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug.
Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead.
When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.
Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.
Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere.
She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru.
But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt.
“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry.
“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys.
She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh.
You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it.
If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes.
You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about.
Apollo and Artemis.
After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery.
To be fair, you had done it in his place.
Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went.
The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call.
And then nothing.
NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious.
Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing.
Somewhere you’d never be able to reach.
You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them.
Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint.
You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.
At least the ocean was on Earth.
It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand.
But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too.
You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk.
Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed.
And Satoru had missed all of it.
Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one.
And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway.
Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.
There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it.
Him.
But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids.
The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it.
You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class.
Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings.
Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had.
You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it.
“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.
“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake.
His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go.
“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.
“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing.
“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over.
You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them.
“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”
You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.
“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.
Your chest hurt.
Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.
“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him.
“Oh, um-”
“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.”
People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”
“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”
“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence.
Satoru would know what to do.
But he wasn’t here.
And all the decisions were yours to make.
Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.
Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.
“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.
“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair.
You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field.
Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home.
Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play.
He didn’t.
To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either.
Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.
You told yourself that you were being an active parent.
Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards.
Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work.
And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.
He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing.
The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute.
Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy?
Smile back when they spoke to you?
Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.
You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them.
But eventually, the school year wrapped up.
You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that.
Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it.
A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids.
Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out.
“Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing.
“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her.
“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose.
They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too.
“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting.
“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you.
It was nice of him.
This was nice, actually.
A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans.
But it wasn’t terrible.
You loved your children. Loved being their mom.
Maybe you could learn to love your life too.
You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang.
“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.”
You didn’t want to consider if you would.
“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded.
You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to.
All you really wanted was for them to be happy.
“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him.
Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.
His eyes were dark.
Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them.
But they were deep. Warm.
“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.”
“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too.
He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”
“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously.
“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
Their mission was fucked.
Suguru was dead.
Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call.
Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder.
Now they had neither.
The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process.
Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too.
Like his best friend wasn’t gone.
He’d never get him back.
No one would.
Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home?
He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.
God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl.
The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it.
Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut.
But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now.
He wished you were here.
Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him.
That his best friend was somewhere better.
Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him.
Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life.
Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he?
He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-
The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief.
Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest.
Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.
Loading messages from the past eleven years.
No. No no no no no.
It was wrong.
It had to be fucking wrong.
The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-
Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back.
He did. He would.
The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone.
Begging him to not make you.
Gojo froze.
Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message.
Part of him wanted to hit stop.
Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it.
But his fingers weren’t fast enough.
And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying.
Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying.
The twins. His twins.
Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this.
Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera.
He was.
Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another.
His children were growing up without him.
From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids.
In what? Fifty minutes?
Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back.
They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him.
Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them.
And you, god, his pretty, perfect you.
Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead.
Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening.
You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked.
His girls a wormhole away.
Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you.
But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.
What if it was too late?
What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth?
The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met.
Would you stop missing him too?
He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.
You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home.
Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you.
Gojo felt like a stranger.
Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his.
“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.”
“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off.
Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours?
He didn’t actually want an answer.
But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway.
You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up.
It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt.
An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed.
A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately.
Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.
Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do.
Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade.
But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-
He puked.
Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.
An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade.
Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame.
“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait.
But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it.
His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was.
And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back.
A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier.
His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.
“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.”
He was terrified to know how long.
“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.”
He wanted to see him. See both of them.
Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now.
“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.”
His chest hurt.
Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The mission should’ve been routine. Simple.
Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony.
“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.”
The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver.
“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.”
If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was.
Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him.
“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”
Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever.
“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?”
Everything hurt.
His body, his heart, his soul.
Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family.
The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated.
“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins.
You hadn’t even confirmed-
“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.
The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.
Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style.
No. You couldn’t-
“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.”
What a load of fucking shit.
The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it.
“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”
Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.
“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.”
Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed.
Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden.
“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?”
He could never hate you.
Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.
He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night.
Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.
“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”
No no no.
He could still make it.
Couldn’t he?
If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole?
Hadn’t he lost enough?
Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand.
You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-
A wedding dress.
“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight.
The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer.
You looked like an angel.
And Gojo sorta wished he was dead.
Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage.
And then a noise in the background startled you.
The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out.
Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.”
Another man was calling you baby.
Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open.
“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.”
“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly.
“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it.
And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat.
“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.”
It could be.
It would be.
Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time.
That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time.
Behind you, there was a knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?”
No.
This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you quietly answered.
Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.
But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead.
“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.”
The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared.
“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.”
Gojo wanted to strangle him.
Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son.
Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be.
“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him.
Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes.
See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him.
Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t.
You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru.
Not that you could even see him.
You thought you were talking to a ghost.
That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads.
“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.”
No. Please no.
He was.
“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened.
Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received.
A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago.
You weren’t married yet.
Maybe there was time.
And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back.
He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in.
“What the hell-”
Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now.
“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.”
That wasn’t a fucking option.
They had to make it.
But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right.
And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch.
He was barely showering.
Barely eating.
Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures.
They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad.
Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time.
Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever.
He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed.
Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them.
By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family.
This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean.
Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.
Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home.
“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research.
“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-”
“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled.
It couldn’t end like this.
He’d be too late if he stayed.
“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack.
“Shoko, they don’t-”
“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.”
“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion.
“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.
He didn’t have the seconds to debate it.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship.
“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.”
“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander.
Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to.
And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from.
He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator.
Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home.
Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.
He should make it.
Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers.
If only he could send out a fucking transmission.
He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out.
Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.
But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too.
When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected.
He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his.
Some part of him felt like it was all light years away.
Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?
Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day?
Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.
But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole.
Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls.
Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar.
He could do this.
Failing wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had brought him here.
“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here.
But he hoped you could feel him.
That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet.
The landing fucking sucked.
Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you.
It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing.
“Are you okay? What the fuck is-”
Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief.
“Uh, could you give me a ride?”
Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder.
“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you.
“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over.
Gojo still had your number memorized.
Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him.
No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either.
But they did.
“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick.
“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.”
“Satoru?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.”
Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit.
He was finished.
Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins.
Would you be happy to see him?
Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him?
He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel.
Was he too early?
Too late?
Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it.
He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there.
Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it.
And there it was.
Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him.
He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it.
His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had.
The one he hadn’t been there to give you.
You couldn’t be-
Someone tapped on his back.
He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.
“Dad?”
It wasn’t you.
Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he?
“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-”
“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-”
“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.”
Every word was a fresh punch to the gut.
A great grandfather.
He never even got to be a father.
Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids.
“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.
“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?”
Four months had been forty years.
Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done.
A fool masquerading as a man.
Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears.
Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all.
He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again.
Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection.
His children wouldn’t need him.
For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave.
“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.”
God, he felt like he was going to die right now.
Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed.
“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-”
It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time.
“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.
Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.”
He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions.
Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there.
He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo.
Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach.
“You’re-”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully.
“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”
“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.”
And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.
Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life.
“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand.
“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now.
“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.
Because right now, he was filled with hate.
Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.
He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe.
Mostly though, he hated himself.
“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”
Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.
Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.
“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.”
She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.
To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet.
Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.
Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person.
Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.
And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed.
He would never get to know.
His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it.
His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back.
A loving fiancé and father.
Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! gojo loves using the “i’m married” card whenever he gets approached, because in his mind you guys are married.
the thing about being satoru gojo is that people look at him.
he’s used to it by now— the double takes, the whispered gossip, the way strangers feel entitled to his attention just because he happens to be tall and white-haired and annoyingly beautiful(so he’s been told). it’s exhausting, honestly, but he’s learned to deal with it over the years.
the second her manicured fingers land on satoru’s forearm, he knows exactly what’s coming.
he’s seen this script a hundred times. the coy smile, the slight tilt of the head, the way her lashes flutter like she’s got something in her eye. he’s been fielding these approaches for years, long before you came along, and he’s got it down to a fine art now.
“sorry,” he says, before she can even get a word out. “i’m married.”
the lie rolls off his tongue as easily as breathing. it’s not even really a lie, not in his head. you’re his girlfriend, yes, but you’re also the one. the endgame. the person he’s going to annoy for the rest of his natural life and probably well beyond that if he figures out how. in his mind, you’ve already got the ring, the shared last name, the matching toothbrushes in the bathroom. the paperwork is just a formality.
the woman’s face falls slightly, but she’s persistent. he’ll give her that. “oh, i don’t see a ring—”
“left it at home,” he says smoothly, already starting to edge away. “wife’d kill me if i lost it.”
he does have a ring. it’s just that it’s still sitting in the expensive jewellery shop that you always stare at when you guys pass by. he’s been meaning to go in and custom-make one that’s been appearing in his mind lately, one that would be unique and fitting only for you, but there’s no rush and the right moment just hasn’t shown up yet, because every time he looks at you, his brain short-circuits and he forgets how words work.
but that’s a problem for future satoru.
right now, present satoru is trying to escape this conversation without being rude, because you’re waiting for him in the car, most likely dozing off against the window with that cute pout on your lips.
he’s reaching for the strawberry milk with the cute cow on it, when he hears the click of heels behind him.
“excuse me?”
satoru doesn’t even turn around. his hand closes around the bottle anyway. “married,” he says, tossing it into his basket.
“oh! i—i wasn’t—”
“very married. disgustingly married. my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world and i think about her constantly.” he finally glances over his shoulder, offering a bland smile. “sorry.”
the woman blinks at him, then laughs nervously and retreats toward the chips aisle.
satoru turns back to the fridge, satisfied. it’s not even a lie anymore, not really. you’ve been his girlfriend for two years, and somewhere along the way— maybe when he watched you fall asleep on his couch with your glasses askew, or when you sent him a photo of a cat you saw on the street with the caption him, or when you laughed so hard at your own joke that you choked on water— he stopped thinking of you as just a girlfriend.
you’re his wife. you just don’t know it yet. there’s paperwork to do, and a ring to buy, and a question to ask, but in his head? you signed the papers months ago.
he grabs another bottle of milk because you like the chocolate one too, and heads to the checkout, basket swinging from his wrist. the cashier gives him an interested look but he only looks at you through the transparent doors that open and close, smiling when he sees you rubbing your eyes through the window and looking around sleepily.
.
.
.
the first thing satoru notices is that the afternoon sun is hitting just right against your hair, making it look like something out of a painting. the second thing he notices is the woman approaching.
he clocks her immediately— the way her eyes flick to him, the subtle once-over, the way she angles her body toward his. he’s seen this movie a hundred times. hell, he’s starred in it a hundred times.
“excuse me,” she says, all polite smile and batted lashes. “i’m so sorry to bother you, but i just had to say—you have the most stunning eyes i’ve ever seen.”
satoru feels you stiffen slightly beside him. your hand, which had been loosely linked with his, tightens just a fraction. he wants to squeeze back, to reassure you, but he’s also kind of… curious. because usually, when this happens, he’s alone. he gets to play his little game where he flashes an imaginary wedding ring and says sorry, i’m married with a soft, stupidly fond smile that he practices exclusively for the version of you that lives in his head.
but you’re right there and he’s never had to play that card with you within earshot before.
“oh,” he says, tilting his head. his glasses slip down his nose just enough for him to peer over them. “thanks.”
the woman takes the lack of immediate rejection as encouragement. “i don’t usually do this, but i was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab a coffee sometime? there’s a great place just around the corner—”
“no can do,” satoru interrupts, his voice softening at the edges. he feels your hand twitch again. “i’m married.”
the word hangs in the air. married. he’s said it a thousand times to strangers, to cashiers, to that one persistent guy at the bookstore who wouldn’t take a hint. but never like this, never with you standing right there by his side.
you go very still.
the woman blinks, glances at your interlocked hands, then back at his face. “oh. i’m sorry, i didn’t see a ring—”
“don’t need one,” he says simply, he’s not even looking at her anymore. he’s looking at you, at the way your lips have parted slightly, at the confusion and tenderness flickering across your face. “some things you just know.”
there’s a beat of silence. the woman mutters an apology and retreats. satoru doesn’t watch her go. he’s too busy watching you stare up at him like he’s grown a second head.
“married?” you repeat, your voice going breathy like it does when you’re trying not to laugh but also trying not to cry.
“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. he brings your joined hands up and presses a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “i mean, not legally. yet. but in my head? you’ve had the ring for like eight months now. it’s very sparkly. you look great in it.”
you blink at him once, twice, and then you make a sound that’s half-giggle, half-gasp, shoving at his chest with your free hand. “satoru! you can’t just tell strangers we’re married!”
“why not?” he grins, bright and boyish and entirely unrepentant. “it’s gonna happen eventually. i’m just saving time.”
“you’re insane.”
“insanely in love, maybe.”
you groan, burying your face in his shoulder, and he feels you smile against his shirt. your ears are pink. he wants to bite them.
“you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you mumble into his collarbone. “every time someone flirts with you?”
“every. single. time.” he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “you’re my wife in every way that matters. the government just doesn’t know it yet.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his chest ache— all shimmery and wondering, like you’re seeing him for the first time. you smile, small and private, and tug his sleeve. “c’mon, husband. my show starts in ten.”
he word husband hits him right in the stupid chest like a truck made of flowers.
he follows you out, already planning the ring. already knowing exactly what it’ll look like. already halfway down on one knee in his head.
you don’t know any of that, not yet. but you said it and now he’s never letting you go.
satoru doesn’t realize just how tall he is. . . "( – ⌓ – )
tall boyfriend perks are really good.
he reaches everything. top shelves, high cabinets, that one lightbulb you swore you’d get to later— done in seconds, no stool needed.
he doubles as your personal ladder and your built-in heater. you’re basically wrapped in a walking blanket 24/7.
but the cons?
he takes up space without meaning to, and the fact he already loves manspreading whenever doesn’t help at all.
it’s as if everything has gotten smaller. that’s the only logical explanation. because there’s no way one man should be able to take up this much space.
“baaabe,” you whine, shoving at his shoulder. “move.”
a sleepy hum is your only response. one long arm tightens around your waist, dragging you back against him like you haven’t just spent the last five minutes trying to wiggle free.
“you’re warm,” he mumbles into your hair, voice thick with sleep. “stay.”
“i’m gonna fall off the bed. you’re literally on my side.”
this is your life— losing every nightly battle for mattress territory, practically kicked out of your bed simply because he can’t keep his limbs to himself.
a frustrated groan slips out before you give up, finally managing to slip out from his hold. he shifts, reaching instinctively for you, but you’re already gone, padding out of the bedroom and collapsing onto the couch.
it lasts exactly ten minutes.
you wake up once more to something heavy pressing into your back.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
behind you, half-folded onto a couch that is very much not built for a grown man his size, satoru has somehow wedged himself in, arms wrapped tightly around you.
“you left,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your shoulder without opening his eyes.
“because you took over the entire bed.”
“mm.. sorry.”
“and now you’re taking up the entire couch as well.”
he hums again, clearly unconcerned, and pulls you even closer— if that’s somehow possible.
you try to twist around to glare at him, but his grip only tightens, his legs tangling with yours until escape is officially impossible.
“mooove.”
“don’t wanna,” he shoots back, a lazy grin tugging at his lips even in the dark.
Finally finished The Greatest Estate Developer on Webtoon, after following it for awhile, and I am having Feelings— the climax and the ending and everything have me foaming at the mouth
Also, I am an ardent Lloyjavi shipper, and these final chapters have only exacerbated that, because wdym Javier is the last person Lloyd calls to before he goes through the gate of reincarnation, and wdym Javier finally finds Lloyd in front of a gate covered in love locks, and what do you MEAN HE RECOGNIZES HIM, EVEN IN A DIFFERENT BODY AND A DIFFERENT WORLD, LIKE THEIR SOULS RECOGNIZE EACH OTHER WITHOUT SPEAKING A WORD, BECAUSE THEY’RE THAT INTERTWINED
FINALLY TGED ART RAAJKDSJSKS tged is all i've had in my head for the last 5 or 6 months djskdj
dumb comics + explorations (I've never been so obsessed at drawing characters "right" in my style, i mean liking how I draw them, distinct from each other to avoid same face syndrome and in a way I can keep consistent. I even made some bad 3d models of their heads to keep them consistent lol and I hate using 3d programs) I've never been more obssessed your honor
wasnt sure if i liked silver or mint hair for javier, but i think I'll go with silver from now on
