#more Marble Sky ocs

[emma-the-artkid]

Ok so like- Marble Sky oc 👁️👁️✨

I couldn’t help myself! The alien designs look so cool and i really wanted to make one! I know not a lot of other people have done this- at least not that I’ve seen- but i really REALLY like this mini fandom- so now Rymonatrix (or Trix for short) exists! And I hope you all like her! Because I’m so gonna draw her more🩵🩵✨

I did not make Marble Sky! It was made by @somerandomdudelmao !! Please go check them out! Their art is gorgeous🩵✨✨

Have a wonderful day everyone🩵🫶✨

[coolattasclown]

Thinking about the guy ever... I feel like Olmi would have a bit of an interesting dynamic with the other characters so im gonna put how they would feel about em down below . for funnies

Marmors in general: Olmi's relationship with the marmors is a bit complicated. On one hand they should feel grateful, because they would've died in space had their spaceship not been taken in. Plus if they find their planet's location, Olmi will be reunited with his family and people. But on the other, the marmors treat them like a toy or a pet almost. In the vault they're kind of treated as entertainment for the marmors, only getting a window into the other room or hall after asking many, many times. They're not seen as equals and they don't like it very much. Plus, once they escape their cell and learn of whats happening to Teegarden and what the marmors do to the planets they find, Olmi is less trusting of them.

Ward: Too big. But pretty calm and quiet, much like olmi. I think between the two humans, Olmi would trust Ward a bit more just because he's more straightforward with his words than Oscar, and more serious.

Oscar: I imagine Oscar talks quickly and he talks a lot, which makes it a bit hard for Olmi to understand him sometimes. They see Oscar as an older sibling like Olmi themself, based on the care he shows for Alcor, and they find their relationship familiar to Olmi's with his family and younger siblings.

Holly: Olmi finds Holly very confusing. When they first meet they assume he's human like the other two, but I don't think they would fully grasp the shapeshifting. Both of their cultures seem to kind of be based around helping the planet/stewarding the ecosystems (I'm not too sure for Teegarden, but based on what we know, how helpful they are to each other, etc. I think it makes sense to say that) so I think they can relate to that. After Olmi learns about what is happening on Teegarden they would want to help, maybe because they don't want to see a planet with life so similar to their own get extinguished.

Ecliptica: I'm not sure if Olmi would know Ecliptica very well. From the way Oscar talks about her I think they'd gather that she is the leader of the marmors, and by extension Olmi wouldn't be super fond of her. Plus based on her treatment of Oscar I think Ecliptica would see Olmi based on their usefulness to her.

Sculptor: Pretty much the same for the rest of the marmors, although because sculptor is actively trying to find where their planet is by going through their memories, collaborating with other marmor ships maybe, etc., they feel the need to try and stop him, as well as stopping him from hurting others within the vault.

Alcor: scary . its like a marmor but their size. hate. but also kind of reminds them of their younger siblings in a way, so they mostly just avoid him.

[seyvith]

" STAINED IN RED "

OBSESSED WORSHIPPER — an angel who used to be numb without your existence . . .

gender neutral reader / yandere (??) oc x reader / obsessive / unhealthy asl / emotional dependency / he hasn't even met reader yet and he's suppper down bad

masterlist | intro post | character info . . . a/n: I wrote this a while ago in a big rush for my friend's birthday, so please excuse if it's repetitive or a little bad!!

Crimson streaked across pale ivory, seeping into the ridges of Abrin’s back like veins of molten gold in fractured marble. If his hands were not bound in chains, he might have traced his fingers over the scars, felt the raised edges of old wounds and the fresh sting of new ones. Yet, no tears would well in his eyes.

Not because he thought himself strong, nor because he believed pain was some holy trial to endure. He simply just did not care. If that celestial glow bestowed upon all angels at birth still flickered within him, dim and faltering, who would mourn its loss?

Nobody. The thought echoed in the hollow of his chest. He had wept once. Had cried, had screamed, had begged. But now, he no longer knew the difference between thought and voice, silence and sound. Whether his anguish spilled from his lips or curled within the confines of his mind, it changed nothing.

And he was not alone.

Row upon row of iron cells stretched into the shadows, each holding an angel just like him—bound, broken, fading. Their clipped wings twitched with every tremor of pain, their whispers of despair dissolving into the damp air. Even among them, Abrin felt out of place. They wept for freedom. He prayed for death. Life had emptied itself of meaning long ago, so hollow that not even a blade to his wings could carve a feeling into him.

A sliver of light spilled through the narrow vent above his cell, pooling in pale, shifting patterns across the stone floor. He watched with a vague, detached amusement. Even the sky mocked him, offering glimpses of freedom just beyond reach. If he could break loose, if he could spread his wings just once, he would not fly to escape. He would ascend only to fall. Higher, higher, until the heavens blurred behind him, until gravity reclaimed him, until he shattered upon the earth below. How many times had he longed for that? To fall, to crash, and to end?

A metallic rattle tore him from his thoughts. The heavy door groaned open, spilling dim light into the cell. Abrin turned his head, already expecting the sight of the guard. And there they stood—shadowed against the flickering torchlight, clad in indifference. But there were no chains in their hands this time, no tray of tasteless rations.

They hesitated, shoulders stiff. Then, in a voice as cold and impassive as ever, they spoke. "Someone’s bought you. You’ll be leaving in a month."

Abrin blinked. The words settled over him like distant thunder, low and rolling, incomprehensible in their weight. Someone had bought him. Someone was taking him away. He should have felt nothing. He had long since forgotten how to feel. And yet, his chest twisted.

Twisted with something raw, searing, unfamiliar. A feeling more visceral than the wounds burned into his skin, clawing up his throat and lodging itself deep beneath his ribs.

He had never known anything beyond these walls, never believed there was anything beyond them. No possibility of escape, no future beyond the loop of his waking existence, each day morphing together.

Yet now—someone would take him away. Someone would pull him from this pit, from the cold, from the endless hell he had grown accustomed to. Someone…

His savior. His mercy. His answered prayer.

Abrin’s breath came sharp and uneven. He barely registered the guard’s lingering glance before they turned on their heel, footsteps fading down the corridor. The door shut with a hollow clang, sealing him in once more.

For the first time, the walls did not press so tightly around him. His mind did not compress, suffocating under its own doing. Instead, it reached outward towards the unknown, toward the one who had spared him.

He wondered what they might look like—the shade of their eyes, the way they would be something new for him to grow used to. Would their gaze be sharp as cut glass or gentle as twilight? And their skin… would it bear the weight of scars, marred and broken like his own?

He hoped not. No, he would never wish such a fate upon the one who had reached for him, the one who had would lift him from the dark. They should be untouched by suffering, unmarked by cruelty—something untainted, something he could call grace.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Ever since the news, Abrin had not been himself. The change unsettled not only the guards and the other prisoners but even him. After so long without feeling, without even a drop of emotion stirring in his hollow chest, a flood had overtaken him; an unstoppable tide crashing against the walls he had spent years building. And yet, he did not resist. He let it consume him, let it pull him under. He drowned in it, and for the first time, he did not mind.

He spent his days adrift in thought. How was it possible to be so wholly devoted to someone he had never even met? He knew—knew that the moment they stood before him, he would not remain standing for long. His legs would fail him, and he would fall to his knees, to the cold, filthy stone floor. Would they like him that way? Bent, broken, trembling beneath them? Pathetic? Everyone here seemed to.

Only three more days. The thought pulsed through his skull like a heartbeat, relentless. He traced the tallies carved into the stone wall with trembling fingers, ignoring the sting of his ragged nails, the gnawed-up skin around them. Pain no longer mattered. Hunger, exhaustion, none of it mattered. For the first time in his life, there was something beyond the endless monotony of waking and waiting. Something to look forward to. Something worth opening his eyes for.

My savior, my savior, my savior, my savior.

Stop. Stop it. Abrin could not contain it, this swelling, aching thing inside him. Love, devotion, obsession—whatever it was, it filled every hollow space in his body, too vast for him to hold. He was terrified that the moment he saw them, he would spill over entirely, empty himself at their feet, and drive away the only thing keeping him tethered to life.

The clang of metal startled him. A guard passed his cell, tossing a tray of scraps onto the floor, the same as every day. But before they could leave, words slipped from Abrin’s lips, sudden and unbidden.

“Can… Can I have a piece of paper and a pencil?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, barely louder than a whisper. “I want to write a letter… for the one who is taking me away.”

The guard stopped. Stared. Abrin barely spoke, never even asked for anything. After a pause, they gave a slow nod before turning away, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Not long after, they returned, pushing a thin scrap of paper and a worn-down pencil through the bars. For a long moment, Abrin simply stared at them, hands trembling. Then, carefully, reverently, he took them into his grasp.

“To the one who has reached for me,

I do not know your name. I do not know the sound of your voice, nor the shape of your face, and yet I think of nothing else. I whisper to you in the dark. I see you in the flickers of light on the wall. You are everywhere, even though you’ve never stood before me.

Since I heard of you, of what you’ve done, my thoughts have not belonged to me. They are yours now. Every breath I take is in anticipation of yours. Every second stretches like a lifetime, and yet three days feel too little time to prepare myself for you. I do not know how to contain this. This ache. This reverence. This need.

You’ve done what no one else has. You’ve chosen me. You saw the ruins of something once divine, and you reached for it. For me. Why? I don’t understand it. I cannot. But I would give you everything. Everything I have, everything I am, though it may be broken and bloodstained and pitiful. I would crawl to you if I could. If you asked, I would press my forehead to your feet and stay there, unmoving, until you gave me permission to rise.

I’m scared. Not of you, never of you, but of what I might become in front of you. I am afraid I will fall apart the moment you speak. That my voice will shatter. That my heart will give in. That I will beg, not even knowing for what.

You must understand: you are the only light that has ever reached me. And I… do not know how to survive brightness without burning.

Please. Whatever you do when you see me, do not turn away. Do not leave. If you knew what you mean to me already, what I've imagined you to be, perhaps you would. But I pray you won’t. Even if I disgust you, even if I’m not what you wanted, let me stay. Let me prove I can be good. I will be anything you need. Anything.

I don’t know how to stop this. This obsession, this devotion, this desperate, aching worship of someone I’ve never met. I only know that when I do meet you, I will fall apart, and I can only hope you’ll hold the pieces.

Even before you asked for me, I was already yours.

Abrin”

He could only pray that the words he had so carefully etched, each letter trembling with devotion, would reach them more clearly than the fractured whispers of his voice ever could. That his unsteady hands might be worthy enough to place the paper into their divine grasp. That they would cradle him gently, or break him apart and remake him at their will. He would not resist. He would thank them for it.

And if he faltered, if he ever angered them even by the smallest breath or careless misstep, he would carve the mistake into memory and never repeat it again. He would beg for their forgiveness, over and over, until they no longer had to hear it.

Please, his heart sobbed as tears slipped silently down his cheeks. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t cast me aside.

[ghostedgwen]

don't blame me | j.potter [part four]

note : I did not expect this series to go so well wotdaheal - you guys are sooo amazing and I am very very grateful, so happy to know I can provide an escape to people who need it through my writing, ily

warnings : more jelly jelly, james potter's mood swings, everything that's been simmering is now boiling over the pot, snogging?, oliver klove insert again idc I love my ravenclaw oc

𝖸𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗈𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 - 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌��'𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍. 𝖲𝗈 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 : 4.6k

The engagement party is everything you feared it would be - grand, ostentatious, and so very Potter. The Potters' ballroom is dressed to the nines, glittering under a ceiling enchanted to mimic a night sky full of swirling constellations. Chandeliers float in the air like stars, casting golden light on marble floors polished to a mirror finish.

Gold-trimmed curtains frame the tall windows, and a quartet of musicians plays a delicate waltz in the corner, the notes fluttering through the space like butterflies.

Guests arrive in waves, draped in velvet and silk, their laughter echoing as they sip on champagne and air kisses. You try to smile through it all, letting the opulence blur at the edges, until you hear the familiar sound of a bark-like laugh.

The Marauders have arrived.

Sirius Black walks in first, confidence personified, dressed in all black save for the silver embroidered waistcoat beneath his robe. He winks at a group of giggling girls before offering a shallow, mocking bow to a grumbling member of his family across the room.

Remus Lupin follows behind, a bit more subdued but no less striking in forest green robes, eyes scanning the room like he’s calculating how long he’ll be able to endure small talk before sneaking off for a book.

Peter Pettigrew trails after them, slightly flushed, slightly overwhelmed, but with a determined look on his face like he belongs here - even if he’s not quite sure how.

And then there’s James.

He arrives last, golden and grinning, one hand shoved into the pocket of his formal dress robes, the other smoothing a hand through his windswept hair. His eyes immediately seek you out in the crowd.

The Potters welcome everyone with warm smiles and practiced ease. Euphemia stands with Fleamont at the foot of the grand staircase, champagne flutes in hand as they call for attention.

“Thank you all for joining us tonight,” Euphemia announces. “It is our absolute joy to welcome you to our home to celebrate something very dear to us - the engagement of our beloved son, James, to someone we’ve loved as family for many years.”

You and James are ushered into the centre of the ballroom by polite applause. He grins as he raises your joined hands for everyone to see.

“She said yes,” he declares cheekily, lifting your hand higher. “Which is mad, really, because I’m me. But I like to think the ring helped.”

He flashes the antique ring on your finger, then holds up his own - a matching heirloom band that once belonged to his great-great-grandfather.

Yours, a delicate twin, belonged to his great-great-grandmother. The symbolism isn’t lost on anyone.

“Also a very happy birthday - to my soon-to-be Wife, she turned of age yesterday!”

The applause grows louder with some people shouting greetings and congratulations alike, and the champagne flows.

The party slips into a rhythm of laughter and music. Guests swirl around you in waves, offering congratulations and late birthday greetings.

James plays the role of perfect fiancé with surprising grace, his hand always at the small of your back, his smiles never faltering.

But your cheeks hurt from smiling - you haven't smiled for this long, your head spinning from the noise.

So you slip away, just far enough to lean against a marble pillar and breathe.

That’s when you see them - the Marauders, finally settled in one spot near the punch bowl.

“Care for a dance?” you ask, tone light, teasing.

Sirius raises a brow. “I’m flattered, sweetheart, truly. But I think my mother would spontaneously combust if she saw me waltzing at your engagement party. With you, no less.”

You snort. “So dramatic.”

“Always.” he gives a flip of his hair.

Remus, ever the gentleman, offers his hand. “I’d be honoured.”

You let him lead you onto the dance floor. It’s an easy, familiar kind of rhythm with him, your hands fitting comfortably together. He’s warm and steady, his touch respectful but friendly, and you find yourself smiling for real for the first time that evening.

“Enjoying yourself?” he murmurs, actually checking in on you.

“Trying to,” you reply with a tired smile. “This whole evening feels like I’m playing dress-up.”

He chuckles softly. “You wear it well, you look great.”

You return the compliment, calling him a handsome leprechaun. He laughed. He even managed to greet you a quick late birthday greeting, you thanked him of course.

You don’t need to look to know James is watching. You feel it, like a weight on the back of your neck. When the song ends, you curtsy and thank Remus. You barely get a breath in before James appears at your side, his smile a little too wide.

“Thought we weren’t dancing till the wedding,” he says, offering his hand.

“Changed my mind,” you reply simply, a smile tugging at your lips.

He pulls you onto the floor without waiting for more. This dance is faster, more playful, and you hate how easily you fall into sync with him. How your heart hammers when he spins you, how his laughter makes you forget how fake this is supposed to be.

At that moment, it wasn't fake - it was very real to you and some small part of you desperately wished that it was real to him too.

“Show-off,” you murmur after a particularly dramatic twirl.

“I live to impress,” he quips, grinning.

You’re still laughing as he leads you back to the edge of the floor, breathless. You both catch your breath while the other guests clamber on to the dance floor.

Sirius is waiting with a smug smile and two goblets. “Something to cool you both off.”

You accept one, not thinking twice, too thirsty to care. It’s strong - shockingly so but you didn't mind as you were gulping it down from thirst.

“Pads,” James coughs. “What the hell did you put in this?”

“Firewhiskey. Just a splash,” Sirius says innocently, managing a wink, “you’re welcome.”

Your ears failed to catch that. The boys watch in amusement - James' horror - as you downed the whole goblet in one go.

One goblet later, your face is flushed and your inhibitions dangerously low.

“So,” Sirius says, sidling up to you, “once you’re officially a Potter, does that mean I can start calling you Lady Prongs?”

You raise a brow, swaying slightly. “Sure but you get a new title too, Wet Dog.”

James chokes on his drink, you were very drunk and it was obvious with how you slurred your words - pointing at Sirius with a haze.

“That’s our cue,” he says, quickly stepping in, “we’re heading out. Tell Mum and Dad she’s off to bed early.”

Sirius salutes him with a grin. “Gladly.”

James wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobble as he guides you through the crowd.

“You’re such a lightweight,” he mutters with amusement. The comment is directed more to himself as he doubted you were sober to understand.

“M’not,” you insist. “I’m just emotionally fragile.”

He laughs, guiding you up the staircase and into the quiet halls. The distant music fades behind you, coulds till be heard though.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he murmurs.

You beam up at him., he lightly struggled to keep you in his arms. “I’m your cute wife.”

James falters.

“Merlin.”

You reach up and cup his cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath his eye, swiping behind his round glasses and he felt so warm under your touch - you take note of how you could probably count his freckles if you were dedicated enough.

“My darling husband.”

He nearly drops you.

“You’re - this is - bloody hell.”

You giggle, nuzzling into his chest as he steadies you again, you felt so much warmer in his arms.

James tries to keep it light. “We should get you some water. Or maybe ten gallons of it.”

“Nooo,” you whine, still managing to slur a single word “you’re warm. Let's stay like thish!”

He glances down at you, flushed and soft and barely standing. His chest tightens, he drank in your drunk appearance.

Your eyes glossed from intoxication, cheeks puffed from feigned defiance at his words and he - he almost chokes. You were so cute.

“Okay,” he murmurs, giving in. “Just for a minute.”

You end up leaning against him in the hallway outside your rooms, your head resting on his shoulder. It’s quiet, just the two of you and the faint echoes of music below.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

He tenses slightly, anticipating just what your confession might be. “Of what?”

“Of wanting this too much.”

James doesn’t say anything for a long moment, you can both pretend you didn't say it - if he wanted, you can both pretend those words never escaped you.

Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he says quietly.

You hum, not putting much of your mind into your respone - like it was an instinct, “you will anyway.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Eventually, he coaxes you to your door and waits as you fumble with the handle.

“Sleep well, darling wife,” he says with a crooked smile.

“Goodnight, husband dearest,” you reply, and slip inside before your heart can betray you.

Behind the closed door, you lean against it, hand pressed over your heart. Even drunk - he still shook you to the core.

And James, still standing outside, runs a hand through his hair and whispers to the empty hallway, “I think I'm in love, Merlin - fuck. I know - shit.”

The engagement party was the kind of spectacle that lingered in the air like perfume - thick, sweet, and impossible to ignore. But after the haze of Firewhiskey, too-tight smiles, and pretending not to notice James Potter’s eyes on you all night, the rest of the holiday slipped into a blur.

Your days were spent apart again, the Potters whisking James off to wedding meetings and more fitting appointments while you were handled by stylists and tailors and family members asking about table arrangements like your opinion mattered.

You barely saw him, and you did not know it at the time but it was probably for your own well-being, after that Firewhiskey thing.

A nod across the breakfast table. A silent pass in the hallway. Not even a whispered word when your rooms shared a wall.

And then, suddenly, it was January again.

King’s Cross was brimming with students and parents bidding their farewells, owls flapping overhead and trunks being levitated into compartments by frazzled prefects. The cold nipped at your ears as you hugged Euphemia goodbye, her lipstick leaving a smudge on your temple, and gave Fleamont a brief, polite hug.

"Be safe, sweetheart," Euphemia said warmly. "Write to us. And James, do help her carry her bag - "

But James was already beside you, fingers curling around your wrist, eager to jump on the train like he was gonna explode any moment.

"We’ll find a compartment," he muttered, not looking at his mother as he tugged you toward the train - you bid them and your parents a rushed farewell as he whisked you away.

You barely had time to protest before he pulled you into an empty carriage and shut the door behind him, drawing the blinds on the windows as well.

"Okay," you said, catching your breath, your trunk settled beside you. "Dramatic much?"

He didn’t laugh, he looks like hell.

Instead, he watched you with that unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest like he was bracing himself -

"So," he said. "You remember anything from that night?"

Your brows furrowed. "The engagement party?"

He gave you a look, one you didn't know how to take. "You were drunk."

You blinked at him, confused. "I mean. . . yeah, but not that drunk. I remember dancing. With Remus. With you. Sirius and the Firewhiskey. Sort of," you scrunch you nose in distaste. "Why? Did I say something embarrassing?"

James exhaled slowly, as if he had been defeated and you frown at the action. He then shook his head. "No. Doesn’t matter. Forget it."

You frowned. "James,"

"Drop it," he said, a little more sharply than he intended -

And then the moment was gone. He slouched into his seat after putting both your trunks away, and stared out the window, and you sat across from him, feeling the silence stretch and twist between you.

Before you could try again - it was odd to have him behave this way, the compartment door slid open.

"Oi! We were wondering where you two buggered off to," Sirius announced, barging in with Remus and Peter at his heels. Remus gave a nod of greeting. Peter stumbled in, arms full of sweets.

Sirius took one look at the seating arrangement and flopped beside James, slinging an arm across the back of the seat. "So. Did you finally kill each other or just get tired of pretending to be in love?"

"You’re so charming," you said dryly, Sirius Black sends a wink your way.

"It’s a gift."

A sudden stampede of feet passed by the door - first-years giggling as they bolted down the corridor.

Then -

"You lot better not be setting things on fire again!"

The voice made you sit up straighter. Lily Evans appeared at the door, her Headgirl badge gleaming, her red hair pulled back in a no-nonsense braid.

Her eyes scanned the compartment, pausing briefly on you and James sitting opposite each other. Then she looked at the boys.

"Just checking in. You haven’t hexed anyone yet, have you?"

Sirius put a hand on his heart. "We solemnly swear that we are up to no good."

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. To a smile? or annoyance? you couldn't really tell.

"Hi, Evans," you said. Being the first one to address her properly.

"Hey," she replied, offering you a small smile. Her eyes flicked once more toward James, who remained studiously focused on the window. Odd.

Lily’s gaze lingered, curious but unreadable - her emerald eyes looked somewhat brighter when angry, like they're been set ablaze.

Then she turned to you again. "Hope you had a nice holiday, ____."

"You too," you said, replying quickly - she was almost intimidating.

She nodded to Remus. "See you at the meeting."

And then she was gone, disappearing down the corridor in pursuit of the wayward first-years.

Peter gave a low whistle, nudging James potter with a kick of his feet. "You didn’t say a word to her, Prongs"

James shrugged. "What’s there to say?"

Sirius grinned. "Oh, it’s the dawn of a new era, isn’t it? No more pining over Evans. Out with the unrequited, in with the loyal husband."

You stared at your lap, willing your heart to slow down.

James didn’t deny it.

You didn’t look up.

Because if you did, you’d find his eyes on you again, and you couldn’t afford to read too much into it.

Not now.

Not ever.

The welcoming feast was a blur of candlelight, floating pumpkins still leftover from the extended Yule décor, and a hundred conversations overlapping in the Great Hall. But your ears only caught one whisper:

“Did you hear? James Potter’s engaged.”

“It was in The Prophet!"

“Apparently she’s a Ravenclaw.”

"____? No way!"

You kept your head down, focusing on your plate as your housemates swarmed you with questions. You should have known it would be like this.

"What’s he like?"

"Did he propose on one knee?"

"Are you going to get married after graduation? Can I get an invite?"

You gave them nothing but polite smiles and vague answers. Mostly, you just wanted to eat your dinner in peace but that was too much to ask in the ever so noisy halls of Hogwarts.

Across the hall, James Potter was throwing you glances that could melt steel - Merlin, he's been moody since the train, what's got his wand on a twist?

"Okay, he’s been staring at you since the bread rolls," your roommate whispered.

"No, he hasn’t."

"He has. Look - now."

You refused, despite Macmillan's egging and nudging.

You stabbed your roast potato instead. Because if you looked at him, you’d remember how he looked, illuminated by a single birthday candle - leaning in closer and closer and -

You were going bloody mad.

Just as dessert plates were vanishing and sleepy students began to stretch and yawn, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat, addressing the crowd.

He clapped his hands once, and the room fell silent. He opened by greeting everyone a happy new year, and hoped the holiday break has been exciting.

“Before you all scurry off to your dormitories,” he said, “one small note. After reviewing inter-house interactions, and noting that our usual pairings have resulted in several minor. . .explosions, we’ve decided to shift things a bit.”

The students muttered among themselves - you weren't liking the taste of this as you eye the old man.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled.

“Starting this term, Ravenclaw will now be paired with Gryffindor for Potions, Herbology, and Astronomy.”

Your stomach dropped.

You would now share three classes with James.

You groaned into your hand, while the students erupted into loud chatter over the announcement.

A fiftfh-year beside you whispered, "Ooh, you get to see your fiancé more! Lucky."

Lucky.

Sure.

You flicked a glance toward the Gryffindor table and caught James looking smug.

Smug.

Arrogant.

Golden.

He winked - and he was back.

You wanted to throw your goblet at his head.

And maybe kiss him afterward.

Which was the problem, because every act of violence towards him warranted a snog - a bloody snog!

You can only dread your fate, because now, there would be no escaping James Potter. You had hoped you could still your hammering heart during classes.

But all that was thrown out the window of the highest tower in Hogwarts. Poof.

This term was going to be hell.

In Potions, Slughorn paired you and James together because "What better way to ensure inter-house unity than with our most promising pair?" He said it with such cheer you couldn’t even groan properly. James sat beside you, all long limbs and casual confidence, swinging his legs under the table like he owned the place.

"Alright, partner," he whispered as he opened your shared textbook. "Let’s brew this Love Potion with the care and precision of a well-adjusted couple."

You nearly knocked the cauldron over, almost choking in your spit from the absolute tosser that he was being again. Long gone is his moody mood swings.

"Stop calling it that."

He just smiled, you pretend like it didn't tug at your heart.

"Would you prefer the good ol' 'Wife', then?"

You stirred the mixture aggressively, already following the instructions on the book - dumping the appropriate ingredients in.

"Try 'lab partner who will drown me inside this cauldron if I don't shut the bloody hell up.'"

He laughed, low and fond, and leaned closer. "See, this is why our upcoming marriage would be full of spice."

You refused to let the heat on your face be visible, you kept your head lowered as you pretended to focus on the potion brewing.

He was actually a decent partner despite the teasing - he was a competent potioneer, following the instructions smoothly and you worked well alongside him.

Ignoring his remarks about how well you two suited each other, a perfect couple, he joked.

"Ah! A perfect Amortentia! Splendid work, you two. A true match." Slughorn cut into the two of you, having just finished your potion.

The whole class turned to look, intrigued. You wanted to sink into the floor.

The scent curled from the cauldron in delicate spirals - iridescent, shimmering steam wafting upward. Amortentia, the most powerful love potion known to wizardkind, distinctive for its spiraling smoke and the unique scent it exuded for each individual: the smell of what most attracted them.

You leaned forward, just slightly.

The smell of old parchment hit you first - familiar, comforting. Then cinnamon, warm and sharp. And something else. Pine and the scent of storm-kissed air, like the moment before rain. It wrapped around your senses. It smelled like James.

You jolted back. You already knew the answer was him, but it was still air knocked off your lungs to confirm further.

James, beside you, had gone unusually quiet.

"What did you smell?" you asked, too curious to stop yourself.

He looked at you for a long moment, then tilted his head with a teasing grin. "You tell me first."

You gave him a look. "Absolutely not."

He smirked. "Fine. Fresh ink. That book smell. The scent of the stands on Quidditch day." He paused, then added, softer, "And something like honey and citrus. Weird, right?"

Your breath caught. You tried not to let it show though.

That was your shampoo.

You stirred the potion a bit too vigorously, and it nearly frothed over.

"Definitely weird," you mumbled, mind flying off - barely remembering his reaction when you replied with your own answer.

He nudged your foot under the table, and the air between you buzzed - you ignored the gesture.

That evening in the common room, you caught yourself sniffing your own hair. Desperately so, wondering if he knew it was your scent - or maybe, Evans uses the same brand -

Astronomy was the final blow - or not, just the dramatics.

The class had been reassigned to night sessions on Wednesdays. The sky above the Astronomy Tower stretched wide and dark, spangled with stars.

As you were top of your year in theory (right behind Evans), you found yourself explaining planetary alignment to James as he balanced a telescope and a Chocolate Frog simultaneously.

"You know," he said, voice soft in the dark, "I never really liked this subject. Too slow. Too cold. But it’s not so bad now."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t - too scared of what you would confess under the stars this time.

Because the moonlight caught in his hair, the wind was gentle, and his voice had a kind of warmth that sank right under your skin - you keep repalying that night, on your 17th in your head.

James Potter was slowly, relentlessly, becoming impossible to ignore - not that you ever not minding him.

And you were falling.

Hard.

You excused yourself before the class ended, blaming the cold. But your heart knew better.

You were in trouble.

The rest of the week unfolded in dizzying episodes that left your head spinning.

On Tuesday, James charmed your quill to draw little snitches every time you wrote his name. You only found out after realizing your entire essay for Arithmancy was covered in golden-winged doodles. He just smiled, cheek resting on his hand as you smacked him with the scroll - ignoring the implications.

Wednesday, he conjured a bouquet of enchanted bluebells to hop into your satchel after Charms. "For the Ravenclaw in bloom," he said. You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly stuck, but you kept the flowers anyway - they're well-preserved, in your dorm.

Thursday, you dropped your Astronomy notes and James helped gather them, fingers brushing, lingering. You’d both looked up, breathless. And then promptly looked away.

By Friday, it was unbearable.

You lied to one of your housemates, claiming you had something urgent on the other side of the castle, and traded patrol rounds. That way, instead of James, you were paired with Oliver Klove—a tall, charming, and mild-mannered seventh-year Ravenclaw with a relaxed gait and glacier-blue eyes.

You never saw the appeal in him but if it wasn't the Black brothers making girls squeal, it was one Oliver Klove. Tall, dark and handsome - those blue eyes were just a bonus.

His parents must've been very beautiful people to come up with him. You were besotted with James Potter, but you also had eyes and they are liking Oliver Klove very much.

He was easy company, and you found yourself actually relaxing for once during patrols - I guess that's another, he's unline Sirius who flirted in all the ways, and not Regulus who was weird and mysterious.

You were at peace until James found you.

He stood frozen in the corridor, eyes sharp behind his glasses as he processed the scene: you and Oliver walking side-by-side, laughing about something he hadn’t been there to hear.

"Where's your partner?" Oliver asked him politely, trying to strike conversation - pretending like he doesn't read the fury in the lion.

"I could ask the same," James replied, cold.

You winced at his tone and how awkward this will get. "I swapped shifts - because I had errands to run."

Oliver caught on to the lie but neglected to throw you under the bus, he only raises his hands in surrender at Potter, making a comment about not trying anything with a girl promised to another.

James didn’t reply. He turned on his heel and stalked off. But instead of disappearing, he grabbed your arm and tugged you along.

"Hey! James - "

"You're with me tonight."

You threw a look over your shoulder at Oliver, who gave you a bewildered little wave before vanishing down the corridor, deciding he wasn't gonna ask - he'll just continue his patrols and pretend he saw nothing.

James dragged you all the way to the Astronomy Tower.

You yanked your arm back, throwing him a harsh glare. "What the hell was that?"

He turned on you, furious and flustered. "I show up for patrol and find you laughing with - Klove of all people - like nothing's weird about it?"

"It isn’t weird. He’s nice. I needed a break from your constant flirting." and leading me on, but you neglect to say the last part.

"Flirting?! You think this is -" He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, the action was laced with frustration. You watch him, on edge. "I’ve been trying to tell you - "

"Tell me what? That I’m just another conquest until you get bored again? That Evans doesn't do it anymore so you decide I'm next on your list because I'm conveniently your bloody fucking fiancé?"

His eyes snapped to yours, those hazel pairs set ablaze. "Don’t. You know it’s not that."

The silence pulsed. Your heart beat painfully in your throat, the tension was rising and somehow - it felt awfully hot in the Astronomy Tower. This might actually be the day you throw someone off here - you.

"Then what is it?" you whispered.

He stepped closer. "You. It's always been you. And if I have to spell it out - I’m in love with you."

The air vanished from your lungs. He doesn't stop talking as he closes the distance between you two, grabbing to hold your hand - "You have me, completely and utterly besotted with you."

You barely managed to breathe before you surged forward, and your lips met his in a kiss that stole everything else away. It was hot and desperate, his hands in your hair, yours tangled in his robes, mouths slanting, pressing -

Hands slipped beneath fabric. A gasp. Your back against the cold stone wall.

Then, through the haze, you said it:

"What about Lily?"

James froze - that caught him off-guard, the last thing he expected you to say, mid snog.

You looked at him, breathless and trembling - anticipating.

He cupped your face, thumb brushing your cheek. "Evans - Evans was. . . the past. I liked her, Merlin - I won't deny that and pretend it wasn't a thing, " you could hear and see the sincerity pour out of him with every word. "But I love you. Not Evans - and Godric knows she'll never give me the time of day."

You allow those words to sink in.

"She's not the one who's matching rings with me, she's not the girl who'll slowly walk towards me down the aisle - it's you, it has always been you."

James lets out an exaspherated sigh. "I was just too bloody stupid to know that."

And somehow, impossibly, that was enough.

to be continued . . .

part five | masterlist

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!" If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose? "In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!" Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse. "Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive." She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18+!

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex, Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

Dawn

With the first rays of the sun enveloping Rome in golden radiance, the Colosseum awakens to life. The rays flow down the marble walls, spreading over the stones like molten gold. The air is heavy with the scent of blood, dust, and oil from the torches still smoldering after the night's riot.

The crowd hums, its shouts and murmur blending into a single rhythm, like the sea crashing against rocks. Waves of voices break again and again against the walls of the Colosseum, rolling in echoes through the ancient stones, filling every crack, every curve of the stands. The air trembles with tension. The scent of fear, sweat, and sun-heated blood intertwines with the aroma of resinous torches, spilled cheap wine, and the stench of drains. This is the pulse of the city, its thirst, its beastly grin.

Its eternal hunger.

But now comes a moment of silence—fleeting, deceptive. Like a beast, pausing for a moment before the leap. Thousands of heads lean forward at once, catching the breath of power. Some lips are parted in anticipation, others clenched like those of cornered dogs.

Rome smells of decay. Not just of rotten meat and sewage but of human flesh—the sickly-sweet, warm scent of blood seeping into stone, sand, and palace walls. It clings to the skin, penetrates the pores, saturates the hair. Even the haughty patricians, wrapping themselves in fresh togas, cannot escape it. They pour perfumes over it in vain, but Rome always betrays itself.

The life of the Colosseum is the smell of charred flesh, screams, sweat, and the perspiration of fear. It is the fat flies swarming over fresh corpses, settling on dried crimson stains embedded in the stone. It is the crowd roaring, rushing like jackals sensing prey. And the Colosseum feeds them. Feeds them meat, feeds them spectacle, throws the dead under their feet so the people may chew on this pain until nothing remains but bone dust.

It is also taste. The salty tang clinging to the lips. The bitterness of ash covering the stands. The weight of hundreds of breaths, mixed in a single frenzy. The spectacle is the food they consume, flesh and death their bread and wine. They chew these moments, grind destinies, stuff their mouths with another’s agony, not realizing they themselves become part of it.

Beside two elevated thrones, adorned with carvings, golden plates, and lions, stands a girl. Her long honey-golden hair falls over her shoulders, cascading down her back. The wind plays with it like silk ribbons. Her porcelain skin pales, and her green eyes, fixed on the arena—on the very place where her father’s lifeless body had recently lain—fill with tears once more.

She does not move. Only breathes. Raggedly, intermittently, like a fish thrown ashore. Her temples throb, her chest tightens. Dead air. This air is not for breathing; it is for drowning. It fills the lungs with heaviness, makes every movement sluggish, every thought viscous. It seeps inside, settles in the chest, grips the throat like an invisible hand. And no one will be saved. Because there is no fresh air in the Colosseum. Even the wind here smells of death.

General Acacius was a valiant warrior, a defender of Rome, a man whom the people loved and begged to be spared. The Romans pleaded for mercy. But the emperors pronounced their verdict, and the voice of the Gods, as Geta himself said, was inexorable.

"Only the Gods are given the right to decide fates," he whispered before his clenched fist rose into the air, and he lowered his thumb downward. Execute.

Now the people are furious. They shout, they murmur, their voices rumbling like thunder before a storm. But no one will leave. No one will abandon this theater of death. They will watch, even if their hearts tighten with horror. Even if someone clamps their mouth shut, suppressing vomit. They will not look away, because Rome craves spectacle, and blood is its greatest entertainment.

Emperor Geta only smiles. Narrowly, predatorily. Like a beast locked in a cage, who suddenly realized: the cage is not real. This whole crowd belongs to him. Their anger is laughable, their cries pathetic. They will growl, howl, screech, but in the end—they will bow. They always bow, as if he and his brother were Gods.

Lucilla is dead too.

Lucius, Lucilla’s son, perished in the darkness of night. He did not even have time to understand what was happening when the guards found him among the gladiator cages, dead with his throat slit, unarmed. The news reached Helena through her servant, Jnessa, and her heart collapsed at that moment, as if Death itself had whispered her name—within a few hours, the emperors summoned her to service.

Now Helena is alone. The last of those who once lived under the sky of old Rome. And now her life, like her father’s once, hangs by a thin thread, torn by the cruel hands of power.

And his voice, when he begins to speak, sounds as if Jupiter himself is speaking:

"People of Rome!" the emperor exclaims, raising his hands to the rising sun, and the crowd suddenly falls silent. "We hear your anger, your pain. We hear your cry for justice!"

And the crowd regains its noise—Geta only needs to pause for a moment. But he immediately raises his head again with confidence, his eyes gleaming—madness swirls in them, and something else—ancient, primal, as if he is either the conduit of a will or merely a madman allowed to rule by equally insane people.

"But is it not the Gods who are meant to decide the fate of mortals? Are we, mere mortals, able to argue with their will?!" he sweeps his gaze over the ranks of his people, and silence spreads through the Colosseum like dark wine in a silver cup. "General Acacius has fallen, and his blood has washed this land." Others do not hear the fleeting, barely perceptible click—a smirk. But Helena stands too close to ignore the sound. "But the general left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The Sun of our Rome!"

Geta pronounces this with relish. He savors the words like a sweet fig, crushing them with his tongue, filling the air with them. "The Sun"—he nearly purrs, like a cat that has caught a bird.

"You wanted blood? You shall have it," his voice rolls across the square. "You seek justice? You shall have it!"

Helena grows cold. Her fingers clench into fists, nails digging into her skin. She knows him. She knows his gaze, knows that crooked, cruel smile. Once, in childhood, he had taken her hand, leading her through the marble corridors of the palace. Back then, his touch was different.

Does he want to kill her? Worse.

"In the name of peace, so that the sacrifice is not in vain," Emperor Geta’s voice cuts through the air like the tip of a dagger, "I shall take the daughter of General Acacius as my lawful wife! In three weeks, at the sunset of the next month, she shall become—Augusta of Rome!"

The crowd gasps. Some begin to shout in fury, others murmur in confusion. The people sway like a great wave that is about to either crash upon the shore or retreat. The anger does not disappear—it transforms. It compresses into bewilderment, into heated debates, into a search for logic in this madness.

Geta slowly raises his hands. Let them see him. Let the sun cast its glow upon his reddish hair, let the purple of his toga, heavy and solemn, be remembered by all. Let this moment remain in their memory—the moment he bent the people of Rome to his will.

He smiles. Calmly. Slightly mockingly. But his eyes are wild, insane.

"I hear your anger," he says, and his voice is full of cold majesty. "Your hearts boil, for blood has been spilled!"

He steps forward, spreads his hands as if revealing the cosmos before them.

"Blood is pain. Blood is sacrifice. Blood is the price we pay for order! I do not deny my deed. But I will not allow the death of the great traitor-general to divide us! I will not allow his name to become mere ashes in the wind!"

Geta pauses, letting the crowd absorb his words. Then he speaks, each syllable echoing:

"For such is the law of fate: what is destroyed must be reunited. The blood of General Acacius’ daughter and mine shall merge into one. His spirit will live in my heirs. I do not reject him—I will make him a part of me, a part of Rome! And let the Sun of the Empire rise above us!"

And then the sound. One voice, foreign, elevated, yet commanding, like a hammer blow. The words flow, penetrate ears, sink into hearts. And then—the first movement. Someone’s fingers nervously clutch the edge of a toga, someone gasps for air, and then... an explosion. A wave of voices crashes over the Colosseum, a roar shatters the air like stones tumbling down a cliff.

A new empress. The daughter of the man whom Geta himself condemned to death.

Helena freezes, feeling her world crumble. And the guards suddenly push her forward, forcing her to step toward the emperor. The fabric of her long blue dress catches on her sandal, and she nearly falls.

Geta yanks her to him. He moves slowly, like a predator playing with its prey. There is something lazy, unhurried in his gait, but beneath it lies sharpness, cunning. He stretches this moment, prolongs it, like a spider savoring the agony of its victim. Geta drinks in the moment, absorbs her fear like wine that gives him strength.

He has already tasted her despair, and now he merely savors it.

Golden fire dances in his eyes. His lips are wet from wine, his breath warm, with a spicy bitterness. He smirks, allowing himself to examine her up close. He watches how tears glisten on her lashes, how her lips tremble. In this, there is power. His power.

The scent of his body is thick, rich. Frankincense, wine, honey, salt, skin—he smells like a feast, like a sacrifice to the gods. His fingers wrap around Helena’s waist, and she feels his strength—rough, insatiable. He holds her as if sinking his teeth into her, as if carving his name into her flesh.

His face is frighteningly close. His lips slide along her temple, hot breath scorching her skin. He grabs Helena tightly under the ribs, like an iron hoop, his fingers digging into her body, forcing her to freeze from the pain. She feels her bones almost crack under his grip.

"You're trembling, meus sol," (my sun) - his voice is low, hissing, like a snake slithering across the sand.

His eyes are burning. The black ring of his dilated pupils blurs the crimson color of his iris, eclipsing it, like night extinguishes day. He looks at Helena too intently, too hungrily — like someone who already considers something his own. Geta inhales the air near her face, as if testing it. And he gets drunk.

She is his. She will be his. Just like the sun belongs to the sky, like fire consumes wood, so Helena was created to burn only for him. For now — unreachable, like the morning light that slides over stones, not allowing itself to be caught. But soon… Soon he will tear her from the heavens and make her burn only for him.

His hand slides across her shoulder, feeling the fabric of the tunic, the crumpled cloth from the struggle that sticks to her body. The thin linen soaked with sweat, clinging to her skin, accentuating the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. Geta slowly traces his fingers across the folds.

"Are you afraid? Or angry?"

Helena’s breath catches, but he catches the sound. He catches her fear. He drinks it, savoring it, like sweet Falernian honey. He is used to fear. He has been fed by it since childhood. People fear him. Women fear him. But no one dares to run. Not even her.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she breathes out barely audible.

Helena jerks, but he tightens his grip, pulling her closer, so that there is no space left between their bodies. Beneath him — flesh, alive, alert. She breathes deeper, sensing his essence — meat, vanity, power, which has soaked him through like oil — wool. Geta feels her breath, not moving.

Her wrist is in his palm, and he raises her arm, like proclaiming victory. Her body no longer belongs to her. It belongs to his hands, his strength, his whim. Even the air she breathes seems heated by his breath. Geta holds her tightly, as if afraid she will fall apart under his fingers. Or maybe he wants to hear her crack.

"Glory to the Empire! Glory to Rome!" he exclaims. His hand, gripping Helena’s shoulder, slowly slides down to her thin wrist. The touch is hot, as if he just dipped his fingers in blood.

Cries explode through the air. Helena gasps, tears burning her eyes. Geta bends close to her ear, his breath brushing her skin.

The crowd roars her name, their filthy mouths desecrating his property. They reach out to her, longing to touch, to steal even a drop of her light. Their rotting teeth, sweaty fingers, their hoarse voices… Pitiful, insignificant worms daring to desire his sun! He will burn them from her memory, erase every one who dares to think she does not belong only to him.

Fingers sink into her skin. Her heart beats, but not in flight — in the painful realization that between disgust and something darker runs a thin, shiny, predatory thread.

His eyes glide over her face, tearing it apart with his gaze.

"Fool," he exhales. "You think you can just turn away?"

He touches her cheek with his lips, like a snake testing the air. Slowly, barely perceptibly. But enough for her to feel how repulsive his kiss is. Crimson petals swirl in the air, like drops of spilled blood. Thousands of them, tens of thousands — they fall from the upper tiers, settling on the stones, on the heads, on the shoulders of the gathered. Beneath their feet, they mix with the sand, and it feels like the entire arena is drowning in a crimson sea.

"Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."

Geta pulls back, but does not leave. He enjoys the moment. He wants to see how fear is born in Helena’s eyes, how it twists inside her, how she fights, resists, only to give in afterward. He wants that taste — the taste of victory, the taste of power, the taste of revenge on her.

Helena lifts her gaze, forces a smile, but her eyes speak otherwise. But from this distance, no one can tell what she's thinking.

Geta tightens his grip on her fingers. He presses the back of her hand to his lips, intertwining their fingers. His eyes — two dark abysses that want to consume her entirely. His fingers slide, feeling the protruding bones. Too fragile. Too brittle. But something about this pleases him. Isn't it beautiful, what can break?

The crowd roars. The Colosseum thirsts for blood once again.

Helena feels his nails digging into her wrist, leaving crescent-shaped marks of pain. He doesn't let go. Even when she tries to break free — he enjoys it. She feels it in how his breath trembles, how his fingers tighten, how he savors this fleeting resistance.

Geta lowers his gaze to her neck. The skin is pale, tender, taut with tension. Already, the marks of his touch are visible. He slowly traces his finger along the line of her shoulder blades, wrapping his hand around her neck from behind. He feels how quickly her heart beats, how it pounds beneath his hand. His lips slowly curl into a grin.

And over this chaos, over the screams and roars, dawn continues to scatter its brilliance. The sun rises higher, its honeyed rays glide over the ancient stones, penetrating every crack, spreading gold over the blue folds. The wind stirs the thin fabric, as if trying to rip it off and carry it away, away from this prison. But is there a glimmer of hope in this light? Or is it just an illusion — a lie before another fall into darkness?

Part1! Part2! Part3! Part4...

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok^

[pancake-crab]

Me and @treelsprouts are making marble sky oc

(In the teens ages ↓ ↓ ↓)

Here's mine! His name is Mars.

Mars is a junior\Sub commander in Marmor forces.

Also, he's Kraz's caretaker(?) Since Kraz is a lil piece of shit and a trouble maker, everyone made a decision to give him someone who could look after him. (Plus, Cass didn't really tell us about Marmor families, but let's just say that these two are siblings)

Being the literal army junior commander doesn't stop him from absolutely adoring teegatdenians. He really often visits them in the prison to listen about their culture, life, people, fauna, flora and give them some medical care. (he makes excuses for others that he is just wooing them so that they do not die from injuries and in that case, mire information can be extracted from them)

He even had a tree friend - Tulip! (Or Daffodill, i can't decide) But... No matter what...

Social pressure is way too strong...

Also @somerandomdudelmao , hello :3

Yeah, one more thing. I have a hc that Marmor's "eyes" widening when they're feeling anxious, scared or just very uncomfortable and vulnerable, to increase their "echo location" Senses :]

[sapphirewritesx]

Kinslayer - Aemond Targaryen x OC (Naerys Velaryon)

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder. I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it. “Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

summary: After Naerys' weapons fall into Aemond's possession, she decides to break into his chambers to retrieve what belongs to her.

word count: 4.6k

warnings: panic, slight suicidal thoughts, brief smut (as a memory, not between aemond and oc), mean Aemond I guess?

tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, strong!oc, niece!oc, arranged marriage, pyrophobia, lots of banter, eventual smut

ao3: Kinslayer by sapphirewritesx

The waxing moon bathes the room in a pale glow, softening the cold shadows that linger in every corner. The sheer curtains by the balcony billow with the breeze, as if beckoning me forward. There is no fire in the hearth, no candles burning. I blew them out the moment the maids left.

My nightgown brushes my hips as I raggedly pace the chambers, wrestling with the urge to stay within these walls. The fury of what happened barely an hour ago festers inside me, refusing to be ignored. How am I meant to close my eyes and rest when my betrothed has, yet again, made a spectacle of ridiculing me and my brothers?

‘Twas only a compliment. A brilliant stunt—one he had no qualms pulling. The more I dwell on it, the hotter my blood burns.

It’s all he’s done since we arrived. Others have whispered the same insult behind closed doors, but never so brazenly. And those who have dared, are unarguably dead—Vaemond Velaryon now among them.

Aemond has already paid for his words with an eye. Is he willing to risk his life, too?

Give me a reason to erase your spurious existence.

No, it’s mine he means to wager.

He has diminished me, threatened me—yet I am simply expected to endure whatever he throws my way. Worse still, I must do so knowing he has stripped me of any means to fight back. The Queen may have ordered my weapons seized, but there is no doubt as to who reaps the reward.

My skin crawls at the thought of my sword and dagger hanging proudly upon his wall—spoils of a war that has only just begun.

The piercing screech of a dragon lures me to the balcony, my slippers whisking against the marble as I rush forward. Gripping the railing, I tilt my head back, searching for the source of the unfamiliar cry. Our dragons, I know to discern. But this one feels violently ancient.

A colossal form emerges through the thick clouds, momentarily eclipsing the faint glimmer the moon casts upon the golden spires of the Keep. There is no mistaking Vhagar. Her massive wings are spread wide, spiked with countless battle scars. Almost two centuries old, still she remains undefeated. An insurmountable creature that, to this day, has known no worthy rival.

She is magnificent to behold, soaring with grace through her domains—the absolute ruler of the sky.

I wonder what such a mighty dragon sensed in that ten year-old boy when she accepted him as her rider, hours after the burial of her former one, Aunt Laena. Despite her age, Vhagar has been perceptive about whom she allowed to claim her. Only four riders have ever been granted the honor of mounting her saddle: Queen Visenya, Prince Baelon, Lady Laena, and as of now, Prince Aemond.

Bile rises within me the moment his name so much as grazes the tip of my tongue.

My fingers twitch, reminiscing that fleeting touch—the sting of my palm against his skin. I should have struck harder. Or perhaps twice, had I seized the chance.

No—I want more than that. I want to make him bleed. To watch crimson trickle down his pale flesh, proof that his blood runs no different than mine.

But how could I, when I’m caged within these walls, forced to witness him ascend to untouchable heights?

Even if he was here, what good am I with without a blade? My bare hands cannot stand a chance, no matter how fierce my desire.

I turn toward the adjoining balcony, where no glint of light emanates. His chambers are deserted. If no guards warded his doors nor mine, I could slip away this instant. A hairpin might just serve to sneak inside.

I step closer, my grip tightening around the railing. The thought that crosses my mind is a reckless one, yet I do not dismiss it.

There’s no need for a door.

My right leg swings over the railing before reason convinces me to back down. The stone is cold and gritty beneath me, scraping through the thin fabric of my nightgown, but it doesn’t deter me. One hand clings to the edge behind me as I shift my weight forward, muscles taut with effort, and jarringly reach for the railing of his balcony. The gap is narrow, but wide enough for a tragic fall to death.

My fingers are slick with sweat as I grip the baluster, inching forward with stubborn resolve. Wind whistles in my ears, my heart thundering like a brewing storm. I stretch my arms, body suspended between the two balconies. One misstep, and I’ll descend into the abyss.

Don’t cower now, I chide myself. If I was bold enough to entertain the thought, then I must see it through. I shall not falter—only finish what I started.

My knee hooks the rail.

With a sharp gasp, I haul myself over—breath knocked from my lungs as my ribs collide with the hard stone floor.

I help myself upright, coughing as air returns to my chest. The spot where I landed throbs, blood pulsing within me from both the pain and the thrill of what I’ve just accomplished.

By morning, it may bloom into a nice bruise. For now, I’m standing in Aemond’s quarters. And I intend to reclaim what was taken from me.

Tentatively, I peer inside. The sole light comes from the center of the room: three thick, dark candles burning low atop a small table. I remain at the threshold, scanning every corner from a distance. I need to know where every flame lies before I dare step further.

To my left rises an impossibly wide bookshelf, every row filled with at least half-hundred volumes, their gold and silver titles glowing subtly under the blue hue of the night. A dark mahogany desk sits before it, its surface meticulously arranged with parchment, quills, and inkwells. I let my eyes wander, drinking in the space—taking the time I most likely don’t have. It stirs a deep curiosity within me, to know what he is like in the privacy of his chambers, the things he does when no one else is watching.

I turn on my heel, venturing a few paces farther to the right, careful to avoid the flickering light. Squinting into the darkness, I spot the large four-poster bed—veiled in black, draped in deep crimson covers, and crowned with a mountain of cushions. I draw closer, letting my fingers glide over the embroidered silk. The mattress yields beneath my hand, plush and sorely inviting.

With a muttered curse for my own impulse, I sit. My nightgown rides up, bare legs brushing against the soft fabric as I shift atop the sterling bed—fit for the true prince he is. I doubt mine will feel quite as fine.

Gods, I didn’t come here to pry about, did I?

I rise at once.

My eyes close for a beat, determination settling again. Swiftly, I smooth the covers and cushions, erasing every trace of my presence before moving along the adjacent wall, back on course to find wherever he keeps his weapons.

A spark of gold coming from a newly found doorframe steals my attention, instinct pulling me toward it. I step closer, standing beneath the arch. My lips part at the sight before me—a vast golden tub, large enough to fit two, overflowing with water and fresh sprigs of lavender.

His bathing chamber, previously concealed from me, awaits ready for his return.

I step back in terror.

Behind the tub, the hearth burns bright, keeping the water warm for the prince. Flames lick at the crackling wood, sending cinders spiraling into the smoke. The scent of ash churns my stomach, the thick air clawing at my throat, refusing to let me breathe.

I run to the opposite side of the room, the flames now licking at the edges of my vision as I try to escape their heat. My skirts billow with each frantic step, stirring a gust of air that snuffs out the three candles at the center of the room. I only stop when my hands hit the far wall, my forehead pressing against the cool stone as I struggle to steady my breath, to regain my bearings.

My mother—she was right. She has always been right.

I crossed from my balcony to Aemond’s, driven by the obstinacy of seizing the moment, only to be undone by the mere nearness of a hearth.

Weak.

The word echoes inside me like a tune that never ends. Nothing else describes it. I’m weak. Boldness is a costume I wear poorly. No matter how hard I try, the mask never fully weaves across my face. For all the stitches I add, there are always loose threads.

I can only play brave but never become it.

My head tilts back, a low groan escaping me in frustration. Pretend, my father’s voice rises from the depths of my memory. Pretend, Naerys—show your teeth, even when trembling out of fear. Pretend, until where once was deceit, only truth remains.

I back off from the wall, clutching at the last shreds of my resolve. Blinking in the dark, I can see now what I’ve failed to notice in the haze of my writhing thoughts.

The entire wall is lined with weapons—a countless collection of daggers and swords of all existing sizes, neatly arranged by shape and purpose. Enough steel to arm a battalion, hanging gaudily on display in the One-Eyed Prince’s rooms.

The blades glint in the shadows, some recently polished, others dull by the weight of history. I trail my fingers along a few, studying their unique craft. But the ones I came for—Bonebreaker and Nightshade—are nowhere in sight.

Could he have…disposed of them, perhaps? He could have melted their steel into another blade, wrought with my tears and shame. Though would he, truly? Or would he rather keep them, to further flaunt his new toys? Befitting, I believe, that he would do just that.

So where, then, shall my weapons be?

I search the room once again, looking out sharply for any hidden spot I might have missed. With the candles now extinguished, I move more freely, sweeping over the center of the room.

Chests, drawers, cabinets, wardrobes—I pull each open, fingers deft but careful, rifling through all that might conceal the blades from me. And each time, I find nothing. No flash of silver, no familiar weight wrapped in cloth.

I bend down before yet another trunk, refusing to surrender to defeat. My wounded knuckles smack against the hard metal of its latch, and I curse through clenched teeth. Kneeling beside the bed, I press my tongue to the split skin, tasting blood. But the pain dissolves in a blaze, replaced by something else entirely. Triumph.

There, just beneath his mattress, I recognize the silver hilt of my sword.

Without a moment of hesitance, I lunge forward to claim it. My fingers curl around the handle, welcoming the cold steel back into my possession. My chest swells with sweet reward, still my waist misses the smaller blade. I glance below the bed one more time, eyes strained. No trace of Nightshade.

I raise from the ground, determined to not leave these quarters without both my weapons.

An irritating sound halts me mid-step.

Nearing footsteps, followed by laughter—distinctively feminine.

They grow louder, echoing closer with every thud of my heart. Women. Something twists inside me. Would he? Right here in this castle, knowing my rooms are right beside his own?

Oh, of course he would. As if it hasn’t already been made painfully clear that he cares nothing for my honor.

No time for dwelling on it.

I run for the balcony, sword clutched tightly in my right hand, and press my back against the pillar.

The doors swing open.

Damned be the Gods. This is, without question, the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in—hidden behind the pillars of my betrothed’s chambers, holding my sword in a flimsy nightgown, while he walks in with whores.

Even so, I do not move. I stay rooted in place, listening as something crashes to the floor.

“Fuck’s sake,” the blasted voice cuts through the quiet night, but I don’t quite set it apart. “One-eyed thinks he can tread like a cat in the dark?”

A chorus of giggles follows.

“Candles!”

Another thud, then the shuffle of fine boots and silks, too tangled with wine to care where they land. Metal clinks as the guards hurry in, lighting the candles and torches alike.

Light spills across the room in soft bursts, seeping through the curtains that lead to my hiding spot.

“Good, good!” he claps, his tone slurred. “Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. My brother should arrive in no time.”

Ah. No doubt now.

Aegon the Drunken, presenting his little brother with a late night entertainment.

“He is going to be so pleased with such company tonight,” the prince promises.

Certainly, I whisper to myself.

Does he plan to… share these women with Aemond? The image paints itself in my head, and the small portions of venison I managed to get down my throat tonight threaten to come right out. I’ve read of such… particular doings, but I never quite appreciated the prospect. 

“Will you be joining us, my prince?” One of them asks, her voice trained for seduction.

“Oh, no, no,” Aegon says with a muffled snort. The women let out a disappointed sigh. “Wouldn’t want him to feel threatened by the length of my cock.”

I scowl as they all burst into laughter.

How generous, the King’s firstborn son.

I dare to peer inside, just enough to glimpse the scene. Three of them, perched lazily around a velvet bench, their skin barely covered in red silk. Aegon, seated between them, is pouring himself some more wine.

Three.

Quite the night ahead for my betrothed, I see.

Fine. Let him indulge all he wants. He is a man of twenty, not the boy he was ten years ago. It would only be strange, if he didn’t seek such encounters. Stranger still, that the thought unsettles me at all.

But then why shouldn’t it, when he is free to do as he pleases, while I’m expected to remain chaste and untouched?

For him, of all men.

I secure my sword in my grasp and turn toward the balcony, ready to return to mine, when his voice slices through the room like a sharp blade.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Aemond’s question silences the ladies’ irritating giggles. “You have your own chambers to fuck your whores in, don’t you, brother?”

“Ah, don’t be stupid,” Aegon slurs. “I brought these girls for you. Time you got some more practice.”

Practice. Is that what we are calling it, now? More practice, to be fair.

“No,” Aemond cuts in swiftly, dismissing his older brother’s offering. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“I said not tonight,” he repeats, his refusal oddly clear. “Get out now.”

“Alright, alright,” Aegon grumbles, stumbling as he raises from his seat. “Let’s go have fun on our own then, ladies!”

My stomach churns as my mind instantly drifts to Helaena. His wife. His sister. Watching over their children while he spends the night with whores.

“Don’t do this again,” Aemond warns. “Is that clear?”

Aegon halts, hand smashing against the doorframe. “Damn it, brother. Just trying to help you relieve some of the tension that bastard put you through.”

That’s me—I’m the bastard. And I’m inexplicably irritated to be nothing more than a tension that needs to be relieved.

The hiss of a blade unsheathing makes me rise onto my tiptoes, daring another glance. Just as I suspected, Aemond stands with his sword drawn, its tip aimed at his brother’s chest. The three whores scurry behind Aegon, gasping at the prince’s loss of temper.

“Get out,” Aemond commands again, voice cold as the steel in his hand.

“Gods,” Aegon mutters, throwing up his hands. “No need for that, you boring idiot.”

He stumbles toward the door. “We’re out!”

And with that, Aemond is left alone, still unaware of my presence.

I should have taken advantage of the earlier chaos. It wouldn’t have been difficult to slip out, but I stayed, curiosity tethering me in place.

His footfalls fill the new silence, fading as he crosses the room. A sigh, then the soft thud of his sword hitting the floor. Moments later, the heavy rustle of leather follows.

Is he…undressing?

My insides turn. The bath. Right—he’s going to bathe.

This is my chance to leave unnoticed.

Every step toward the railing pulls the knot in my chest tighter. I wasn’t this afraid on my way in—revenge had poisoned all reason. But now? Now I’m terrified. One glance down, and the confidence I held is as good as gone.

Too late to regret this.

I have to go back.

My movements are too quick—too clumsy. My foot snags on my gown, and I stumble. My hands shoot out, gripping the railing just in time, but Bonebreaker slips from my grasp, clattering against the stone with a far too loud noise.

Fuck.

No time to think.

I snatch the sword from the floor with one hand, hike my nightdress with the other, and lean forward. I strain to lift myself, my ribs heaving as my breathing staggers. Just a little bit higher. Just a bit more—so I can drop the sword to my balcony, free my hands, and get the hell out of here.

Strong, long fingers clamp around my waist.

I gasp, my balance gone. My body tilts forward, eyes catching the sheer drop between the two balconies. My heart lurches into my throat.

Now, this is a terrible way to die.

“Going somewhere, little bastard?” His voice is a cruel whisper against my bare shoulder.

I struggle to stay still, flesh creeping with dread. He holds my life in his hands, and he damn well knows it. He revels in it.

“Oh, you’re trembling.” There’s amusement laced in his every word, savoring the position he’s caught me in. “Poor thing.”

His fingers tighten around my waist, dragging me back just enough to throw my grip off the railing. My legs falter—half my body dangling above the drop. He doesn’t help me down. No, he leaves me suspended, teetering between safety and oblivion, as if deciding whether to have mercy or rid himself of me right in this instant.

And how easy I’ve made it for him, if he chooses the latter. There will be no questions. No doubts, when they find my broken body sprawled beneath this tower. An expected tragedy, that the bastard couldn’t withstand the weight of her own existence.

A rush of cool wind caresses my cheeks, inviting me for a dance into the void.

Wouldn’t it be a sweet death, to fall into a never-ending sleep?

No duty, no marriage, no throne.

“Let me fall,” I breathe, surrendering to the better end.

My request hangs in the air, and for a heavy pause, he says nothing. As though now that I cave in, he is the one to hesitate.

“I will,” he grunts, and I brace myself for the descent into the abyss. Then—his grip shifts, bare arms wrapping around me. He pulls me down, back against the hard line of his chest. “But not quite yet, my darling niece.”

I can’t quite describe the feeling that soaks through my bones—anger, confusion, disappointment. My soles land on the hard stone, his embrace anchoring me to the ground. I try to break away, shoulders wriggling to get him off me. His arms don’t loosen. Instead they force me forward, caging me between his body and the edge of the balcony. As if he thought I might just leap, robbing him of the sickening desire of finishing me himself.

His fingers dig into my scalp, jerking my head to the side by a fistful of my hair.

“It’d be such a shame,” he murmurs against my nape, voice soft as silk, “to dispose of you so easily.”

“What do you want, then?” I demand, but the edge in my voice is fraying.

How quaint of me. He doesn’t want an easy death. No, he wants pain. He wants to watch me unravel, to hear me beg for the mercy he’ll never give. He wants me broken before it ends. But why? Is my bastardy the only reason for such hatred?

His breath hitches, chest rising against my back in a quiet, uneven exhale. He doesn’t answer right away—no, he’s savoring this, drunk on the power he holds over me.

“Do you really want to know, little bastard?”

“Yes,” I rasp, the word catching in my throat. “I do.”

His fingers detangle from my hair. They trail down deliberately, tugging the loose fabric of my nightgown over my shoulder—because even a flash of my skin is an offense to his half-blinded sight.

“I want your blood, your soul, your heart, ” he dictates, each word punctuated, as though naming trifles. “Mine to spill, to possess, and to tear apart at my pleasure.”

My pulse thrums in my ears, chills cascading down my spine. He wants to destroy all of me. To strip me bare of every last shred of humanity, until I am as hollow as him. Surely, were I a proper lady, that would take time. He’d be surprised, to find just how empty I already am.

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands traveling to mine as he sets them on the railing, a finger gravely brushing over my knuckles. “Tell me, Naerys…”

I know I should be scared—fighting, clawing, kicking my way out of his hold—but I don’t hear the rest. Moonlight pours over his exposed skin like a river of molten steel. The veins in his hands strike deep and purple, dark and rich. Faint scars lace his forearms, gleaming like ivory ink, written stories in a tongue I’ll never comprehend.

This position—the press of his chest, the weight of his grip—pulls me into a memory I have never lived, but read quite a few times.

The prince brought his hand to her collarbone, fingers gliding over soft skin, tracing the delicate path down to her chest. His grip around her waist tightened as he tilted her neck, teasing her skin with breath and restraint. Her heart pounded, aching for the heat of his lips, the sweep of his tongue. But the prince was cruel in the way he drew out desire, and so he waited until she begged—until she moaned his name in a desperate plea. His mouth crashed to her neck with an insatiable hunger, biting and kissing as if he meant to consume her. The ache between her legs bloomed, dripping wet. One hand tangled in her hair, the other deftly unlaced the front of her corset. When her breasts spilled free, her nipples pebbled in the night breeze—but not for long. His mouth closed around them, tongue tracing fire across the sensitive flesh. Then he turned her to the edge of the balcony, made her clutch the stone as he lifted her skirts. His hands found the heat between her thighs, fingers parting—

“Naerys.” His whisper blows the fantasy away like smoke, and I’m thrust back into this ordinary realm, where a different prince still cages me. These hands wrapped around me were never meant to worship—only to wound.

“Answer me.”

“Hm?” I mumble, the sound a blend of taunt and uncertainty. His question hangs by a thread in my mind, because those few last words he said before I slipped, I didn’t quite catch.

“Don’t test my patience tonight,” he warns darkly. “Tell me how you entered my chambers, thief.”

Thief, is it?

A low, smug chuckle escapes me. “Same way I was getting out.”

Without warning, he spins me around, his hands forcefully pinning my lower body to the edge. I swallow, my gaze drawn instinctively to the hard lines of his bare chest. Every inch of him is sculpted with strength, each muscle taut and coated in the sheen of the moon and stars that watch over us. He’s lethal—devastatingly so.

“You jumped from your balcony to mine, to get into my chambers?” His brows furrow slightly, as if the mere thought of me doing something so reckless is beyond his comprehension. He looks at me like I’m a riddle he can’t quite solve. Fairly enough, neither can I. 

“In a pretty nightgown and slippers?” His voice drips with incredulity, a hint of amusement rising beneath.

“I jumped from my balcony to yours to take back what is mine,” I snap, glancing down at my sword, scattered on the floor like a piece of worthless steel.

His laugh is ungodly, dark as the night.

“Yours?” He tilts his head slightly, eye narrowed with challenge. “That blade is no longer yours. It belongs to me now, whether you accept it or not.”

His lips tilt to the side, displaying a pleased smile as he grabs both my wrists in a knot. “As do you.”

The rage that took hold of me as I paced in my chambers resurfaces tenfold. “That blade—”

“How?” he cuts in, slicing my outburst at the root. His eye locks on my right hand as he pulls it toward him, inspecting it closely. “How did you get this?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I snort.

“Very well, I’ll ask you a third and final time.” His gaze hardens, a silent warning—a subtle reminder that he won’t hesitate to make good on his threats. “How?”

I sigh, relenting. “I scraped my knuckles on the railing on the way in.”

A scoff. “A bastard, a thief… and now a liar. Anything else to add to your charming list of sins?”

“I’m not lying,” I say, expression stoic. My answer was perfectly plausible.

“Hm.” His mouth curls with derision. “So you’re daft, too.”

He doesn’t give me the chance to bite back. 

“You had both these wounds at supper,” he says flatly. “If you’re going to lie, at least put some effort into it.”

I raise a brow. “You were paying close attention, then.”

“I was,” he admits, almost distracted. “Observing, you see, teaches much about your adversaries. Reveals weak points, if you are…keen enough.”

“And have you learned any of mine yet?” I dare ask, struggling to maintain my defiance.

He studies me intently, head tilted. His hold loosens, just enough for my arms to fall to my sides. I look down to myself, following his gaze right to the center of my chest. The thin fabric of my nightgown clings to my form, and I suddenly become sorely aware of the way my raised nipples visibly peak underneath. 

My teeth sink into my bottom lip to conceal the sound of my embarrassment. This surpasses indecency—and my thoughts—they flare to the whores he refused tonight.

I know what must be crossing his mind. I look nothing like them.

His violet eye sparkles like a spiral of amethyst, blinking as he faces me once again. The curve of his lips returns. “You’re cold, dear niece,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Without warning, I’m effortlessly hurled over his shoulder, carried like a child. But if I am to be treated as such, I might as well act the part.

I kick and writhe, his long hair tangling with mine as I swing my head against his back. “Put me down!”

“Not a chance.” His arm snakes around my waist, my hips resting over his bare chest as he crosses the room. “I’m escorting you to your quarters.”

“Ah, so chivalrous,” I mock, “to carry your betrothed over your shoulder into the corridors of the Keep.”

No matter how close our chambers are, little birds linger in dim corners of this castle, waiting for a new tune to sing come the morrow.

“Aemond—” I call his name, desperate to make him reason. “We cannot be seen this way—the guards, they’ll talk—”

His steps grow faster. “Think I care?”

[lucytsukii]

"A fox…?"

I'm not much of a writer, because I don't know if you'd like it, especially since English isn't my native language and it must be full of mistakes. But, I love this character, and I wanted to do something more interactive. I hope you enjoy the writing, or just the drawing, I really enjoyed doing both. And please tell me what you think about this kind of Oc and Y/n interactions. If you like it, please reblog it! Or just leave a comment or like :3

You are lost in a vast snowy desert.

Everywhere you look is a dense, marble-white fog, cold and deep, the black wood of the trees has been erased by the constant falling snow.

You were trying to return to the city, and thought it best to wait in a cave for the blizzard to pass before continuing, but unfortunately, even as the hours passed, it did not disappear, it only grew darker.

Like an eternal rain, the sky did not stop crying those white flakes, the forest grew colder and, of course, it was no different for you.

Your hands were freezing, your face red from the cold, your clothes were not very warm and your breath was visible.

In a foolish hope, you decided to continue on your way, even though you did not know exactly where you were going.

In this forest bathed in white, every place seemed the same. At some point, you even lost sight of the cave where you took shelter…

But there was no time to worry about that. All around you, you heard roars and the sound of swords, trees breaking with thunderous blows.

The fog did nothing to help your resentment. The sounds frightened you, getting louder and closer.

The silence.

You hid behind a tree, holding your breath as if any movement or sound could turn back on you.

And with the sound of a blade, all the sounds disappeared…

It was scarier than anything else. The doubt that it was over, if you were truly safe, flooded you, when suddenly you heard a voice.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

The voice was deep, but soft, like a gentle melody coming from the throat of a worried man.

That made your guard higher. Was it really safe to go out?

"Excuse me? I'm here looking for lost travelers, it's dangerous to be in this area. Please leave, everything is fine now, there's no more danger."

Gathering courage from your trembling hands, you peer in the direction the voice came from, seeing a really tall silhouette! He seemed to have his back turned, just waiting, looking around.

Didn't he know you were there? But why would he be asking if there was anyone in that isolated forest…

Something in you told you that he was just waiting for you to take the initiative.

"Who… Are you?"

With your voice a little shaky from the cold and the fragile courage you gathered, you spoke softly, like a whisper, as if you didn't really want to speak.

"Ah! I'm sorry, did I scare you?"

The large figure turns around, approaching through the fog, placing his hands behind his back and bowing a little.

"Hello!"

You are paralyzed, that figure, previously intimidating due to his height, is now turning to you, giving you a bright smile, with gentle and sweet eyes, as warm as the sun.

You can feel your breathing even lighter, as if his presence was driving away the cold and tension in your body.

He begins to speak in a calm tone.

"I apologize if I scared you, people usually get scared because of my size. Are you okay? Are you hurt? It's really cold, you must be freezing in those clothes."

He seems genuinely concerned, checking your condition, encouraging you to answer him.

"I-I… I'm just cold and lost, I'm not hurt."

You don't know exactly why you said all this, but being in front of him, looking into those eyes, it seems like he understands you perfectly.

"That gives me some relief, here, take my cloak, it will warm you up."

He unties the bow and takes off his cloak, placing it over his shoulder. It was wide and warm, leaving a little bit of it falling into the snow.

"Are there other people with you around here? It's snowy season when onis appear the most in this area. It's dangerous just to stay in this place."

He looks around, looking for other people, or just as a precaution.

"No one… I was trying to get to the city when the blizzard started. I hid in a cave to wait for it to pass for a while…"

With a sigh, you feel a large hand gently ruffling your hair.

"It's normal. These blizzards appear without any warning. But well, I'm glad you weren't in any danger. Come on, I'll take you to the city… Oh! Sorry, my cloak is a bit big. If you can't walk, I can carry you."

After a walk, you are taken out of that dense white fog, finally arriving at the city where you say goodbye to that man, who puts on his cloak again and goes back into the forest with a sweet wave and an illuminated smile.

-

Thanks for reading!

[little-miss-of-the-sky]

The real death is when the livings forget you

This was supposed to be a simple writing training but this turned into so much that i count it as lore for my ocs. 

Words : 2,1 k

The ocs presents are :

Malina

Hope

Victoria

Hinata

The oc who is talked about is :

Tsuki

When 9-year-old Hinata had an idea in mind, nothing could stop her, even the protests of her two older adopted sisters, whom she happily dragged along in her mischief. While sweet 16-year-old Hope always gave in easily to the young girl's pleas, cold-hearted Victoria was harder to convince.

One balmy summer afternoon, when the sky was turning gold and orange and the clouds were turning pink, Hinata found Victoria sparring with another saint, trying to get the upper hand. The teenager's pale features were dirtied by the dust of her battle, while her armor reflected the last glimmers of the glorious daylight. 

"Vickyyyyyyy!"

Hinata's sharp voice made her stop her fight, her eyes filling with boredom and the faintest curiosity. Victoria beckoned her training companion to wait before moving towards the girl who had called her, running a hand through her sweat-soaked hair. 

"What is it, Hinata? And stop interrupting me all the time. "

"But Vicky! I want to tell you to come with me and Hope! "

"Is this more of your nonsense? "

"Yes and....no . We're going to find out what happened to Tsuki! Even Deathmask told me that a spirit from the sanctuary library could help us! "

"And you believe him? "

"Aphrodite was there when he told me, and he doesn't dare talk nonsense when Dite is around."

Victoria took time to think for a moment, because deep down, she was also interested in Tsuki's story, even though she knew it only through Hinata's words. And if this mysterious spiritual source could be true, it might be worth a try. 

"Okay Hinata.....when are we going?"

"Now! "

Victoria barely had time to greet the apprentice she was facing before Hinata had already run off, her amber locks dancing in the warm breeze.

"Well, you can see her Italian genes..." mused Victoria, before swearing quickly at her tired legs and dashing off in pursuit of the little girl. 

Hope was already waiting for them in front of the Pope's palace, examining an ancient book with some interest, turning each yellowed page with delicacy. She barely had time to react before Hinata threw herself onto her back, wrapping her arms around her neck in an embrace.

"Hope! What are you reading? And you're beautiful! "

"Thanks sweety! And this is a very very old book I found in a corner of the library. Some pages have been lost to time and insects, but I think it was an archive of all the saints from the previous holy war. "

"Oh....and did you find Tsuki? And the ghost we're going to see?"

"Yes, don't worry. Tsuki's here. Apparently, she would have been the holder of a Vulpaca cloth, the Autumn one, which has disappeared today. And our ghost is called Malina. She was an apprentice who appeared in Athena's place at the sanctuary, without being the goddess. According to what's written, she was too mature for her age and had a certain.... detachment from people. "

Victoria frowned when she spotted an almost faded note at the corner of the page, bending down to examine it better. 

"Malina Ennigbar, born March 12, 1741, died May 26, 1749. The little girl didn't live long - 8 years. At least, in the context of her life, that's enough. "

Hope glanced at Hinata, glad that she was too distracted watching the solitary buzzard soaring in the sky to hear this morbid detail. Then she stood up, gently putting an arm around Victoria's shoulder and ruffling Hinata's hair. 

"Well, shall we go?"

Hinata scrambled to her feet, almost tripping over one of the wide marble steps in her enthusiasm, clinging to Victoria's gloved hand. She let out a sigh, but made no attempt to push the younger girl away. 

One of the first things that disturbed Hope when they entered the palace was the heavy silence, filled with something that almost resembled fear. Guards, typical of the sanctuary, were present, but tension was written all over their faces, and none of them sought conversation. Victoria had stopped complaining and gave Hope a questioning look when she saw the Pope's empty throne. This didn't reassure them. 

"Is the Pope out of his mind at the moment, or is it just me? Maybe he's going senile, but that's a bit quick. "

Without stopping, Hope beckoned Victoria to lower her voice, to which the teenager gave an annoyed pout, without ceasing to look around her. 

"Me, I think he's weird....sometimes he's nice, but sometimes he's mean. It's as if they were two different people...."

Hinata's voice had lost its usual vivacity, her icy-blue eyes riveted to the floor as she fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket. 

"Once, I was playing with Asterion and Ptolemy when....we heard the Pope arguing with someone.... in the baths. So we went to see..."

Hope interrupted to exclaim in a slightly shocked tone:

"Hinata! You know very well you don't have the right! "

"I know! But when we went, he was all alone! He was arguing by himself! He didn't even see us! Well, we didn't see his face because his blue hair hid everything! "

Victoria suddenly felt as if her brain had just short-circuited. In her memories, the Pope didn't have blue hair, he didn't seem crazy, and all this was mixed up with a lot of coincidences. 

Hope seemed just as confused, while Hinata's hand clutched her bracelet. 

"Well, it's cute conspiracy theories about the evidence of 3 little snoopers, but I thought we were supposed to be talking to spirits . Besides, we've arrived. "

Victoria pushed open the heavy library doors, letting Hope and Hinata through. 

The air was filled with dust, the rows of books looking older and older as the floors stretched into the library. Hinata, still on guard, tugged lightly at Victoria's hand before murmuring:

"What do we do now? What do we call her? The ghost. "

Hope took her in her arms, smiling gently before replying: 

 "Apparently, she's in a corner she frequented when she was alive. But she won't come if you don't smile! "

"Right! Do you think she likes ABBA? "

"Maybe she does! "

At her words, Hope put the little girl down, letting her bolt among the rows of shelves with the ardor of a wild horse. With an amused smile, the oldest of the three girls followed her, while Victoria stood back for a moment to examine a cut on her forearm. As they advanced, the leather covers cracked and dust covered the old pages. Rounding a bend, Hinata stopped abruptly in front of a corner with an old wooden desk whose chair was beginning to mildew. 

Victoria approached the book lying there, a thick volume with a gray cover that time had not erased. 

"Staring at strangers' belongings is rude. "

At the sound of this unfamiliar voice, Hinata screamed, running to hide behind Hope's legs, which made Victoria escape a light laugh. 

"It was the ghost who knew Tsuki, you coward . "

Hope stepped forward cautiously, before extending a hand and asking: 

"Miss Malina? Could you reveal yourself

 to us?"

"I'm already visible, narwhal saint. To your left. "

Hope turned, and all saw her. A little girl with an expression of silent analysis, her fine ebony locks framing her sickly-hale face. Her green eyes were the color of the moss that grows on trees, but they were keen and attentive. When she spoke, her voice was calm, controlled:

"What do you want, narwhal saint, winter Vulpaca saint and future kelpie saint? "

"We want to know who killed Tsuki.... because she was your friend....."

Malina seemed surprised that Hinata was the first to ask this question, but was quick to return to her usual detached expression. 

"It depends. Do you consider the one who condemns the killer, or the one who takes the life?"

"The one who condemns..."

"Right. It was the actions of Dohko of Libra that accidentally condemned Tsuki, but it was the reincarnation of Hades that killed her "

Victoria let out a deep sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose and declaring: 

"Super...... it was the old master who accidentally killed her and who was therefore the saint of Libra. "

The silence that followed was so heavy that Malina sincerely believed that Hope and Hinata were in apnea. Suddenly, this was broken by Hinata who exclaimed: "I knew it! ", and Hope whispered: "can you.... explain your thinking Victoria?"

Victoria, looking quite pleased with herself, sat down on the musty chair, inspecting her nails. 

"Well.....Tsuki says she's spent 250 years protecting someone, who's the old master . For this person to be 250 years old, she must have been between 16 and 20 during the previous holy war. That leaves us with two survivors of the holy war. Except that one has gone to sanctuary. You've got your solution. I just can't figure out how he survived. "

"Excellent. All that's missing is knowledge of an Athena technique that slows the heartbeat. "

Malina seemed slightly more open, her eyes slowly emptying of their initial contempt. It had been a long time since she'd addressed people. 

"And Tsuki died breaking most of the bones in her body. She almost defeated Hades in his palace.... but he pushed her from the height of heaven. She remained conscious until the end, then ... Crack. "

Hope looked horrified, Hinata seemed to be still recording the new information while Hope simply asked Malina: 

"Who was it who had the lovely mission of announcing to the Saint of Libra that his actions had led Tsuki to her doom? "

"I don't know, I was already dead. It was a surprise to find him alive. Tsuki and Haru believed him to have been legitimately killed by Hades. "

Suddenly, Hinata, who had been simmering an idea in her brain for a few minutes, knocked on her knee and exclaimed: 

"That's why he's all old and purple! It's karma! "

Hope tried hard to hide her laughter, her shoulders shaking, while Victoria simply looked dismayed. However, it was Malina who seemed the most surprised, her eyes widening slightly. 

"Dohko is....violet now? "

"Well yes! All old, all purple, like Gollum! Wasn't he like that before? "

"If memory serves, no. Tsuki didn't have such bad taste. "

"Tsuki was in love with him? But she said he was just a friend! "

Hearing this, Malina let out a little laugh somewhere between amusement and desolation, smiling for the first time since she'd met the three girls. 

"Oh yes, she did. Even if she denies it. I suppose they're getting along just the same today? "

Hinata looked at Victoria, who gave Hope a pleading look, seemingly accepting her destiny to be a counsellor to hearts and explaining that to Malina. 

"Long story short....she avoids him like the plague. She's not going to get closer than 5 meters to him . I think she's angry with him for banishing Ohko, for putting up with that child...Saori like Athena. And 250 years alone hasn't helped Tsuki's mental health. Were they really close before? "

"Yes . Both loved each other but both were each a beautiful idiot in their own way. I think Tsuki knew her love was reciprocated but her depression, and the war paralyzed her. But then, Adalhia would have been sad to see them like that now. "

Hinata approached Malina slightly, turning her head like a curious owl, trying to pat the spirit's hand. 

"They didn't kiss? "

"Tsuki would rather have fought Hades' specters plus Poseidon's marinas than this. "

Suddenly, Malina let out a cry of pain, clutching her head in her hands as she nearly lost her balance. 

"Shit.....one's using his cosmos again to try and send me back to the underworld..... always the same person."

She finally steadied herself, straightening up with a certain dignity, smoothing the folds of her brown skirt, the color of the earth.

"I won't last long here. Saint of the Narwhal, tell Dohko that Malina told him to stop pretending to know all the answers, that he'd do far worse if he weren't nailed to Rozan and to stop contradicting Tsuki or I'll come and haunt him."

Hope nodded solemnly, as if Malina had just delivered a mission that would save the universe. Malina hadn't finished her recommendations for her part: 

"Hinata, ask Tsuki why she fell out of her tree. Don't ask me, you'll see her embarrassed, that should be enough for you. In fact, don't go back the way you came. For your own safety. "

The two older girls nodded, teleporting away as the ghost's intangible form disappeared. Once outside, Hinata scurried off, having probably annoyed Deathmask about what she'd found out. Hope and Victoria stood still for a moment before separating, each going back to their training. They both knew who was trying to make Malina disappear, and why their safety would be threatened if they passed through the corridors again. But it was a truth no one was prepared to admit to themselves. 

[somerandomdudelmao]

My small contribution to Marble Sky fanart. Planning to do more and maybe draw some ocs

Awwwwwwwww I love ittt

[emma-the-artkid]

Her full reference is done! As well as her outfit 🤭🩵✨

Ok so- drawing Rymonatrix is WAY too fun, and I can’t stop 😭 I was originally just going to post her reference and that’s it- buuutttttt I thought you guys would like to see the sketches I’ve done of her as well<33 since you guys seemed to like her so much! 🩵✨

This oc was made for Marble sky! Which was made by @somerandomdudelmao ! I love the characters and I’m 100% gonna draw the actual characters in the near future🫶✨

Until then have a wonderful day everyone!🫶🩵✨

[coolattasclown]

I clicked it lol

Have a critter interacting with a goober :3

AWEWWW!!!!

THEY R BEING SO FRIENDS !

[leejenowrld]

haeun and jaemin scenes in 'back to you'

dad! jaemin, fluff

word count — 7.6k

authors note — i just thought i’d compile some of the jaemin and haeun scenes that are in ‘back to you’ for readers who 1) wanna revisit them 2) readers who haven’t read back to you but want to read the jaemin and haeun scenes in the fic. you don’t need any context of back to you to read these, just know it’s in a second person pov and that oc is bty! y/n. and these are not all of the scenes, i have more to post, this is 1/4 of the jaemin and haeun scenes. if this post is received well and you guys actually interact and tell me what you think, i’ll post the other scenes

jaemin and haeun arrive at jeno and oc’s wedding

Last comes Jaemin, shoulders tired but eyes still smiling, carrying two-year-old Haeun on his hip as though she’s a soft little star he can’t bear to set down.  She wears a butter-yellow dress stitched with tiny sunflowers, hair parted into two glossy plaits that Karina wove on the plane, each braid tipped with a tiny silk ribbon that flutters whenever she turns her head. One tiny hand clutches her guava-juice sippy cup, the other gripping a wrinkled crayon drawing labelled For ‘Auntie & Uncle Nono’ in wobbling capitals. Every few steps she presses syrupy kisses to her father’s cheek, then cups her mouth to his ear, giggling out secrets that make him laugh in the same velvet tone he uses to soothe her nightmares.  The moment the courtyard opens wide, she blinks up at the palms and lanterns, dimples carving deep, as if this place, this light, these people were all made just for her.

The moment Haeun appears in Jaemin’s arms, the whole villa blurs into background noise, Karina’s garment bags, Shotaro’s teary sniffles, Donghyuck’s champagne pop, even Ryujin’s clipboard clatter all fade to watercolor. Your gaze snags on that butter-yellow dress and the nervous fists twisting Jaemin’s collar. She won’t budge, shaking her head so hard the silk ribbons at the ends of her braids flap like tiny flags of surrender. Jaemin bounces her gently, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Angel,” he murmurs, voice made of velvet patience, “look, it’s Uncle Nono and your Auntie. You asked for them every single night, remember? 

Haeun lets out a tiny whimper, a soft, breathy “mmmh, sweepy,” and tucks her face deeper into the crook of Jaemin’s neck, her little fingers tightening around his collar. 

Jaemin chuckles, shoulders shaking with quiet amusement, and he fills you in while still swaying her gently: all week long, she’s woken before dawn, stumbling into his room to rehearse her mission, tiny hand clutching imaginary petals, pacing the hallway in her socks, whisper-chanting questions in singsong baby cadence about “Nono’s wedding day,” about when she can wear her “p’etty dress,” about whether the flowers will fly high enough if she throws them extra hard. Every nap ends with the same hopeful burst: is it time yet, can she walk the aisle now, will Uncle Nono clap when she twirls? Yet here, faced with the real moment, the weight of lantern-lit adults and the promise of so many new eyes, she folds small against him once more. He tips her just enough for a glimpse, but she only melts deeper into his shirt, ribbons shivering with each shy shake of her head, the earlier rehearsals hiding for now behind velvet-brown lashes.

With a gentle sigh, Jaemin eases Haeun down so her little sandals kiss the marble. The instant her feet touch the cool stone, her lower lip wobbles. She cranes her neck, arms shooting sky-high. “Up—up!” she pleads, breath hitching into the first shaky cry. Jaemin keeps his palms open but holds his ground, brow knitting in a mild, fatherly sternness meant to encourage bravery. “You can stand, Petal,” his eyes say even if his mouth is quiet, giving her space to find her courage instead of hiding in his arms. The uncertainty lasts only a heartbeat, because Jeno is already there, laughter bubbling warm as he drops into a crouch a careful arm’s length away, ready to coax her small world back into joy.

A bright, easy laugh breaks from Jeno, the sound echoing off the marble and spilling warmth into the room, hands lift as though coaxing a finch to land. “Princess, is that my famous sunflower girl?” he asks, eyes sparkling. “I heard you’ve been practicing twirls without me, did Daddy show you Nono’s secret spin move?” His voice is soft, playful, each word riding a smile meant only for her. Haeun lifts her head just enough for one wide-eyed peek. Jeno taps two fingers to his shoulder, then slowly pirouettes on his heel, an exaggerated, silly half-turn, before wobbling like he might topple. The act earns a surprised giggle; she bites her lip, trying not to smile, but the dimples give her away. Emboldened, Jeno traces a small circle in the air, inviting her to try. The tension unspools from her shoulders; tiny fingers unclench from Jaemin’s legs. One cautious hand reaches forward, and in another breath she’s tumbling into Jeno’s arms, already whisper-laughing “Again, again,” as he lifts her and promises an aisle full of petals and as many secret spins as she can count.

The moment Haeun tumbles into Jeno’s arms, he gathers her close and presses a trail of soft kisses, forehead, cheek, the tip of her button nose, each one a whispered “I missed you, beautiful,” breathed directly into her giggles. She melts against his chest, twining her fingers in the collar of his shirt, and the shyness evaporates as though it never existed. Words spill out in a bright, breathless tumble: how her “p’etty dwess” has sparkles “this big,” how she’s going to “fwow so many petals,” how she practiced curtseys on the airplane aisle until Daddy said people were sleeping. Jeno nods solemnly at every flourish, eyes soft, rocking her gently back and forth as if their hearts already remember the rhythm.

Jaemin watches, half exasperated, half in awe, and shakes his head. “Bro, I had to hide her dress,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “She tried to put it on at three a.m. and then insisted on sleeping in it. I’m ninety-percent sure she’d be wearing it now if I hadn’t stashed it in my carry-on.” Haeun gasps, a tiny scandal blooming in her eyes, but Jeno only laughs and whispers that real princesses always keep their gowns safe until the perfect moment, sending her into another delighted stream of babble while he holds her like the most precious thing Bali’s sunrise could ever gift.

You linger just behind them, arms crossed lightly over your chest, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight: Jeno’s strong arms circling Haeun, his face soft with laughter as she clings to him and whispers secrets only he gets to hear. The way he looks with her, gentle, attentive, utterly present, hits you somewhere deeper and wilder than you expect. It’s dizzying, almost shameless, the way watching him cradle someone so small and precious sends a flush rushing up your neck, your whole body prickling with heat. Your eyes glisten, torn between tenderness and a rush of desire so intense you have to press your thighs together, biting your lip as you try not to stare too obviously. Jeno catches your gaze over Haeun’s head, his mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile, the kind that says he feels every bit of your hunger from across the room, that he’ll answer it the moment you’re alone. Haeun, oblivious, peppers his cheek with sticky, syrup-sweet kisses, her giggles ringing out, and you swallow a moan, half in awe, half in anticipation, feeling something almost wild coil between your ribs.

As Haeun’s laughter spills through the air, you drift toward Jaemin, pulled by a different gravity, the quiet, unshakeable comfort of old friendship. He opens his arms without a word and you slip right in, his embrace warm and steady, his chin resting on your crown for a moment. He squeezes you, gentle but grounding, and pulls back just enough to study your face with that soft, knowing smile he’s reserved for only the most important moments. “How are you feeling?” he murmurs, voice low and meant just for you, “You’re glowing, Y/N. Really, you look happy. The best kind of happiness.” His eyes flick from your face to Jeno, lingering a little longer on the connection that crackles between you, then back to you again, proud and a little misty.

He gives your shoulder an encouraging squeeze, voice thick with affection. “I’m so happy for you guys,” he says, barely loud enough for anyone else to catch, “So, so proud. Feels like everything’s finally falling into place, huh?” His gaze shines with true joy for yohe warmth of someone who’s loved you through every storm and is beaming now at the clear blue sky. In his arms, you feel everything settle, the world narrowing to friends who feel like home and the wild, gentle future finally blooming right in front of you.

You dart straight for Haeun, eyes already misting. “My flower, I missed you so much, look at you! You’re so grown and beautiful!” you gush, arms stretched wide for a reunion worthy of a drama finale. She lifts her chin, gives you one solemn blink and huffs. Tiny arms cross in perfect toddler indignation, and she whips her face away like a pint-sized diva snubbing paparazzi. You gasp, hand to heart, scandalized. “Haeun!”

Jaemin chuckles, bouncing her lightly. “She’s been calling Jeno her ‘boy-fwen’ all week,” he explains. “Every time I showed her your engagement photo she said, ‘No, Daddy. Mine.’  She kept on falling asleep hugging her dress like a security blanket, mumbling, ‘No share Nono.’ ” He strokes her hair, lowering his voice. “She even practiced saying ‘I object’ in case the officiant asked for objections. But my baby can’t say that word, she keeps shouting ‘I ab-jex!’ and then giggling like she started a food fight.”

Jeno cough-laughs into his fist, dramatising a flattered blush. “What can I say? I’m irresistible to women under three feet tall.”

Jeno adopts his most solemn superhero voice. “Princess, emergency meeting.” He taps his jaw once, her secret signal. She peeks, betrayed by curiosity, but keeps her arms crossed. “I heard rumors,” he continues gravely, “that you’ve been guarding my heart like a real knight. That true?” She nods, dimples threatening to break formation. “Well, I need a brave knight for one day. Think I could borrow you as my bodyguard at the wedding?”

She wrinkles her nose. “What Auntie do?”

“Auntie will be my queen,” he whispers. “And every queen needs a fearless flower girl to lead the way. You’ll throw petals, pink ones, just like you asked, and walk your very own aisle. After that, I’m all yours again. Extra twirls. Extra ice cream. Deal?”

Haeun reaches both arms toward you, tiny fingers opening and closing in invitation, and Jeno willingly passes her over. She settles on your hip with a little huff of importance, thrusting the crayon masterpiece under your nose. “Okay,” she pronounces, solemn as a queen, as if giving you permission, “you can have my boy-fwen.” You smother her apple cheeks with a flurry of kisses, syrup-sweet from juice, until she dissolves into giggles, waving the drawing like proof of her generosity. Only when you pause for breath does she lean back to admire your reaction, dimples flashing, ribbons bouncing. Laughter ripples through the courtyard. 

Jaemin, hands on his hips, shakes his head in mock defeat. “Kid’s already handling love triangles better than I ever could.”

Her drawing makes you gasp. It’s heavier than paper has any right to be, layered in fat crayon strokes, glitter-gel squiggles, and the stubborn pressure of a toddler determined to get every color exactly right. In the center, you and Jeno appear as stick-figure royalty: matching crowns (yours pink and heart-studded, his crooked but sparkling), both in long triangle gowns because princess math insists everyone wears a dress at weddings. To the right stands Haeun herself in a butter-yellow bell dress, brandishing a tiny basket bursting with neon-orange petals. And, because she refuses to imagine any universe without him, a miniature Jaemin smiles beside her, sunflower doodled on his stick-shirt, arms open. The sky is cobalt scribbles; clouds outlined in lilac, “wedding clouds need pwetty colour”; a lopsided sun blasts gold-glitter rays; and the grass is a green zig zag carpet freckled with pink “flower seeds.” Across the top she’s lettered, single-handed, wobbling neon, “To Nono & Aunti.” The “e” flips backward, and the dot over the “i” is an oversized heart.

You bring the masterpiece to your chest, eyes stinging. “Jaemin, did you draw this?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Me? No way. Some lazy intern from my paediatrics rotation got roped in during rounds.” There’s a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, old habits from being the strictest senior on the ward. “She was supposed to be updating charts, but Haeun threw a tantrum so dramatic that the entire floor could hear her from the nursery. Honestly, her class of interns, they’re abysmal, absolutely no work ethic, no sense of urgency, always getting distracted,” he rolls his eyes, but his tone softens as he continues, “this particular intern caved, dropped to the ward carpet, and spent the next half hour coloring every line and sparkle until Her Highness here was satisfied.” 

He ruffles Haeun’s braid, still feigning exasperation, but there’s something else, a lingering warmth, the tiniest glint of something curious when he says, “the intern called it the most stressful art class of her life; Haeun calls it collaboration. Who knows, maybe she’ll finally learn something important.” There’s an edge to his words, but a softness too, like a door swinging open just a crack, as if something about that particular intern lingers with him in ways he won’t admit yet, a glimpse of a new story just beginning.

Haeun wriggles in your arms, holding your face between her tiny, chubby hands, thumbs stroking clumsily at your cheeks like she’s trying to memorize you. “Auntie, you so pwetty,” she babbles, eyes going moon-wide and earnest, her soft little voice sticky with adoration. “Wanna look just like you! Auntie Rina says my dwess is best but I want your shiny hair.” She beams, then leans in for another syrupy kiss to your cheek, her laughter all hiccups and sunbeams.

You can’t help but look at her, really look, as if you might miss a detail that will vanish by morning. Haeun is almost ethereal in her beauty: cheeks rounded and plush, brushed pink by Bali’s warmth, skin so fair it seems to glow blue-white in the lantern light, untouched by even a single freckle. Her hair is a deep brown so dark it looks black in the shade, each plait tipped with a yellow silk bow that wobbles every time she laughs. She has the heart-shaped face of her mother, a soft, delicate jaw tapering to a pointed chin, rosebud lips parted in perpetual awe, and the tiniest dimple that peeks out only when she grins wide enough to show the gap between her baby teeth. 

And when you really study her, your lips falter—a small, trembling ache—because it’s impossible to deny how identical she is to her mother. The same porcelain skin, the same delicate architecture of her features, the same gentle fullness in her cheeks; only Jaemin’s velvet-brown eyes mark her as his. The resemblance is so strong it takes your breath for a second, a bittersweet rush of memory and marvel. She holds the kind of beauty you want to protect and the kind of innocence you’d cross oceans for. She looks so much older than the baby you first cradled, but her feet still dangle, her wrists are still soft, and there’s an ache in your chest because she is so small, so new, and so heartbreakingly beloved.

Before you can say another word, Haeun’s gaze shifts past your shoulder, drawn to Jaemin’s outstretched arms and the familiar, gentle voice that calls, “Come on, pretty, let’s go see our room. I bet your bows need fixing.” She immediately wriggles to be set down, loyalty absolute; she’ll never not go to her daddy, not for anyone in the world. With a last, gummy smile at you, she toddles over and lets Jaemin scoop her up, small arms looping around his neck. He peppers her cheek with a soft kiss, murmuring, “Did you show Auntie your masterpiece? Are you going to tell me how you’ll dance at the wedding?” Haeun babbles in reply, launching into an excited, tangled story about her dress, the flower petals, and “Nono’s secret spin,” her little voice trailing happily as the two disappear down the villa hallway, shadows stretching long in the golden light.

You’re still watching Jaemin and Haeun vanish down the hall, their laughter and soft babble fading into the sunlit hush, when suddenly Karina barrels into you from the side. Her arms wind tight around your shoulders, cheek pressed to yours, nearly knocking you off your feet. She breathes in like she’s been holding it for months, squeezing until you squeak. “I missed you so much, idiot,” she whispers fiercely, and then pulls back just enough to eye you up and down, mock scandal in her smile. “Honestly, you leave New York for five minutes and now you’re what? Bali bride? Engaged to a fucking NBA star? Was the group chat not dramatic enough for you?”

bubba haeun and dad jaemin swimming 🥺 then she gets some cuddles from jeno and auntie after

Baby Haeun is the sun at the heart of everything, radiating a softness that makes even the grown-ups pause and smile. She’s bundled into a frilly white swimsuit trimmed in sun-yellow ruffles, the tiniest hint of a belly poking out above her floaty waistband. Her wide-brimmed hat, meant to shade her precious cheeks, has slipped sideways so only one ear peeks out, ribbons streaming down her back like beams of sunlight. Her hair, parted in the middle and caught up in two uneven plaits, glistens damp and wild as she toddles along the pool’s edge.

Her cheeks are so round and pink you want to kiss them until she giggles, her mouth a perfect bow that breaks open into shrieking laughter each time Jaemin lifts her into the water. She clutches a pair of pastel paddles in hands still dimply with babyhood, holding them aloft like little trophies. Jaemin hovers near, kneeling with his arms outspread, patience etched into every gentle line of his face. “You got it, angel,” he coaxes, “Show Auntie and Unca Nono how you swim!” Haeun paddles, legs splashing, then glances over her shoulder with that infectious, earnest pride, her eyes wide and dark and glowing.

“Auntie, look! Unca Nono, look me!” she calls, her voice wobbling between command and plea. You blow her a kiss, making a silly cooing sound, and she grins so wide her dimples nearly disappear. She stops mid-splash to press both chubby hands to her cheeks, cheeks now the color of summer apples, and squeals as Jeno claps from his spot on the ledge. You call out, “You’re perfect, my baby flower!” and she beams, happiness sparkling so pure and bright that for a second, you swear the whole pool tilts toward her, every splash and every heart pulled into her orbit, safe, adored, and entirely hers.

You and Jeno claim the best seat by the pool, a double lounger half-shaded by billowing white curtains, tucked so close to the water you can skim your toes along the glassy surface. He’s sprawled behind you, thighs bracketing your hips, his chest bare and golden, skin glossed by sun and salt, abs hard and tempting where you keep reaching back to press your palm. His swim trunks ride scandalously low on his hips, midnight blue, the band barely containing the V that disappears beneath your lazy gaze.

You stretch across his lap, arching into him, the deep sapphire of your own swimsuit cutting high along your hips, sheer panels glimmering dangerously in the afternoon light. The suit is more than an outfit, barely enough fabric, almost nothing at the sides, designed for Jeno’s hands more than the sun. He grins, slow and predatory, as you hand him the bottle of sun cream, already knowing the game.

“Gotta protect what’s mine,” he murmurs, squirting a line of lotion along your spine, pretending to be diligent as his fingers knead slow, worshipful circles down your back, pausing to massage your ass with more interest than is strictly necessary. He lets his palms linger, gripping and squeezing, sun cream an excuse, his thumbs ghosting the outer edge of your tiny, still-secret bump. His voice dips, soft and low for only you to hear: “Our baby’s soaking up all this Bali sun, you feel that? You’re glowing, angel. Can’t wait to see you round and full with our little one.”

You giggle, breath hitching, glancing around at the laughter and chaos elsewhere, but no one notices—not with Mark snoring on Areum, or Haeun shrieking at the other end of the pool. Jeno bends to kiss the nape of your neck, lips dragging over your damp skin, and you writhe a little in his lap, loving the heat and the secret, the thrill of getting away with it. His hands wander, possessive and unhurried, fingers sneaking beneath the edge of your suit as he palms your belly and cups your breast, sun cream slick and cool under his touch. “Stay still,” he teases, voice like a promise, “unless you want me to make a scene.” But it’s impossible—you’re practically sitting on him, laughter caught in your throat as he keeps touching you, as if the world exists only for this: a tangle of sun, sweat, and whispered confessions, the two of you building a secret language right there by the water, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, unbothered and wild and utterly, blindingly alive.

Jeno’s hands grow bolder, slicking another palmful of sun cream over your ass, slow, teasing circles that have you squirming in his lap, half-hidden by the towel draped over your hips. He laughs under his breath, voice all honeyed sin, his fingers slipping between your thighs, tracing lazy, possessive lines up your skin. “You’re such a mess for me,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, one hand cupping your tiny bump, the other gripping your ass in a way that’s anything but innocent. The cold lotion makes you gasp, then dissolve into giggles, but his touch never falters, he’s perfectly at ease, like worshipping your body in public is the most natural thing in the world.

You arch back against his chest, your giggles half breathless, half scandalized as he tucks you closer, fingers slipping beneath the curve of your suit, massaging your stomach with broad, reverent strokes. “Can’t wait till you’re showing, angel. You’re gonna have to keep your belly out for me every day. You’ll be the hottest mama at this villa.” He nuzzles your ear, biting softly, just as your laughter hiccups out again, a bright, wild sound lost under the splashing and distant music.

Across the pool, Karina’s eyes narrow behind her sunglasses as she spots the scene, her gaze flicking to the curve of Jeno’s hand on your hip, the way you melt against him. She snorts, mutters something to Areum, and shakes her head with affectionate exasperation, but she lets it go, after all, this is you and Jeno, and she knows better than anyone how you are when you’re happy. You’re lucky, you think, to have found a pocket of privacy in all this chaos. Mark’s out cold, his hat pulled low, mouth open as he snores against Areum’s legs. No one else is paying attention, the rest of your friends lost in their own sun-drunk moments. And you, flat-stomached, glowing, your secret held safe beneath the slick shine of Jeno’s hands, are free to let yourself be loved, touched and worshipped, right here in the open, without a single worry in the world.

It’s easy to lose yourself in Jeno’s hands, in the sun and the hush and the slip of sun cream on skin, but nothing in this villa stays private for long. You’re just about to lean back and steal another secret kiss, Jeno’s lips warm against your neck, when a shadow looms behind you. Suddenly, Mark’s voice booms, much too close, much too loud: “Damn, Jeno, you seem really fond of her stomach these days.”

You yelp, nearly launching out of Jeno’s lap, and the half-melted cocktail in your hand sloshes straight onto Jeno’s thigh. He hisses, then barks out a laugh, clutching at your hips as if to keep you from levitating. “Jesus, Mark—give us a warning next time!” You smack Mark’s arm with your towel, cheeks burning.

Mark just grins, hat tipped back, eyes wickedly amused. “What? I just came to see if you left any sun cream for the rest of us. You’re out here greasing her up like a rotisserie chicken.”

Jeno wipes the cocktail off his leg, glaring but unable to stop his own smile. “Yeah, I’m putting on sunscreen, genius. I don’t want my wife getting sunburnt before her wedding day.”

Mark narrows his eyes, smirk deepening as he takes in your glistening skin. “She’s so oiled already, I’m surprised you haven’t slipped off the lounger.”

You grab a slice of pineapple from the table and hurl it at his chest. “Go back to drooling on Areum’s ass, you idiot!”

Mark catches the fruit midair, bows in mock chivalry, and shrugs. “Can you blame me? Best seat in Bali.” He flashes you both a heart with his fingers and shuffles away, hat crooked, laughter trailing behind him.

Jeno just shakes his head, pulling you back onto his lap, his hands resuming their soft, sneaky worship. “Remind me to book a honeymoon somewhere Mark can’t find us.” You giggle, letting yourself melt back into his touch, the perfect, wild chaos of your friends, your secret, and the sun-washed pool swirling together in the golden Bali air.

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

You’re mid-kiss, Jeno’s mouth gliding over yours, his hand slipping lower, heat winding tight and easy between your bodies, when a tiny, damp shadow suddenly appears by your lounger, her voice a bubble of honey and hope.

“Auntie?” You break away, startled, lips still tingling, only to see Haeun standing at your knees, dripping water, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. She stretches her arms up, curls wiggling and clinging to her hat, little hands opening and closing in that unspoken demand: up, up, up.

You laugh, breathless and exasperated, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. “Hi, baby. Are you finished swimming, beautiful?” Haeun nods so hard her hat slips sideways, and you scoop her into your arms, nestling her close. Her swimsuit clings to her little body, ruffles squashed, and her skin is warm from the sun, slick with the faintest traces of chlorine and sweetness.

She snuggles into you, babbling in a rush, words tumbling over each other: “Daddy let me big swim! Water so cold, Auntie, and I see bug, bug in water! I twirl, Unca Nono say I’m flower, Daddy say I splash too much but he so silly, and Rina say I wear my pwetty dress later, and I wanna see!” Her voice hiccups with excitement, hands flailing as you dry her off, peppering her face and neck with kisses until she giggles and shrieks, “No more! Only nose kisses!” You obey, pressing a kiss to her nose, eyes crinkling as she dissolves into shy giggles.

You listen, nodding solemnly, mirroring her every gesture and gasp, your fingers gently untangling her wet hair, your heart full and aching. You tickle her belly, coaxing more laughter, and smooth her hat so it sits straight again. “You’re the bravest, prettiest flower I’ve ever seen, Haeun. And you smell like the sun,” you tease, nuzzling her soft, damp cheek.

Jeno watches you from just inches away, his gaze molten, every line of his face unguarded. His eyes follow the curve of your arms, the way you cradle Haeun, the softness in your voice as you answer every question and listen like there’s nothing else in the world. You don’t even notice how he’s looking at you, how wild his eyes go, how something raw and fierce rises in him, a hunger that knots together love, pride, and want in a way that nearly undoes him. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, palm sliding to your belly, and leans close, his voice a whisper meant for your ear alone: “You’re going to ruin me, you know that? Watching you like this—fuck, I don’t even know how to breathe.”

Haeun tugs your hand and you focus back on her, but you feel the charge in the air, the promise in Jeno’s touch, the way the universe seems to shrink down to just this, your girl in your arms, your lover at your side, and a world that feels too full of love to ever be real.

Haeun’s voice tumbles into soft babbles as the excitement fades, eyelids drooping, curls damp and heavy against your shoulder. She yawns, a sound like a kitten’s sigh, snuggling closer until her little nose buries into the crook of your neck, one sticky hand clutching at your swimsuit strap, the other clutching her faded bunny plush. You rock her gently, brushing stray wisps of hair from her forehead, and kiss her temple again and again until she finally gives in to sleep, cheeks flushed and lips parted in utter trust.

Jeno, quiet and golden beside you, leans over with a look you’ll never forget and tucks a light muslin blanket around the two of you, careful to cover Haeun’s legs and your own bare shoulders. His palm lingers at your waist, warm and grounding, his mouth brushing your hair as he murmurs against Haeun’s forehead, “Sleep well, my angel.” You curl instinctively into his side, your body a shelter for the little one sprawled across your lap, your heart thudding with a fierce tenderness that nearly makes you dizzy.

The villa is still spinning with laughter, Areum shrieking as Mark, finally fully awake, pushes her into the pool, Ryujin running interference with trays of fresh fruit, Shotaro snapping photos as Chenle and Ningning bicker about who makes the best cannonball. In the shade, Karina sketches another wild idea for your honeymoon dresses, and Jaemin, ever the quiet anchor, sits just opposite, a gentle sentinel in the soft shade. He watches Haeun curled up in your arms, cheeks squished against your chest, hair mussed from both pool and pillow, and feels the rare peace that settles when the world finally feels safe for his girl. He catches your eye, gives a small, conspiratorial thumbs-up, one meant just for you, a silent code for I see you, and it’s perfect, and maybe a little I’m still the only one who knows just how much more love you’re carrying beneath that swimsuit.

Jaemin glances to Jeno, the two of you so naturally tangled together it makes him want to laugh, and he feels an almost ridiculous giddiness bloom in his chest: relief that the truth is out, that Jeno finally knows, that for once, all the right people are let in on the secret. He’s almost giddy that the burden isn’t his alone to carry anymore, that he doesn’t have to watch what he says, doesn’t have to hover and shield and overcompensate, not when the man beside you knows exactly what’s at stake. But instead of getting up, he lets himself breathe. He stretches his legs, leans his head back, and just watches his daughter—so peaceful, so blissfully at ease—and lets the afternoon lull him too, content to take a rare moment for himself. There’s a fullness in his chest, part pride, part gratitude, as if the future might really be as good as this. For now, he doesn’t need to be anyone’s doctor, or guardian, or secret-keeper. He’s just a dad, at peace, with everyone he loves within arm’s reach, and the sound of your laughter blending with Haeun’s sleepy breathing is all the proof he needs that everything—finally—feels right.

Hours pass in a honeyed haze, the kind of slow-drifting time that feels spun from another world. You’ve barely moved, still wrapped up on the lounger with Jeno’s chest as your pillow, his arms a fortress around you. Haeun remains between your bodies, her head pressed beneath your chin, tiny fingers still curling around the edge of your bikini. Your breaths rise and fall in sync, hers soft and fluttery, lips parting now and then with a dreaming coo. Your own cheek rests on the crown of her head, as if you can shield her from even the sun, the two of you nested so close it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. Jeno’s heartbeat thunders under your ear, his hand sliding absently over your waist, the edge of your bump, every touch saying mine.

haeun’s flower girl dress

And at the very front, almost as if it’s guarding your own, sits Haeun’s dress, a confection of innocence and sunlit dreams. It’s pure white, the shade of milk-glass and morning clouds, with layers of the softest tulle that fan out in gentle waves, light as breath and just as fleeting. The bodice is sweetly fitted, scattered with tiny yellow embroidered daisies and delicate bows, Karina’s loving touch, knowing yellow is her secret favorite even if she can’t say it yet. Sleeves puff out like tiny wings, ending in ruffled cuffs that just kiss her wrists, and the back is tied with a silken ribbon in the palest yellow, matching the bow on her beloved bunny’s ear.

Her dress isn’t stiff or fussy, it’s designed for play and twirling, made to catch every sunbeam, every giggle, every secret she might whisper into her father’s shoulder. Beside the mannequin, a tiny pair of white ballet flats wait on a silk pillow, while above, a set of matching butterfly clips, identical to the ones she wears in her hair, are perched like little guardians, promising she’ll flutter down the aisle as the brightest joy in the room. The whole ensemble radiates that impossible sweetness, the kind only found in little girls who believe in magic, and the room feels hushed, as if even the sunlight is waiting to see her take her first step in it.

Your breath catches, tears prickling hot at your lashes as you take in the sight of Haeun, her cheeks still rosy from sleep, eyes round and puffy, lips pursed in a tiny, stubborn pout. You try to blink it away but your eyes glisten anyway, a soft giggle escaping you despite yourself at her darling face and the way she stands, fists balled at her sides, so small but so determined. She’d been roused gently from her nap by Jaemin, and though she’s still half in a dream, she looks up at the three of you in awe, as if she’s stumbled into something secret and sacred—and, in her own way, knows she belongs there too.

She toddles closer to the mannequin, blinking up at the dress, and then glances at Karina for permission to touch, her lashes heavy, her words a slurry of sleep and awe. “Is mine?” she babbles, voice barely above a whisper. Karina nods, then she gasps, tiny fingers tracing the soft tulle as she claps, but her brows furrow and her face crumples into confused worry. “Where my other dwess? My… yellow one. It’s in Daddy’s suitcase,” she mumbles, the syllables smushed together, bottom lip sticking out in protest. “My yellow is favorite, Rina.”

Karina drops to her knees beside her, gently brushing Haeun’s braids back from her face, her smile soft and knowing. “But baby, you’re the main event. You get two dresses—one for walking down the aisle, one for dancing and twirling. Only the most special girls get that, you know?”

Haeun’s pout vanishes, her whole face lighting up as she claps and bounces on her heels, silk ribbons bobbing with her excitement. “Show Daddy!” she squeals, voice rising in delight. “Show Daddy my dwesses!” The sweetness of it breaks something wide open inside you, a giddy, glimmering joy that wells up in a sniffle, a giggle, a grateful ache for everything you get to witness and hold in this moment.

Haeun takes Areum’s hand in her own, chubby fingers clutching tight, and tugs with all the eager insistence of a girl who knows her moment has come. “Show Daddy, show Daddy—come on!” she chirps, her voice bright as bells. She darts from the room at full tilt, Areum swept along in her wake, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons as they disappear down the hall. Suddenly, the door swings shut, leaving you alone with Karina in the hush of the sunlit bridal room. All at once, the world seems to narrow to this tender blue-and-gold sanctuary, every detail catching the late morning light. The dresses glow on their mannequins, quiet guardians of the day to come, while the air itself shimmers, heavy with promise, a hush that feels like blessing settling over the two of you.

!!!! i do just think you should read bty. don’t have the FOMO.

[itwasrealtome]

AGENT GRAY

Chapter 16 • Cracks in the Marble

TAGLIST FORM

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⚠️ DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Olivia Benson x fem! FBI Agent OC

Summary:

Content Warning: Usual SVU & Violent Crime talk • SA, bruises, mention of a struggle, description of a victim, assault, mention of med support | mention of a sick kid and sickness

A/N: Hello my loves! This chapter is longer than the others. I hope you like it. I'll let you tell me what you think of Esme Harrington!

*

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

New Jersey— Teterboro Airport

08:45 AM

Alexis knew her way around tarmacs.

She knew the whine of jet engines cutting across the sky, the clipped, purposeful shouts of ground crews moving with a speed that tolerated no mistakes. She knew the cold edge the wind always carried, sharper and more biting than anything back in the city streets just a few miles away. Normally, she'd be in uniform in places like this, boots scuffing concrete stained with fuel and oil, dwarfed by hulking army aircraft.

Today, though, it was Bureau black: tactical, civilian enough to blend in among the polished SUVs and men in discreet earpieces, official enough that no one gave her a second glance as she leaned casually against the government-issued vehicle rumbling quietly behind her.

She shifted her weight from one boot to the other, arms crossed loosely against her chest, the morning chill biting through the sleeves of her blazer. Around her, the private side of the Teterboro Airport moved at its own smooth, expensive pace–sleek town cars idling in neat rows, polished jets waiting like silver knives lined up for inspection. Somewhere else, a security team loaded gear into a Suburban identical to hers.

Alexis dragged her gaze back to the terminal doors.

No sign of Langford yet.

Not that she was worried. Just... impatient. She knew what a night spent with sick kids could do to a household–chaos, negotiations, exhaustion layered so thick it became a second skin. She could practically hear it in her head: the bargaining over juice cups, the failed attempts at soothing stubborn coughs, the sheer bone-deep fatigue that no amount of coffee could quite erase.

She checked her watch, again, tapping the face lightly out of habit.

And then, finally, a familiar figure jogged around the corner from the terminal, backpack thumping against one shoulder. Miles looked exactly like a man who had lived through a small domestic warzone and barely made it out alive. His sleeves were rolled, his shirt slightly wrinkled, hair still damp in spots like he'd shoved his head under a faucet and hoped for the best.

Even from twenty feet away, Alexis could see the stubborn set of his mouth, the dogged determination under the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

She pushed off the SUV as he reached her, sliding a fresh coffee from the roof where she'd set it a few minutes earlier. Wordlessly, she held it out toward him.

—You're out of your damn mind, she said, tone casual as she offered the cup like a peace offering. You could've stayed home. No one would've blamed you.

Miles let out a breathless chuckle, gratefully taking the coffee and cradling it in both hands like it was the last good thing left in the world. He dropped his bag onto the passenger seat with a heavy thump, already pulling out his earpiece, radio, and tactical vest from inside.

—Texted you last night. He fitted the earpiece snugly and checked his radio frequency out of habit. Told you I'd be here. Ava would've killed me if I bailed. She's a huge fan of Ms. Harrington. Wants her book signed.

The brunette arched a brow, arms folding loosely as she leaned her hip against the car, watching him sort through his gear like it was second nature. Her tone was neutral, almost bored, as she asked: "Who?"

Miles froze halfway through clipping his badge to his belt. He turned to stare at her, open-mouthed, like she'd just confessed to never having heard of coffee or gravity.

—You're kidding, right? Alexis! His voice pitched up in disbelief. Esme Harrington. Bestselling author? Women's empowerment icon? She practically lives on the bestseller list. Hell, even my mom knows who she is–and she still thinks email is witchcraft.

For a half-second, Gray let him stew in the horror, keeping her face perfectly blank, like she truly had no idea what he was talking about. But then, just as her friend opened his mouth to keep going, she let the faintest smirk crack the edges of her mouth.

—I read the file. Relax, I'm not about to embarass you in front of your literary idol.

The agent narrowed his eyes at her, catching the glint of teasing under her usual dry delivery.

—You're messing with me, he said, pointing at her like he'd cracked some secret code.

Alexis just shrugged, entirely unrepentant as she grabbed her radio from the trunk.

—Maybe. Maybe not.

Miles gave a low chuckle under his breath, still shaking his head at Alexis's teasing, before finally hauling his backpack properly into the rear of the SUV. He tossed it in with a heavy thud, the tired slap of fabric against metal, and leaned in to double-check that his vest, backup radio, and first aid kit were where they needed to be.

That's when he spotted it–half-tucked into the side pocket of his partner's own battered field backpack. A familiar brown paper bag, the neat, looping logo from Valentina's printed clear as day across the front.

He froze, frowning, a ripple of confusion tightening his features.

Valentina's wasn't just a restaurant anymore–it had quietly become their spot. Their sanctuary after long days chasing down leads and piecing together ugly cases. Dinner after late-night interviews, lunch pick-up during stakeouts, sometimes just coffee to break the monotony of paperwork. Even Ava and Charlie loved the place. It was stitched into the fabric of their routine now, a place that meant comfort and familiarity.

Alexis didn't go to Valentina's alone.

Hell, Alexis barely went to any restaurant alone.

His fingers hovered near the bag as he straightened slowly, like the thing might give him an answer if he stared hard enough.

—Valentina's? he asked, voice pitching up slightly as he gave her a pointed look across the SUV.

Alexis, already adjusting the settings on her radio, didn't even flinch.

—Yeah.

Miles gawked at her like she'd just confessed to robbing a bank.

—You went without me?

—And Ava. Don't forget Ava, she added dryly, tossing him a sidelong glance over her sunglasses.

The brunet clutched his chest in mock agony.

—This feels personal. Deeply personal.

She smirked but said nothing, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to stew. Then she casually added:

—Wasn't a solo mission.

His mouth opened–and then closed–brow furrowing deeper.

—Wait. Wait. You took someone to Valentina's? Someone new? His brain worked overtime. Then it clicked. His eyes widened. Benson.

The SEAL shrugged, smoothing her white shirt back into her waistband.

—Owed her dinner. Lost a bet. Paid up.

Miles made a strangled sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and an outright groan, dragging a hand over his face like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

—You took Olivia Benson to our sacred post-stakeout food temple.

Alexis didn't even blink. She shoved the trunk door closed with a sharp, unbothered motion, ignoring the dramatic tone like it was nothing more than a low-flying mosquito.

In her mind, she hadn't done anything wrong. Monday night had started with a simple game of pool, but one match had turned into three, and before she knew it, she'd lost her first Monday night bet in ages. She hadn't complained. A deal was a deal. And besides, it wasn't a hardship–taking Olivia to Valentina's, sharing good food and easy conversation, it had been... nice. No pressure, no chaos. Just a quiet evening for once.

—Relax, she said dryly, brushing a loose hair from her forehead as she circled around to the driver's side. I didn't desecrate the temple. We didn't even order your sacred double-stack meatball sub.

The man let out a heavy sigh, dramatic as ever, and flopped into the passenger seat.

—You better not have ordered my cheesecake either.

Gray only smirked as she slid behind the wheel and pulled the door shut, the familiar thunk sealing them into the SUV's cocoon of worn leather and faint coffee smell.

—I might've stared at it on the menu. For like... a second.

Miles gasped, hand over his heart like he was wounded.

—Traitor.

*

The low whine of engines pitched down to a steady idle as the sleek private jet glided across the tarmac, its metallic skin catching the pale March sunlight like a blade. It was the kind of jet that wasn't just built for travel—it was built for spectacle. Polished to a mirror shine, the exterior gleamed with a subtle custom insignia near the cockpit, and behind the open cabin door, Alexis could already imagine the plush cream leather seating, golden fixtures, and mahogany trim.

A flying penthouse for the very rich and very important.

She stayed exactly where she was, the picture of effortless disinterest, leaning her weight back against the hood of the black Bureau SUV. Her arms were crossed loosely over her chest, one boot hooked casually over the other at the ankle, a silent statement of how little she cared about the show of wealth in front of her. If the extravagance of it all was meant to impress, it missed its mark entirely.

The mirrored lenses of her sunglasses masked her eyes, but not entirely. The slight tension in her jaw, the barely-there twitch at the corner of her mouth–it all betrayed her brewing mood. Not nerves, not awe. Just that sharp, slow-burn irritation she reserved for a very specific breed of people: the ones who thought money and relevance were the same thing. The ones who walked through life expecting everyone to orbit around them. She recognized the type easily. After all, she'd grown up in the shadow of it.

Across the tarmac, the private jet finally powered down, the whine of its engines dropping into a steady, mechanical hum. With a hiss of hydraulics, the cabin door folded outward and the stairs unfurled, each movement smooth, deliberate, and absolutely choreographed for maximum effect.

Beside her, Miles suddenly snapped to attention, the way a rookie might when an admiral stepped onto the deck. Alexis caught the motion out of the corner of her eye–saw him catch his reflection in the SUV window, then immediately set about fixing himself with frantic, hurried precision. Tie straightened. Hair smoothed. Jacket tugged into line. He even gave his shoes a quick swipe against the back of his pants leg, as if Esme Harrington might personally inspect the polish.

The brunette didn't move. She stayed slouched against the hood of the SUV, arms loosely crossed, ankles still hooked over the other in a posture that screamed exactly what she felt: unimpressed.

—You look great, sunshine, she said lazily, without even turning her head. Real secret service energy. Maybe she'll knight you or something.

Miles grumbled under his breath, but he kept fussing with the cuff of his jacket. He was determined to make a good impression, even if Alexis thought the whole thing was ridiculous.

The moment stretched, tense but absurd, until a sharp series of clicks echoed across the tarmac–heels striking the metal stairs. Esme Harrington appeared at the top, framed dramatically against the gleaming body of the jet. Gray had to give her credit: the woman knew how to make an entrance.

Late forties, stylish without being flashy, every inch of her screamed curated elegance. Tailored gray coat, slim cigarette trousers, sleek heels that looked more like weapons than footwear. Her honey-blonde hair was styled in soft waves that somehow didn't move in the brisk New Jersey wind. And, of course, the oversized sunglasses–designer, no doubt–shielded her face almost entirely.

Behind her, assistants scrambled like flustered ducklings, wrestling with an absurd collection of designer luggage. Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Hermes–brands Alexis only recognized because Ava had once dragged her through Saks on a dare.

Esme didn't even glance at the chaos behind her. She descended the stairs with slow, deliberate grace, one hand light on the railing, her phone already in the other, thumb tapping briskly across the screen.

—Showtime, Alexis murmured, finally pushing off the hood.

Her partner said nothing. He was too busy standing ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back like he was guarding Buckingham Palace. The brunette strolled forward at a much more human pace, letting her badge flash just enough to make things official.

—Ms. Harrington. Agents Gray and Langford. We'll be handling your security detail.

The woman slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, peering over the top with a slow, deliberate sweep of her gaze. She smiled–small, practiced, but undeniably charming–and it softened the chill that had been radiating off her moments ago. Her attention flickered briefly to Miles, who looked like he might salute at any second, before lingering with far more interest on Alexis.

—Well, Esme drawled, voice rich like velvet. I can certainly think of worse company.

The SEAL kept her face impassive, professional. She merely stepped aside and gestured toward the SUV, her body language leaving no room for misinterpretation. Business only. Move along.

Miles, ever the polite one, jogged ahead to open the door for her. Esme rewarded him with a playful smile, tilting her head slightly as she passed.

—Chivalry isn't dead after all. You're adorable. What's your name again?

—Agent Langford, ma'am.

—Agent Langford, the oldest repeated with a wink. I'll try to remember. But don't be too sweet, darling–makes you an easy target.

Alexis bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as she moved to load the luggage into the back. She didn't miss the way Esme's gaze lingered a few seconds too long on her, either. Nor the slight, knowing curve of the woman's mouth as she climbed into the SUV's back seat.

They got on the road a few minutes later, the Bureau vehicle gliding through Teterboro's outer roads toward Manhattan. The ride was quiet for a stretch–just the hum of tires and the occasional click of Miles fiddling nervously with the radio settings before his friend shot him a look that made him stop.

It was Esme who broke the silence.

—So, Agent Gray, she said lightly, her voice floating forward from the backseat like smoke. How long have you been saving damsels in distress?

Alexis adjusted her sunglasses with two fingers, eyes never leaving the road.

—You're not a damsel, ma'am. And you're certainly not in distress.

Behind her, Esme laughed–a low, delighted sound.

—No, she agreed. But if I were, I think I'd rather be rescued by you.

From the passenger seat, Miles nearly choked on his coffee. He coughed once, struggling to recover, eyes wide in disbelief. In all the years he'd known Alexis, he'd seen a lot of people–women and men both–take their short with her. At bars, restaurants, bowling alleys, even once mid-crime scene while standing over a pair of handcuffed suspects. But never had anyone come in quite so bold, so shamelessly direct, like it was a sport.

The youngest, for her part, didn't even flinch. She simply adjusted her grip on the steering wheel and changed lanes with the same dispassionate calm she used when reading case files or dismantling armed suspects. If she was fazed, it didn't show.

Miles gave her a side glance, silently begging her to say something that would reset the universe back to normal.

She obliged–but not the way he hoped.

—I don't do rescues, she said dryly, her voice flat and unimpressed as black coffee left out too long. I'm more of a 'get yourself up and move' kind of person.

Behind them, the author let out another warm chuckle, clearly unfazed by the brusque reply.

—That's even better. I do enjoy a challenge.

The agent dropped his head back against the seat with a barely concealed groan.

—Please. Don't encourage her.

Alexis smirked slightly but said nothing, letting the city skyline pull them into its steel embrace. Traffic thickened, the SUV slipping seamlessly into the controlled chaos of Manhattan morning rush hour. She weaved through it like it was a slow-moving river, her patience deep and unshakable.

Esme crossed her legs elegantly in the backseat, designer heels catching the light, looking perfectly at ease in a city that never paused for anyone.

—So, she said after a beat, voice light but probing. Tell me, Agent Gray... is this what you always do? Escort overworked, overstressed women to fancy galas?

Through the rearview mirror, Alexis caught their guess' reflection–sunglasses now perched atop her head, a sly, assessing smile playing on her mouth.

—No exactly. Usually, I just arrest them.

Miles nearly spilled out his coffee again. Esme, to her credit, laughed like it was the best thing she'd heard all day.

—God, you're fun. I hope you don't behave yourself all night.

Gray said nothing. Just kept driving, her face carved into something close to patience. But the glint behind her sunglasses told a different story–one her best friend knew all too well.

Alexis wasn't annoyed.

She was entertained.

And that, he thought grimly, might be even worse.

*

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

Manhattan— Four Season Hotel

05:19 PM

The suite at the Four Seasons was obscene in its luxury.

Sprawling across nearly the entire floor, every inch of it dripped with carefully curated opulence. Heavy velvet drapes the color of deep merlot framed the soaring floor-to-ceiling windows, their folds thick enough to drown out the city's constant hum when pulled closed. The carpets beneath Miles' boots were clearly handwoven, intricate patterns winding like rivers across the lush fabric in shades of cream and navy, so plush they muffled even the softest footsteps.

Above, grand chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings, each one a delicate explosion of crystal and gold, throwing fractured shards of light across the polished marble floors whenever the late afternoon sun shifted. The entire room seemed to glow under that golden hour light, the Manhattan skyline stretching out beyond the windows like a living painting–all glass towers and smoky haze, with the last touches of sunlight gilding their edges in molten gold.

It was the kind of space where silence wasn't empty, but heavy–padded with wealth, thick with expectation. A place designed to make you feel small unless you belonged to it.

The agent sat stiffly on the edge of one of the velvet-upholstered armchairs, clearly not belonging but doing his best not to fidget anyway. His jacket was slightly rumpled from a long day trailing after Esme Harrington through boutique after boutique, spa appointments, private salons. A half-finished glass of complimentary champagne sat abandoned on the low table beside him, the bubbles long since gone flat.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the high-end furniture around him like one wrong move might trigger a silent alarm, and rested his forearms on his knees.

Somewhere in the background, the faint clatter of hairdryers and makeup brushes echoed like distant applause, a steady rhythm to the whirlwind of activity surrounding the author. Stylists and assistants swirled around her in a practiced ballet, each one armed with tools of their trade–hairspray cans, palettes of shimmering powders, garment bags in muted jewel tones.

Esme sat at the center of it all like a queen in the middle of a particularly glamorous war camp, utterly unfazed by the chaos orbiting her. She lounged in a silk robe the color of crushed pearls, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, idly sipping from her second–or maybe third–glass of champagne. Her hair was half-styled into loose, sculpted waves, and a makeup artist hovered nearby, fussing over the delicate sheen of highlighter along her cheekbones.

Miles kept his head down, pulling out his phone for the third time only to check the clock. 5:19 PM. Still at least another hour before they had to leave for the gala. He sighed quietly, setting the phone back into his jacket pocket. He was used to moving, reacting, doing. Sitting still in a five-star hotel suite while watching a woman get ready with the efficiency of a small army wasn't exactly in his wheelhouse.

—You're very... dutiful, Esme drawled after a moment, her voice carrying easily over the hum of blow dryers and muted chatter. One perfectly manicured hand gestured lazily toward him. So upright. So professional. She tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging into a half-smirk. Tell me, Agent Langford—do you practice looking that serious in the mirror every morning?

The man coughed lightly, the tips of his ears turning a shade redder than he would have liked.

—Just doing my job, ma'am.

Esme chuckled–a low, amused sound that had more than a little bite to it.

—You truly are adorable. Married, too, right? Ten years, you said?

—Uh–yes, ma'am.

The amused glint in her eye only deepened.

—Pity, she said lightly, fastening some earrings without missing a beat. The good ones always are.

Before Miles could come up with any sort of dignified response to that, a flicker of movement caught Esme's attention.

Across the room, Alexis reappeared. She crossed from the inner suite to the outer sitting area, phone still pressed against her ear. Her expression was tight, all business, the slight furrow between her brows signaling she was fielding another update on security logistics. Dressed down in a crisp white shirt tucked into black pants, she looked sharp and ready, the kind of alert that never quite turned off.

The woman's gaze tracked her movements openly, an amused gleam flickering to life in her eyes as she watched the agent pace by the windows, the city sprawled in glittering sprawl behind her. She set down her champagne glass with deliberate slowness, her attention no longer on her own reflection, but entirely on the woman moving with sharp, contained energy just a few feet away.

—She's very serious, she remarked aloud, almost idly, but her tone was a shade too interested to pass for casual.

Langford smiled faintly, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he followed Esme's line of sight.

—Yeah. Former SEAL. Still moves like it, too.

That earned him a low, appreciative hum from the author.

—A SEAL? she echoed, turning her head slightly for the stylist to adjust a dangling earring. Now that explains the shoulders... and the attitude.

He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

—Yeah, well. She's the best there is. I'd trust her with my life.

Esme's lips curved slowly, thoughtfully, as she watched Alexis move with the easy, unconscious vigilance that came from a lifetime of dangerous habits. She was intrigued, and it wasn't a passing curiosity the way it might have been with anyone else fluttering around the gala preparations. No, this was something sharper, more deliberate, like a cat spotting a particularly interesting mouse.

—Such discipline, she mused, half to herself, as her stylist finished with a final spritz of hairspray and stepped back, satisfied. The blonde barely noticed. Her attention was locked on the agent now, studying the casual efficiency, the way Alexis seemed to breathe in the space and bend it to her presence without ever demanding it. It's rare. Rare... and very, very fun.

Miles gave a quiet snort under his breath and stood as his partner approached, straightening his jacket again out of habit. He had seen that look before–Esme Harrington had found a new game. And unfortunately for Alexis, she was exactly the woman's type: strong, serious, entirely unimpressed by wealth or status.

—Don't say I didn't warn you.

Harrington barely spared the agent a glance as he muttered the warning, her attention far too engaged elsewhere. She watched Alexis with the casual hunger of someone well-accustomed to getting what they wanted–eventually. Not with desperation, not with urgency–but with that dangerous patience of the very rich and very confident.

Only once the brunette had moved out of immediate earshot, barking orders into her comms as she scanned their upcoming route, did Esme lean in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur meant for Miles alone.

—You look worried, Agent Langford, she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her perfectly glossed mouth. You can relax.

Miles arched a skeptical brow, arms folding across his chest as he shifted his weight onto one foot.

—Not sure I can, ma'am. You're looking at my partner like she's a rare steak and you haven't eaten all week.

That earned him a low, amused laugh–rich and unbothered–as she plucked her clutch from a nearby side table and idly smoothed the silk of her gown.

—Oh, don't be so dramatic, the blonde drawled, sliding her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose with delicate, languid grace. I'm not planning to marry her.

She glanced sidelong at Miles, lips curving in a wicked, knowing grin.

—But if she were to offer me a night–or two. I'd hardly be the fool to say no.

The man stared at her for a beat, caught between horror and a reluctant, almost impressed kind of amusement. In years of Bureau work–and in years of watching hopeless admirers crash and burn trying to flirt with Alexis Gray–he had never encountered someone quite this... unbothered by the odds.

—You've got guts.

Esme smiled wider, unrepentant.

—Guts, darling, and excellent taste.

*

TUESDAY, MARCH 07

Manhattan— Charity Gala

08:36 PM

The ballroom was a glittering sea of wealth and self-importance, dressed up in velvet, silk, and ambition. Crystal chandeliers, each larger than a small car, spilled molten gold light down onto the polished marble floors, turning every step into a muted shimmer. Massive arrangements of white orchids and deep red roses adorned every table, their scent heavy in the air, mixing with the sharpness of expensive perfume and the faint tang of champagne.

A string quartet played in the far corner, perched on a low dais, their music elegant but utterly forgettable–a lilting background hum no one truly listened to, just another piece of the set dressing. Waiters in sharp black tie floated through the crowd like well-trained ghosts, balancing silver trays laden with champagne flutes, oysters on crushed ice, caviar-topped blinis, and hors d'oeuvres so meticulously crafted they looked more like fine jewelry than actual food. No one really ate them, of course–they were props, just like the artfully staged conversations and polished laughter that filled the cavernous room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one side of the ballroom, offering a dazzling view of the Manhattan skyline, where the city's towers stood like silent sentinels under the night sky. From this height, the city lights twinkled like stars fallen to earth, cold and unreachable.

Everything about the room was designed to impress–to remind everyone inside that they were not just attending a charity gala; they were part of an elite club, a place where the world bent for the right names and the right money.

Alexis stood near one of the towering columns flanking the ballroom entrance, her posture loose but her gaze sharp, sweeping the room in steady intervals. She wore the mandatory black suit and earpiece of federal presence, blending into the periphery where security was expected to linger without drawing attention. Even so, she seemed to cut through the glittering crowd like a blade, too grounded, too real for a room designed around illusion.

Miles stood a few feet away, sipping from a glass of sparkling water he barely tasted, his eyes never staying far from their principal. Esme Harrington, draped in a dark green gown that shimmered every time she turned under the chandeliers, moved easily through the gathering like she owned it–or at least rented it for the night. She laughed, she posed for photos, she signed programs and cocktails napkins with the same dazzling, easy charm.

And every so often, she let her gaze drift unmistakably back toward the brunette SEAL.

It had started almost immediately upon arrival. A glance across her shoulder, a playful curve to her smile, a tilt of her head that sent diamond earrings catching the light. The way her fingers brushed the stem of her wine glass was less about drinking and more about demonstrating.

Gray, for her part, looked profoundly unimpressed. She kept her arms folded loosely over her chest, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, every inch the trained operative who had once mapped battlefields in a glance.

After about the sixth or seventh lingering look Esme threw her way, she shifted slightly closer to her partner, lowering her voice just enough for him to hear over the music.

—Kill me, she muttered dryly, scanning the exits again. I'm losing brain cells by the second.

Miles bit back a laugh, setting his glass down on a nearby tray.

—You're the one who wanted fieldwork.

—Yeah, fieldwork. Not babysitting the Upper East Side's most glamorous social parade.

The man gave a short, helpless chuckle–and that, of course, drew Esme's attention again. She made her way back toward them with the leisurely grace of someone who had never rushed for anything in her life. As she passed, her fingertips lightly grazed Alexis's elbow, a touch so brief it could have been an accident, but they all knew better.

Miles stiffened, his instinct to shield flashing for a heartbeat before common sense caught up. When the blonde leaned in to speak, her voice was low and playful.

—You should teach her how to smile, she said to him, tilting her head toward the other agent, her eyes bright with mischief. It's a shame to waste such a face like that on brooding.

—Maybe you should stop undressing her with your eyes.

Harrington only laughed–a rich, delighted sound–and sipped her wine with theatrical innocence.

—Oh, sweetheart. I'd much rather have her undress me, she said with a wink that was both shameless and effortlessly charming. But it's sweet that you care.

Miles stiffened slightly, watching with a sharpened edge of instinct as Esme casually slipped her hand through Alexis's arm, steering the agent away from the glittering center of the ballroom. His body reacted before his brain could reason–old habits of protection, of loyalty–but he caught himself with a low breath. Alexis didn't need rescuing. She never had.

Still, he shifted position, moving subtly toward the mouth of the corridor. Not close enough to make it obvious, but near enough that if something happened–anything at all–he could be there in a second.

From a distance, it looked innocuous. A wealthy patron leading her assigned security into a private conversation. Harmless.

In the hallway, the blonde slowed her steps the moment the heavy noise of the gala dropped away. The air was cooler here, quieter, broken only by the soft hiss of distant vents and the muffled thud of their steps on expensive carpet. Light spilled down from ornate sconces, warm and golden, throwing long shadows across the hallway's rich paneling and catching the subtle shimmer woven through the author's evening gown.

Alexis let it happen only long enough to keep the encounter from looking suspicious. Then, with a careful and almost effortless motion, she disengaged–peeling herself free with a polite step back, reclaiming her personal space without a word.

Esme turned to face her fully, her smile languid, amused. She cradled her glass of wine loosely, swirling the red liquid lazily with an absent grace, her eyes drifting up and down the young woman without the slightest apology.

—I'm flattered, really, Alexis said, her voice low and precise, her professionalism cutting clean through the space between them. But I'm not interested.

The author chuckled softly, the sound rich with genuine amusement rather than offense. She had spent the entire day watching this young agent: the careful courtesy, the underlying sharpness, the distance she maintained without ever appearing rude. Esme wasn't easily discouraged, but she wasn't foolish either. She recognized a closed door when she saw one–and more importantly, she understood that the reason behind it ran deeper than simple disinterest.

There was something else tucked behind those steady green eyes. Something private. Something spoken in the way Alexis kept herself apart, even here among the glittering noise of the elite.

Esme lifted her glass slightly in a mock toast.

—I figured as much, she said lightly. Her gaze softened just a touch, a flicker of rare sincerity peeking through her usual mischief. But it was worth the compliment. You carry a storm with you, Agent. Some people spend their whole lives trying to fake that.

Gray offered nothing in return but the barest nod of acknowledgement, an unspoken thanks, before tilting her head toward the hallway ahead.

—You still needed the bathroom?

The blonde smiled again, a little more genuinely this time, and gestured grandly ahead.

—Lead the way, soldier.

They moved down the plush, silent corridor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpeting. The farther they got from the ballroom, the quieter the world became, the music and laughter falling away like mist. The nearest powder room was tucked around a corner, hidden behind a gilded double door.

Esme reached for the door handle but froze halfway, her body stiffening with a sudden, instinctive wariness.

The commander moved instantly. The years of training, the ingrained vigilance, kicked in without thought. She brushed past the oldest with a firm but silent urgency, pushing the door open first and stepping inside.

The sight that met her made her chest tighten.

A woman lay crumpled on the immaculate marble floor, her glamorous evening gown torn at the shoulder, the fine fabric stained and wrinkled. Makeup streaked her face in ghostly smears, and across her exposed skin, ugly bruises were already beginning to bloom. One of her high heels dangled broken from her foot, the other lying a few feet away like it had been kicked off in a struggle.

Alexis was beside her in a heartbeat, dropping to one knee. Her fingers found the woman's pulse–a thread of life, weak but present. The shallow rise and fall of her chest was barely noticeable.

Calm settled over her like a second skin. She raised her wrist to her mouth, activating her comms.

—Miles, I need you at the ladies' powder room. Now, she said, her voice a low, precise command. Possible assault victim. Alive but barely responsive. Bring med support. And call Olivia.

The faint hiss of static answered her, followed by her partner's immediate reply: On it.

Behind her, Esme stood frozen in the doorway, her earlier flirtation and mischief gone, replaced by a stark, stricken expression. She clutched her glass of wine against her chest like a shield, her knuckles white around the delicate stem.

Alexis didn't spare her another glance. Her world had narrowed to the woman on the floor, to the shallow breaths and bruised skin, to the hard, cold fact that something terrible had happened here, right under all their noses.

The music from the ballroom seemed far away now, a hollow, glittering lie.

And Gray, former SEAL and agent to the bone, was already piecing together what needed to happen next.

The gala wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

*

TAGLIST: @nciscmjunkie @thefatobsession @makkaroni221 @ginasbaby @certainlychaotic @hi-i-1 @kiwiana145 @kobayashi-fr

[kirikorik]

Dawn over Rome

Emperor Geta / OC (Helena - Acacia's daughter)

Part1! Part2 ! Part3! Part4...

Excerpt from:

The one who caused her no pain, who did not press upon her, who dared not seize her hands, fearing he might harm her, had disappeared long before that ill-fated night when her father rejected the proposal of betrothal with Geta. It seemed as if the world itself had gone mad when she was but eight years old.

When Geta reached the age of twelve, a new persistence, jealousy, and anger awakened within him. He shamelessly encroached upon her personal space, disregarding all boundaries, fiercely proclaiming to the world that she belonged to him—her hair, her eyes, her face, her body, even the garments she wore. And the elders, in their blindness, saw no fault in this.

"Children," they would say. And even if that were not the case, what harm could there be in the fact that the emperor’s son had become so attached to the daughter of the general? It was nothing more than a passing amusement.

Was there truly anything objectionable in the fact that he would not allow even the servants near her, and demanded that Helena stay in the palace longer than she did in her own home? Was it so grievous that he refused to leave her, even when the time came for her to bathe, and the maids had to beg him to leave the room? There was nothing strange in the fact that, in the mornings, they would find him asleep in her bed, holding her in his embrace. He was merely a sweet child.

But as the years passed, even the most carefree began to grow uneasy. Geta, once a boy, was now becoming a young man, while Helena, four years his junior, remained a child. Yet even then, no one dared speak aloud of concern. On the contrary, the talks of marriage began: as soon as the girl had her first blood, they must be betrothed...

She was the daughter of a valiant general, he the son of the emperor, the heir to the throne. A noble match. It was only necessary to make it lawful.

She was ten, he was fourteen—when they were forbidden to remain alone together, when their games in the garden became unacceptable, when even innocent touches—strong embraces or playful gestures—became subjects of suspicion. They were no longer called children, although Helena remained one.

Geta, having overheard gossip among the servants, found a solution. If they sought to take her from him, then he must possess her forever. Let the emperor not value his wife greatly, let his father have concubines, but if Helena became his wife, his Augusta, she would never leave him. And so, full of resolve, he went to his father with his request.

And so, when General Acacius finally returned to Rome, that very night Geta, creeping into Helena's chambers, dragged her from her bed, nearly dragging her across the marble floor of the inner courtyard, to announce the joyous news: now no one would forbid them to play, now she would be with him forever, no one could take her from him.

But General Acacius rejected the proposal of betrothal. Helena was hidden from Geta for six years, and Geta came to hate her father. And when, after the emperor’s death, Geta and his brother were declared rulers of Rome, he realized: even now, he could do nothing against Acacius. As long as the general lived, Helena would never be his…

Summary: "General Acacius has fallen," exclaims Emperor Geta. "But he left us the most precious thing he had—his daughter! The sun of our Rome!"If the road leads to the abyss, only a madman would walk it with submission. But does a prisoner have the right to choose?"In the name of peace, I shall take his daughter as my lawful wife!"Peace is merely a word behind which violence hides. Oaths sworn in blood do not smell of blessing but of a curse."Smile, my little bird, you are to bear the emperor's child," a warm, sticky whisper. "And remember, your whore of a mother is still alive."She is his. She will be his. Just as the sun belongs to the sky, just as fire devours wood, so too was Helena made to burn for him alone…

Warnings: Forced Marriage, Rape, Rough Sex, Possessive Behavior, Obsession,Sex Dubious, Consent Mildly Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Loss of Virginity, Masturbation, public sex,Sexual Overstimulation, Depression, Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Unrequited, Love, Sexual Content, Complicated Relationships, Sexism, Sexual Inexperience, Cruelty, Feelings, Possessive Sex, Pregnancy, Forced Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Breeding.

[sunday-good-enough]

I have a lot of Aang headcanons and I wanted to share them!

His birthday is the Spring Equinox, meaning he turns 13 sometime around the beginning of book 2

I know Air Nomads are associated with Fall, and I do believe most powerful airbenders are born in fall (my air nomad OC was born in fall too) but I thought the season of life and rebirth fit Aang and his role as the avatar better

Modern Aang has autism diagnosis I'm not arguing about this

He's naturally charismatic. Not even in an 'oh he's hot' way, he's just got insane people skills. Katara "threw a cup of boiling hot tea into the lap of a respected FN general for being sexist and was promptly kicked out of the meeting" of the Water Tribe would like to take notes

Grandmas and kids love him immediately, even if they don't know he's the Avatar. With grandmas it's like 'oh he's such a nice young man :)' and with kids it's like 'you are the coolest person I've ever met can you adopt me'

He's a fantastic chef and loves cooking, and baking. Katara "everything I cook comes out slightly burnt or slightly undercooked no matter what I do" of the Water Tribe would, again, like to take notes

Air nomads are naturally flexible. Pair that with Aang's joint hypermobility and he makes for an excellent party trick

Monk Gyatso taught him his marble trick to stim. He used to motion of creating a ring of sorts to develop the air scooter, earning him his tattoos

He has an extremely high pain tolerance. Sokka "I hit my finger with my hammer and was incapacitated for a week" of the Water Tribe would, once again, like to take notes

I've heard some people headcanon that the 36th style of airbending that Aang didn't master was the movement Zhaheer used to kill the Earth Queen. I actually think that this technique was inspired by Aang's air scooter. Man's rolling in his damn grave

A crafter. His carving and painting skills are not the best, but the nuns taught him how to spin sky bison yarn, as well as techniques similar to crochet/knitting. Aang likes making these lovely warm blankets that everyone's always stealing from each other

Inventor of the fidget spinner, with help from Toph and Sokka. The original spinner was a device made of wire, holding three marbles with a fourth in the middle to hold between your fingers. Aang came up with the concept after Bumi II expressed disappointment that he couldn't do Aang's marble trick, Sokka designed it, and Toph metalbended it

Bumi and his new toy got so popular Aang had to start mass producing it. Cue a very desperate Aang on his knees begging Toph to help him

He gets really shaky and jumpy during storms. For. Reasons.

He's good at braiding hair. Kya and Katara always end up with braids because Aang's hands get away from him when he's cuddling with them

We see in The Storm that Aang was relatively popular with his peers. They admired him and played with him before he found out he was the Avatar, so I like to think he was very popular with little kids. Like, five year olds. They probably thought he was awesome.

Claustrophobic. I imagine being in a very tight space, especially one with little air, would freak him out

Can airbend with his ears. Don't ask.

We also see that he travels a lot - since he has friends from so many different nations. Building off another headcanon of mine that each individual nation had its own language, with a common language taught everywhere, Aang's probably polylingual.

He has this sort of otherworldly singing voice. It was relatively known in his childhood that air nomads are excellent singers - monks could make good money singing for people. Since he now lives in a time where air nomad songs haven't been heard for a while, he sounds almost otherworldly to them.

Bumi II, Kya II, and Tenzin all agree that bath time with Dad is so much more fun than bath time with mom. She doesn't even let them flood the bathroom >:(

On that note, Aang probably gushes about his kids any chance he gets. Frames their drawings in his office and everything.

Bumi II thinks his dad doesn't love him cause he's a nonbender? WRONG. Aang is currently writing a letter to Zuko about how amazing his son is and spirits, he's getting so good at spear fighting! I think being around Sokka is having that influence on him, oh and Kya-

He has this nice, loopy handwriting. It's not exactly cursive but it's similar.

He writes letters for Toph

He's very unaware of how famous he actually is, and it hits him like a truck when he realizes

"A museum? Zuko, don't you think that's a little much? It's not like anyone's gonna be interested haha" "Aang they made 16,000 gold pieces the first week"

KING of ridiculously censored swears. Monkeyfeathers, anyone? Absolutely says 'golly gee' in modern aus.

When he gets jealous, he gets more sad than angry. It's less "they're stealing my bestie!" and more "aw, Toph wants to hang out with them more than me :("

Also the king of puppy-cat eyes. Nobody except Toph can resist because come on, look at him! He only destroyed one building!

Airbending children can't really control their sneezes, so they often end up shooting themselves out of their cradles. Aang shot himself out a window once

He learns to control them by ~3 years old. His sneeze in the first episode was the little shit showing off

He is single-handedly responsible for 3/4th of the gray hairs at the Western Air Temple

Fire Lord Sozin destroyed many records and artifacts of Air Nomad history. Those left were preserved in a museum in Ba Sing Se. Aang and Katara have a date there, mostly taken up by Aang pissing himself over mislabeled artifacts

He finds a flute labled as a device used in fertility rituals and nearly chokes

That's all! Thanks for reading