#German surrender | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velaenam · 1 month ago

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

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𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.”

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication.

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.”

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath.

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly.

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him.

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

“domina, we are here.”

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised. you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs. the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice.

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said.

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs.

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both.

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing.

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really.

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here. not by men like him and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor.

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle.

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

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hainge · 24 days ago

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hiiii hope ur doing well!!

could you do blue lock dads at the beach with their kids? like what they do and chaos some can create. can you do kaiser,rin, isagi, bachira, sae,ness and any of your choice?!

PS: I love your writings so much please dont die

Vacation Foul: Blue Lock Boys, Off Duty

a/n: hihi I’m doing good! hope you’re doing well too!! and don’t worry I’m imortal...and I’m sorry I couldn’t do bachira's one :( I really tried writing something for him but nothing sounded good for me and thank you for the request! I enjoyed writing this!!

bllk!dads ft: Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin, Isagi Yoichi, Alexis Ness, Shidou Ryusei, Nagi Seishiro and Itoshi Sae

Michael Kaiser

The sun was relentless over the Greek coastline, casting golden rays over the sparkling blue sea and warming every grain of sand beneath your sunbed. The three of you, Michael, Felix, and you, had flown out for a short family vacation to escape the chaos of city life. Kaiser, naturally, had insisted on bringing a soccer ball. Felix had insisted on bringing his ever-present attitude.

You were stretched out comfortably on a lounger, sun hat tilted just enough to keep the glare off your face as you flipped a page in your book. The Mediterranean breeze smelled like salt and summer fruit. Your son was parked nearby with a bright red plastic bucket and a frown, methodically building a rather intimidating sandcastle complex with tall, crooked walls. His brow was furrowed like a mini architect under a tight deadline.

Kaiser, sprawled on a towel a few feet away, sighed loudly for the fourth time in five minutes. He sat up, staring at the soccer ball lying beside him like it had betrayed him.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, getting up and brushing sand off his shorts. “Wanna play a little?”

Felix didn’t even look up. “Get out.”

Michael blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in my property.”

Kaiser glanced down and realized his foot was edging into the sandy perimeter Felix had carefully built as a fortress wall. He stepped back quickly, raising both hands in mock surrender. “Better?”

“Leave me alone.”

Kaiser rolled his eyes, used to the five-year-old’s default setting being mildly hostile. “C’mon, I’m bored. Play with dad.”

“No.”

A tense standoff. Then, slowly, Michael nudged the soccer ball with his foot, softly, gently, so it tapped into one of the towers and knocked part of it down.

“STOP!” Felix screeched. He grabbed the ball, wound up with all the strength in his little arms, and chucked it right at his father.

“Felix!” you said sharply, lowering your book. Your voice carried just enough warning to make both of them freeze. “And you, Michael, stop messing with him.”

Kaiser opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and flopped onto the sand with a groan. Felix was already huffing, back to rebuilding the damaged castle.

Without a word, Kaiser scooted closer and began helping, patting damp sand into walls with begrudging patience.

A few minutes later, Felix muttered, “Your castles are ugly.”

“Okay, sorry, Mr. Perfectionist.”

“Die.”

“Hey! We don’t say that!” Michael began, only to get a face full of sand.

“Jeez man calm down” he sputtered, spitting grit and shielding his face as Felix reached for his plastic shovel.

Before the shovel war could escalate, you stood and called, “Let’s go to the water, boys.”

Felix instantly dropped everything. “Yes!”

Michael, still recovering from his sand attack, muttered something in german under his breath but followed as Felix ran ahead, kicking up sand in excitement.

You walked beside Michael toward the waves, and he quietly slipped his arm around your waist, leaning into you like he needed emotional support just to survive his own child. “Why is our son so aggressive?”

“You raised him,” you said lightly, nudging him with your elbow.

Once at the water, Felix didn’t hesitate, he sprinted straight in, no floaties, no fear. He’d been swimming confidently for months now, thanks to Kaiser’s patient lessons (even if one of those lessons had ended with Kaiser choking on seawater while Felix had calmly doggy-paddled circles around him).

As soon as Kaiser stepped in, Felix turned around and immediately began splashing him. Relentlessly. Wave after wave of cold water to the face. Michael stood there, drenched, blinking as you laughed from the shallows.

Then, with one swift motion, Kaiser lunged forward, grabbed Felix, and launched him into the air with practiced ease. Felix shrieked, pure, high-pitched glee as he soared for a second before crashing into the water with a splash.

“Michael!” you gasped through your laughter, hand to your chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“He’s fine!” Kaiser called, grinning as Felix resurfaced, cheeks puffed and hair slicked to his forehead.

“Again!” the little gremlin shouted, already swimming back toward him.

Michael glanced at you, water dripping from his hair, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “He hates me.”

You just smiled, stepping into the waves beside them. “He adores you. That’s the problem.”

“No wait! Throw Mama! Throw Mama!” Felix chanted, splashing toward you with sparkling eyes and betrayal in his tiny heart.

You backed up slightly in the water, waving your hands. “No. Michael, don’t even think about it.”

But Kaiser was already grinning. That smug, mischievous grin that meant you were doomed.

“C’mon,” he teased, wading toward you like a predator in beach shorts. “Just once.”

“I don’t want to wet my hair!” you argued, voice rising as you instinctively started to flee deeper into the sea. “Michael- no. I’m serious!”

He caught you anyway, wrapping his arms around you from behind like some dramatic, soaking-wet Romeo.

“MICHAEL, NO!” you screamed as your feet left the sand.

You were airborne for half a second, a blur of sun and sky, and then you hit the water with a loud splash.

When you surfaced, your hair was plastered to your face, your expression absolutely murderous. Felix was clutching his stomach with laughter, Kaiser right beside him howling like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all year.

“Ugh! Baby, why?” you groaned, blinking water from your lashes.

Felix wheezed. “Mama looks like a sea monster!”

“Watch it,” you warned, splashing water at them both, but they only laughed harder.

Kaiser leaned in, brushing a soggy strand of hair from your cheek with zero remorse. “You still look hot, by the way.”

“Flattery won’t save you,” you muttered, and pushed him to the water.

Kaiser accepted your rejection with a dramatic groan, hands lifted in surrender, and let himself flop backward into the sea. Water splashed up around him as he sank, arms splayed like a fallen martyr.

Felix immediately swam over with enthusiastic strokes, his little arms slicing through the water with impressive determination. The waves barely came up to your hips, but to him, it was the open ocean.

You swept your hair back, still wet and clinging to your cheeks, and watched as your two troublemakers rejoined like magnets.

“Throw me again!” Felix demanded breathlessly while jumping like a kangaroo.

“Nah,” Kaiser replied with mock laziness, leaning back on his elbows in the water.

“Please!”

With an exaggerated sigh, Kaiser stood up and hoisted Felix effortlessly into his arms. But instead of tossing him right away, he began spinning him around in slow, exaggerated motions, one arm cradling his back, the other under his knees like he was lifting a sack of potatoes.

Felix shrieked in delight and mild panic, flailing as he was held upside-down, sideways, and every which way. “You’re doing it wrong!”

“That’s the only way I do things,” Kaiser said smugly.

Then, without warning, he launched the boy into the air with perfect form, like a human trebuchet. Felix went soaring with a high-pitched scream and belly-flopped spectacularly into the water.

You gasped, hand flying to your mouth. “Michael!” You smacked his arm. “Don’t throw him like your dad again!”

Kaiser, clearly unrepentant, wore the smug grin of a man who had just nailed a personal best. “That throw had finesse.”

“Finesse my ass,” you muttered, eyes darting to the water. “Felix, baby, you okay?”

The boy resurfaced with a splash, blinking water from his lashes and grinning like a gremlin. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

You froze. “What?!”

You turned to Michael, aghast. “Was it you?!”

Kaiser raised both hands in mock innocence. “What? Me? No, of course not.”

He casually turned and began swimming away, shoulders hunched in retreat, but you weren’t letting him off that easy.

“Oh no, you’re not leaving like this,” you said, wading after him. You reached out and grabbed those infamous rat tails.

“OW-!” he yelped, flailing backward as you tugged him toward you.

“You taught our son to swear!” you accused, dragging him through the water like a soaked cat.

Michael turned with a sheepish smile, saltwater dripping from his lashes. “In my defence…he used it correctly.”

You sighed, releasing his braids with a splash. “You’re impossible.”

“But sexy” he added with a wink, rubbing his head dramatically like he’d been mortally wounded.

Felix ran toward you both again, bright-eyed and fearless. “Your turn!”

“Absolutely not,” you said firmly, stepping back as both boys turned on you with matching, mischievous glints in their eyes.

Kaiser smirked. “You said ‘absolutely.’ That’s halfway to ‘abso-fucking-lutely.’”

You shoved his head in the water.

Itoshi Rin

The sun hung high above the glittering sea, casting shimmers across the calm, glassy waves of the portuguese coastline. It was one of those rare, perfect afternoons, quiet except for the gentle hush of waves and the soft voices of your little family.

Rin sat cross-legged beside Masako on the beach towel, carefully applying sunscreen to her porcelain-smooth shoulders. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap like a little empress awaiting her coronation.

“You can go now,” she said politely once he’d finished, flashing him a soft smile.

Rin arched an eyebrow but said nothing. He was used to taking orders from this particular seven-year-old.

“Papa, let’s go!” Masako said, standing up and smoothing down her pink ribbon swimsuit. “Let’s build a castle.”

“Castle,” Rin repeated flatly, rising to his feet.

“Hum,” she nodded with approval.

He gathered her carefully curated beach toy set and followed her down to the damp shoreline. Masako stopped just before the tide and knelt, picking up a stick. With slow, precise strokes, she drew an intricate floor plan in the wet sand.

“This is the main hall. That’s the tower. I want the bridge here,” she pointed decisively.

Rin crouched beside her, already scooping and shaping as instructed.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” he muttered, eyeing the spot she wanted the bridge to span.

Masako turned to him with a serene expression and said, “Everything is possible when you’re the one doing it.”

He paused, sighed softly, then resumed digging.

Soon Rin was carving out a small moat-like pool, carefully shaping the edge with his hands. Masako knelt beside it and dipped her fingers in.

“The water is warm,” she said thoughtfully. “But I want it colder.”

Then, daintily, she brushed the sand off her swimsuit using a little scoop of seawater, stood, and grabbed her father’s hand. “Let’s ask Mama to come with us.”

She took off running toward you, her long dark braid bouncing behind her.

“Mamaaa!” Masako called sweetly, sliding to a stop beside your sunbed.

You opened one eye “What’s up, baby?”

“Stop tanning and go to the ocean with us,” she said as if it were a polite royal decree.

You laughed, rising with a stretch. “Alright, alright. Let me put more sunscreen on Papa first.”

Masako turned on her heel with regal flair, already retrieving her donut-shaped floater. She marched toward the sea like a model on a runway, head high, arms poised.

Meanwhile, Rin stood with his eyes narrowed as you approached him with the sunscreen bottle.

“You burn so easily,” you teased, dabbing some on his cheeks. “Don't make that face.”

He didn’t reply, but leaned into your touch slightly as you smeared the cream across his nose.

A few minutes later, the three of you walked into the water together. The waves were cool against your legs, refreshing and playful. Masako let out a soft, delighted sound when the first splash kissed her ankles.

She held up her hand like a little princess awaiting a royal escort. Rin took it wordlessly and led her forward, her donut floater bobbing behind her.

In deeper water, Masako twirled with the grace of a ballerina, her float spinning with her. “I’m a ballerina!” she declared, holding out her arms.

Rin turned to her stiffly, arms half-raised as if unsure what to do with them.

“Papa,” Masako said with perfect seriousness, “you have to act like a gentleman. Not like Slender Man.”

Rin froze mid-movement.

From behind them, you burst into laughter. “It’s his nature, sweetie.”

Masako giggled and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. You’re still my gentleman.”

And with that, he bent slightly at the waist and gave her the most dignified nod he could manage, just before she twirled again, splashing both of you with seawater.

You waded a little deeper into the sea, the water cool and refreshing as it lapped against your waist. Holding Masako’s small hands, you guided her carefully through the gentle swells. She hummed softly to herself, some delicate, dreamy tune she’d likely made up on the spot, her expression serene as always.

Her donut-shaped floater bobbed up and down with the waves, and she rode them like a queen on a pink throne, chin slightly raised, posture impeccable. Every so often she glanced toward Rin, who mirrored her pace in the water, keeping just enough distance to let her feel independent, but always close enough to catch her if she slipped.

The waves rolled in slow and calm, until they didn’t.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a larger swell forming in the distance. Rin noticed too. Calmly, he reached for Masako’s hands again. Then, just before the wave hit, he let go and gave her floater a gentle push toward shore.

She laughed, spinning slightly as the wave lifted her and carried her forward like a sea princess on parade.

Her floater touched the shallows, and she began to wriggle out of it, preparing to stand gracefully and stroll back to you like she was disembarking from a yacht.

But Poseidon had other plans.

Another wave came crashing down, larger, sudden, and completely uninvited. It hit her squarely in the back and sent her tumbling forward in a surprise backflip. Legs in the air. Head under. The kind of wave only siblings and the ocean could deliver.

She resurfaced seconds later, hair plastered to her face, pink swimsuit full of sand, mouth full of seawater, and completely stunned.

You let out a loud laugh

Masako paused. Composed herself with startling grace. Smoothed her hair back with both hands and stood up like nothing happened, only slightly staggering as more sand shifted under her feet.

She swam back to you with quiet dignity, though her swimsuit sagged a little from the weight of seawater and her braid looked like a mop. Her cheeks were pink. Her silence, deadly.

Rin, watching from where he stood in the water, had a very small, very smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You leaned down, still laughing. “That was the most elegant backflip I’ve ever seen.”

Masako huffed “I’ve decided,” she announced with great seriousness, “we are not friends with the ocean anymore.”

Rin raised an eyebrow. “You just said it was your kingdom.”

She glared at the sea like it had personally betrayed her. “It’s a rebellious province now.”

After the great betrayal by the ocean and her royal decree to disown it, Masako seemed to recover her mood. She held out her hands toward Rin, her expression once again softened, grace restored.

“Swing me, Papa,” she said sweetly.

Without hesitation, Rin took her hands, gently lifting her in slow, swooping circles over the water. She giggled as her legs skimmed the surface, droplets sparkling in the air like seafoam.

You swam closer, smiling as you floated nearby, soaking in the calm moment. The three of you drifted like that for a while, the sun painting golden ripples across the water, everything blissfully normal, like a picture of a healthy, balanced family.

Until Masako suddenly gasped, her mouth forming a perfect little "O" of discovery.

Her eyes locked onto something just behind you.

A little girl floated by in the shallows, lounging like a sea queen in a pastel purple mermaid float, complete with glitter fins and a tiny raised tail that bobbed with each wave.

Masako pointed instantly, urgency in her voice.

“I want one!”

You turned, squinting. “The mermaid?”

“Yes!” she said. “I need it!”

Rin blinked. “You already have seven floaters.”

“No, I have this donut,” she began, counting off on her fingers, “the unicorn, the turtle, the Disney princess one, the shark, the white duck, six. And now I want the mermaid!”

“That’s seven,” Rin deadpanned.

Masako pouted, hands folded over the edge of her donut like a mini lawyer preparing for trial. “You said math isn’t everything when we went to the aquarium and I got the dolphin toy.”

“That’s not what I-” “Pleaseeeeeee?” she asked, voice full of manufactured sweetness and ocean sparkle, dragging the word out like it might hypnotize him.

Rin stared at her. Then stared at you. You shrugged. “It’s really cute.”

He sighed heavily, as if agreeing was the worst possible fate.

Masako beamed.

The next morning, she strutted across the beach in her brand-new mermaid float. Donut forgotten. Order restored. Ocean forgiven.

Except she didn’t dare take it into the water. Not even once.

Instead, she carefully dragged it to the perfect sunny spot, plopped herself inside with a pair of pink sunglasses, and used it as her royal beach throne, for sunbathing only. "Are you kidding me," said Rin flatly, arms crossed as he looked down at her.

Masako pushed her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose with one finger, acting just like Miranda Priestley from The Devil Wears Prada, and said coolly, “I don’t do peasant activities.”

“And what could they be?” he asked, already bracing himself.

She pointed toward a group of kids playing in the sand, hair tangled, bodies streaked in sunblock and grit, chasing each other like little goblins. “That,” she declared.

Rin sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who do you think you are?”

“The royalty,” she replied without missing a beat, crossing her legs dramatically in her glittery mermaid float like she was lounging on a yacht.

Rin just stared at her, defeated.

Itoshi Sae

The moment her sandals hit the sand, Kimiko took a deep breath and turned to you with the poise of a six-year-old dictator. One hand on her hip, the other gesturing grandly to the ocean, she launched into a monologue.

“So! First of all, frogs can breathe through their skin. Did you know that? And zebras, zebras are actually black with white stripes, not white with black, Mama, are you listening? Because I’m talking.”

You nodded patiently. “Of course I’m listening, baby.”

Meanwhile, a few feet away, Sae silently slipped the inflatable shoulder floaties, onto Haruki’s thin little arms. Haruki blinked once, completely unbothered by the world. The sun, the sand, the fact his sister was halfway through an impromptu TED Talk, it all washed over him like background noise.

“You two are already going to the water?” you called as Sae started walking away, Haruki’s hand in his.

“Hum,” was all he offered, monotone as ever.

Kimiko spun around like she’d just been personally betrayed.

“You have to wait for the sunscreen to set! That’s what the bottle says! You’ll get burnt and then cry, and then-”

“Kimiko,” Sae interrupted flatly, “don’t yell like a seagull.”

Before you could even try to intervene, she grabbed her rainbow floater and took off after them in a huff.

“Kimiko! I need to put sunscreen on your face-!” Too late. She was halfway to the water, dragging the float behind her like a warrior hauling a battle flag.

Kimiko marched across the sand with righteous fury, dragging her rainbow floater behind her like she was leading a revolution. She stopped just behind Sae and Haruki, arms crossed, her little chest puffed up with indignation.

“You have to wait for it to set!” she barked, voice sharp and precise. “You can’t just go in without protection.

Sae didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just looked over his shoulder at her with the expression of a man being lectured by someone half his height and six years old.

“You always talk like you run a spa,” he said flatly. “We’re going in the water, not doing skincare commercials.”

Sae looked down at Haruki, who blinked up at him like a silent witness. Then he looked back at Kimiko.

“So are you coming,” he asked casually, “or are you gonna stand there yelling like a sunburnt pelican?”

Kimiko opened her mouth. Closed it. Let out a high-pitched noise of disbelief. “I was trying to help!”

Haruki quietly resumed smacking the water with his hands like a bored seal.

Sae raised an eyebrow, turning toward the waves again. “Suit yourself.”

Kimiko stood frozen, completely scandalized, before letting out a dramatic huff. “I’m not going!” she snapped.

“Good,” Sae replied. “Less noise in the water.”

Kimiko watched them, bottom lip trembling. Her fists tightened at her sides. Her pride waged war with her feelings for a good three seconds, then she tossed her floater dramatically onto the sand and turned on her heel.

You were just finishing rubbing sunscreen onto your calves when she returned, dragging her feet. Her brows were furrowed, lips wobbling, and her dark eyes brimming with tears.

“Hey…” you said softly, sitting up straighter. “What happened, baby?”

“I don’t want to be with them anymore,” she said, sniffing hard. “Papa’s mean. Haruki doesn’t care. I’m cold. My feet are sandy. And I was trying to help.”

You opened your arms, and she crawled into your lap like she was still two, her little body warm and trembling from holding in frustration.

You kissed the top of her head. “I know, sweetheart. You were trying to take care of them, huh?”

She nodded, pressing her forehead into your shoulder.

“They don’t even deserve your floater,” you whispered conspiratorially.

“I know,” she mumbled, wiping her tears.

You smiled gently, brushing her hair back. “Want to build a castle with me instead?”

She sniffled. “Will you listen to my frog facts?”

“Only if you promise to tell me everything.”

You and Kimiko had moved on from heartbreak to architecture, both of you hunched over a slowly growing sand kingdom near the umbrella. With her tiny pink shovel and an intense sense of focus, she directed construction like a tiny CEO. Every now and then she'd sniff dramatically, just to remind the world she was still mad.

Then, out of nowhere, came the sound of feet pattering over wet sand.

“Mommm!” Haruki called out, wobbling slightly as he approached, carrying something heavy in both hands.

You turned and saw him gripping a bright blue bucket, water sloshing inside. “Hmm? What is it, baby? What do you have there?”

Haruki didn’t say a word, just tilted the bucket toward you.

Inside: six crabs scrambling across wet sand, trying to escape.

Your eyes widened. “Woooow! Did you catch them yourself?”

Haruki blinked once. “No. Papa did.”

Sure enough, Sae trailed behind at his usual calm pace, a second bucket in his hand. Probably collecting sea water to keep the crabs happy, or alive. Hard to tell with him.

“Wow, they’re so cool,” you said, beaming at your son and gently tapping the rim of the bucket.

Kimiko, still kneeling at her castle-in-progress, didn’t even look up. Her lips were pursed. Her shovel was stabbing sand like she meant it.

Sae finally stopped a few feet away, glancing at his daughter.

“Are you still gonna keep fuming at me?”

Silence.

She didn’t even blink.

“I don’t like you,” she replied coldly, voice sharp like cracked seashells.

Sae’s brows lifted a fraction, but you saw it. The dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hmm,” he hummed.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he tilted his second bucket and dumped the cold seawater directly on her back.

Kimiko let out a scream so high-pitched a flock of seagulls took off behind you.

she sobbed, face scrunching up as fat tears spilled down her cheeks. “You ruined everything!”

You gasped. “Sae!”

He blinked once. “She looked hot.”

“Sae!”

Kimiko turned to you in despair, both arms stiff at her sides. “I didn’t even finish my castle!”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you said, quickly reaching for a clean towel.

You wrapped it around her gently, kneeling to dry off her arms as she sniffled dramatically. Her mouth was still wobbling, her eyes red with fury. Even as she let you pull her into your lap, her tiny fists were clenched inside the towel.

Haruki, completely unaffected by the drama, crouched by the crab bucket again. He studied the little creatures as they scrambled around inside, then calmly reached in and grabbed one with his tiny fingers, like he did it every day of his life.

You watched him with a mix of pride and concern. “Haruki, careful-”

He stood up and turned toward his sister, crab wiggling in his hand.

“Do you want it?” he asked, holding it out to her like a gift.

Kimiko turned, saw the crab’s tiny legs twitching and absolutely lost it.

“AAAAH!!” she screamed, throwing her arms up in panic and nearly knocking the towel off. “GET AWAY FROM ME!!"

Haruki blinked, unfazed. “It’s just moving”

“I don’t want it! I don’t want it!!”

You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing.

Sae, now squatting nearby like a man enjoying the chaos he started, tilted his head. “You said you liked marine life.”

“I meant dolphins!” Kimiko cried, dramatically burying her face into your shoulder.

Haruki shrugged and walked off with the crab, mumbling something about naming it Doraemon.

You patted Kimiko’s back gently. “No more crabs, promise. Just princess castles and sunscreen.”

She sniffled one last time. “And dolphins.”

“Of course.”

Sae leaned back, eyes on the sea. “She’s definitely your daughter.”

You smiled. “Oh really? I was about to say she’s all you.”

After the chaos with the screaming and the cold splash, Sae and Haruki returned to the shoreline, a bucket full of squirming, twitchy crabs in tow.

They knelt near the water’s edge, Haruki squinting at the shifting tide.

“Daddy, look! A seagull!” Haruki pointed with his whole arm, his voice full of wonder.

Sae followed his gaze lazily. “Hm. Yes. A seagull.”

“Can I give it the crabs?”

Sae glanced down at him, half-lidded eyes calm as ever. “Do what you want.”

And so Haruki did.

One by one, he plucked the crabs from the bucket and lobbed them toward the unsuspecting seagull. The bird jumped, flapped wildly, and then pecked curiously at the offering. None of the crabs made it to safety except one.

“Can you catch the seagull?” Haruki asked suddenly.

“Why?” Sae raised an eyebrow.

“It’s like a duck.”

That made something flicker in Sae’s expression, half disbelief, half amusement. He let out a soft chuckle, rare and short-lived. “You want to eat it?”

“Yes,” Haruki said, completely serious.

“You know we can’t.”

Sae stood up, brushing sand from his hands before grabbing Haruki’s small one.

“Let’s find another crab and put it on your sister’s head.”

Haruki nodded like it was a noble quest. “She’ll scream again.”

“That’s the point,” Sae muttered.

Shidou Ryusei

You knew it was a mistake before even stepping foot on the plane. Thailand sounded like a dream getaway, until you remembered you were traveling with the human equivalent of a sugar-rushed raccoon and his pint-sized twin in spirit.

The airport? Chaos. The hotel? A war zone. Temples? You don’t even want to talk about it.

So by the time you reached the beach, your expectations were buried six feet deep in the sand.

“RYUSEI, THE SUNSCREEN!” you shouted like a lifeguard with no authority, watching two gremlins, one large, one small, bolting into the waves like wild animals. You barely managed to slather a protective layer on Shoko’s little cheeks before she escaped your grasp and leapt into the water with a feral “RAAAWRR!”

They were yelling like jungle creatures, Ryusei hunched over in the waves like some unhinged sea monster, eyes wide and mouth stretched in a toothy grin as he chased Shoko in zigzags. You caught a few concerned glances from nearby parents. You just smiled politely, mentally preparing your apology speech.

Once you’d finished laying out towels and beach bags, because of course they hadn’t thought to help, you stood at the shoreline, still in your sheer beach shirt, shielding your face from the sun.

“Ryu, come here!” you called.

“Nah, Mama! We don’t need that!” he yelled back, flicking saltwater dramatically as he twirled with Shoko clinging to his back like a barnacle.

“I’m serious!”

“Don’t be! It won’t kill me!”

“At least let me put some on your back"

But he was already swimming off with Shoko screaming gleefully, her little arms waving as she shouted.

You groaned and after like five you stepped into the water. The cool waves lapped at your legs as you waded deeper, tension loosening from your shoulders as the sea pulled at you.

You reached Shoko, who had now migrated to her yellow duck floater, bobbing like royalty. You swam beside her, gently holding the float as she kicked her feet and hummed something vaguely off-key.

“Where did your dad go?” you muttered, scanning the surface. The water was deep enough now to reach your chest, and there was no pink-haired chaos gremlin in sight.

Then-

Something grabbed your legs.

You shrieked, flailing on instinct.

Suddenly, two strong arms hoisted you up, and the next thing you knew, you were on Shidou’s shoulders, high above the waves, hands gripping his damp hair for dear life.

“RYUSEI, PUT ME DOWN!” you yelled, voice half panic, half fury, hair dripping seawater over your face.

“Anything for my beautiful wife!” he chirped like this was some kind of honeymoon.

Before you could deliver a proper threat, he grinned wickedly, grabbed your ankles, and pushed them up. Your body tilted backward like a ragdoll, and with a scream, you went tumbling into the sea behind him, hitting the water with a dramatic splash.

You surfaced with a gasp, soaked, furious, and already planning his funeral.

Shoko was cackling, nearly tipping out of her duck.

Shidou swam over, smug as ever, pushing his wet hair back. “You look majestic”

And just when you thought your day couldn’t possibly get worse, Shidou decided it was crab-hunting time.

“Shoko, be careful-” you warned, eyes flicking over from where you were prepping snacks on the mat, trying to enjoy at least five minutes of peace.

“Let’s catch dinner, Shoko!” he interrupted gleefully, already jogging toward the rockier part of the coast, your five-year-old cackling as she bolted after him, plastic bucket swinging in her grip.

You blinked. “Dinner?”

By the time you looked up again, Shidou was climbing onto the rocks, water splashing over the stone as waves rolled in, and he had the audacity to lift Shoko higher, like she wasn’t a tiny human with fragile limbs and zero fear.

You dropped the fruit container with a sigh that turned into a growl and marched across the sand, heart racing.

“RYUSEI, GET OUT OF THERE!”

“Woman, calm down,” he called without looking back, that stupid grin plastered across his face as he dunked a crab into Shoko’s bucket.

“Ha! Daddy, this is the biggest one so far!”

“Shoko, get down! You’ll slip!”

“I won’t, Mommy. Don’t worry!” she placed the bucket down and started crawling toward another crab, her little hands and feet finding shaky purchase.

“Shoko--RYU--goddamn it, GET HER!”

“Uuuh~, another crab!” Shidou announced like he was hosting a cooking show. “This one’s small, right Shoko?”

“Yes, we don’t need it.”

“Have it, Mama.” And he threw it.

At. You.

You yelped, leaping back as the crab landed in the sand at your feet like it had been launched from a trebuchet. “Are you INSANE?!”

“Daddy! There’s a big one righ-ah!”

Her scream made your soul leave your body.

You saw her hand slip on the wet rock, her little body tilting sideways.

“SHOKO!”

But before panic fully kicked in, Shidou moved like lightning. He dropped the crab, lunged, and caught her mid-fall with a grunt, pulling her tight against his chest.

“Gotcha,” he said, breathless.

You didn’t move. You just stood there, pale, heart thudding, fists clenched.

Shidou glanced at you, then smirked.

“Get. Down. Here.”

That did it. He and Shoko finally took your words seriously, making their slow descent from the rocks. The moment Shidou’s feet touched the sand, you stormed over and grabbed his ear like he was your third, most difficult child.

“We. Are. Going. Home.”

“Noooo, Mommmm!” Shoko whined, holding the crab bucket protectively.

“No crabs. No more swimming. No more fun,” you said, dragging your overgrown gremlin of a husband away by the ear.

He pouted. “You're being dramatic.”

You glared at him. “Wait until tomorrow when your body feels like it’s on fire.”

He rolled his eyes.

He stopped rolling his eyes at 2 a.m., when he woke up screaming with the worst sunburn of his life.

You, of course, offered no sympathy. Just aloe vera, and a smirk.

The crabs were released. Shoko forgave you.

Shidou? Not so much.

But that was his problem.

Next year? Mountain vacation.

No crabs allowed.

Isagi Yoichi

The first thing you did when you stepped onto the beach was let out a long, satisfied sigh. The warm sand under your feet, the salty breeze tugging at your clothes, and the sun casting a golden shimmer over the ocean, it was perfect.

“Feels so good,” you murmured, closing your eyes for just a second of peace. “What do you think, Isamu?”

No answer.

You turned.

There he was, standing beside you in his little sunhat and sandals… completely glued to his Nintendo.

“Isamu,” you said, unamused.

Still no answer.

So you did what any mother would do, you snatched it from his hands.

“NOO!!” he whined, arms flailing as he jumped for it. “Give it back!”

“What did I tell you about bringing games on vacation?” you scolded, holding it up like a trophy out of reach. “You need vitamin D!”

He pouted, kicking the sand dramatically like a boy betrayed. “This IS my vitamin D…”

“And where’s your father?” you asked, scanning the beach.

You spotted Isagi already at the assigned beach chairs, setting up the towels like the responsible MVP dad he was. “Oh. He’s already there…” you muttered. You sighed again, less relaxed this time, and walked over to help him.

Once you’d gotten everything in place, you finally walked back over to where your boys had started kicking a soccer ball between them.

“Wanna go to the water with me?” you asked sweetly.

“Yeah sure-” Isagi started.

“No,” Isamu cut in flatly, not even looking at you as he flicked the ball back to his dad.

“Why not?” Isagi frowned.

“I wanna play soccer with you,” Isamu said, determined.

“We’ve been kicking the ball for fifteen minutes.”

“I’m not done.”

They launched into a low-grade argument, Isamu passionately arguing for just five more minutes and Isagi trying to remind him that even pro players take breaks. You just shrugged, gave them a little wave, and walked off to the water.

You floated in the waves, enjoying the serenity, alone with your thoughts and the sound of gulls overhead. It was blissful. But the second you turned to look back at shore, you spotted your boys still at it, and Isamu now begging for something.

“Dad, get me ice cream.”

“You already had two before we even left the hotel,” Isagi replied, clearly exhausted.

“I want another one,” Isamu whined, retrieving his Nintendo (from your beach bag, no less) like it was his emotional support device.

“I think that’s enough screen time for today...” Isagi said with a sigh, glancing at the water. His eyes softened when he saw you, drifting peacefully in the waves, completely detached from the father-son showdown on land.

He wanted to join you so badly.

But he couldn’t leave Isamu alone.

“Will you go in the water if I get you an ice cream?” he bargained.

“No.”

“Then no ice cream.”

“…Fine. I will.”

“Then c’mon,” Isagi said, standing up. “Let’s go to the beach café, and then we’ll swim.”

Isamu stood up, eyes still glued to the screen.

Isagi rolled his eyes, took the Nintendo from his son’s hands, and zipped it firmly back into the bag.

“And we are leaving that here.”

“NOO”

They strolled across the warm boardwalk toward the little beach café, sandals kicking up dust.

“So, what ice cream do you want?” Isagi asked, glancing down at his son.

Isamu stared at the freezer like it held the secrets of the universe. “Uhhh…this watermelon-shaped one. No, wait—the Oreo one. Nah… the, uh… the, wait, no, um…”

Isagi’s patient smile slowly faded as Isamu’s brain short-circuited under the weight of too many options. “I’m not buying you anything if you keep nagging,” he said flatly.

“Vanilla,” Isamu blurted.

“Fine.”

“Strawberry.”

Isagi sighed through his nose, rubbing his temples.

They finally left the café, Isamu holding a two-scoop vanilla-mint cone like it was a trophy, tongue already painted faint green.

“Is it good?” Isagi asked.

“Hm,” Isamu mumbled, too absorbed in the dessert to give a real answer.

“Good. Now hurry up and eat it so we can go meet your mom.”

“Take the ball,” Isamu added, holding it out with sticky hands.

Isagi blinked. “Magic word?”

“Please.”

“…Fine.”

You were floating near the shore, sunlight glinting off the water as you lazily kicked your legs. The breeze tickled your skin and the waves gently bobbed you like a buoy. For a moment, it was heaven.

Then you spotted them.

“Finally,” you called, pushing damp hair out of your eyes. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah,” Isagi muttered, wading in beside you, one arm holding the soccer ball and the other herding a very full Isamu. “We’re here. And he’s had his third ice cream of the day.”

“The water’s cold,” Isamu announced dramatically, dipping in toe-first before slowly letting his body float with the help of the soccer ball clutched under his arms like a life ring.

“You don’t need floaters Isamu?” you asked, smiling as you swam over to wrap your arms around Isagi’s shoulders, letting him hold you close in the water.

“I don’t” Isamu mumbled stubbornly, paddling his feet in place and clinging to the ball like a sea otter.

“He’s so cute,” you whispered, nose brushing Isagi’s cheek.

Isagi leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his hair tickling your forehead.

You grinned.

“Ew,” Isamu deadpanned from a few feet away.

“Sorry?” Isagi called, eyebrows raised.

“Disgusting,” Isamu said louder, turning his back to you dramatically. Then, without warning, he kicked both feet out, splashing water right into your faces.

“ISAMU!” you yelped through laughter, wiping your eyes.

“I didn’t see anything,” he declared innocently. “I was just swimming.”

“Oh, you little-” Isagi lunged playfully, sending another splash his way while Isamu squealed and paddled away as fast as he could, giggling like a maniac.

After drying off and towel-wrapping Isamu like a spring roll, you settled onto the lounge chair with a cold drink and a wide-brimmed hat. Meanwhile, your boys couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds.

“Let’s go, Dad!” Isamu chirped, already bouncing the ball between his feet.

“Didn’t we just come out of the water?” Isagi asked, towel still draped over his shoulders.

But Isamu had already run ahead to an open patch of sand, looking back expectantly. Isagi sighed and jogged after him.

The next ten minutes were filled with laughter, sand flying, and father-son one-touch passes. Isamu was getting bolder with each kick, trying to copy every trick Isagi demonstrated, even if it meant falling on his butt half the time.

“Alright, last one before we head back,” Isagi said, dusting his hands.

Isamu nodded, eyes sparkling with determination. He pulled his leg back for what he clearly thought would be the most powerful kick of his life.

“Careful with th-”

Too late.

The ball shot through the air like a cannonball, and nailed a little girl in the face as she walked by, ice cream splattering dramatically.

Everyone froze.

“Oh no,” Isamu whispered, eyes wide.

“Shit” Isagi muttered.

Nagi Seishiro

Having Shizuku with you was like having a tiny angel, calm, sweet, and never demanding too much. If only you could say the same for your husband.

It had been nearly an hour since your feet hit the warm sand, and Nagi Seishiro had done absolutely nothing but sleep under the umbrella, his hoodie pulled over his face like he was avoiding reality. You looked over at him, sprawled like royalty, arms folded, lips parted slightly, and drool dangerously close to escaping.

Meanwhile, your daughter had been content enough with you, eating a small vanilla ice cream, giggling when it dripped on her hand, and building modest sandcastles shaped like lumpy clouds. But eventually, her gaze wandered to a group of kids near the shoreline, splashing around in little dug-out tide pools. One in particular caught her eye.

“I want to make a pool,” Shizuku said softly, pointing.

You brushed some sand off your legs and smiled. “Sure.”

“With papa.”

You followed her eyes back to the umbrella where Nagi remained deeply committed to his beach nap.

“Sei…” you nudged his side gently with your foot. “Seiii…”

A groggy “hmm~?” came from beneath the hoodie.

“Make a pool for your daughter.”

“A pool?” he mumbled, already curling tighter. “Such a hassle…”

“Come on, don’t make her dig it herself,” you coaxed.

A pause. Then a long, dramatic sigh. “Hm… fine.”

With his usual slouchy gait, he dragged himself off the towel and joined the two of you in front of the sandcastle ruins. Shizuku looked up at him with quiet excitement, holding a small red plastic shovel.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, squatting beside her.

“Here,” she said, pointing at a patch of damp sand closer to the tide.

He grabbed a plastic pail and started scooping.

“You know we have an ocean ten feet away, right?” he muttered.

Shizuku was gently patting a mound into a wall. “The ocean water is cold.”

“Then why not ask your mom?”

“You rarely play with me.”

His hands stilled.

He looked up at her, blinking slowly, that guilty pang landing somewhere in the middle of his chest. Shizuku wasn’t the kind to complain, she barely raised her voice when she wanted something. For her to say it… it meant she’d been thinking about it.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

Shizuku turned to him, her cheeks pink from the sun, and smiled. “It’s okay. I still love you.”

Nagi exhaled, then gave her head a gentle pat. “I love you too, Zuku.”

He got back to digging, more focused now. The pool was sloppy, but wide enough. He started dragging buckets of water over from the sea, sloshing most of it out along the way, but trying.

Shizuku giggled as she smoothed the edges with her hands. “This is the best pool.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Because you made it.”

Nagi looked over at you then, you were watching, chin resting on your hand, lips curled in a smile.

“…Not bad for a hassle,” he murmured.

Shizuku sat back, satisfied, as her little pool glimmered under the sun. Plastic toys floated lazily on the surface, her rubber dolphin, a chipped pink shovel, and a yellow cup shaped like a duck. You were dusting your hands off after finishing the last bit of the sand wall she asked for when she reached up and tugged at her father’s sleeve.

“Papa,” she said, gripping her small blue bucket. “Let’s get more water.”

Nagi blinked at her slowly, then glanced at the nearly full pool.

“Still not enough?” he murmured with a yawn, but took her hand anyway.

You smiled watching them walk to the edge of the ocean together, your sleepy husband matching her tiny barefoot steps, both of them silent in that serene, quiet way they shared. They came back moments later, carefully pouring more salt water into their handmade pool. After a few tries, it was full.

Shizuku then busied herself again, searching nearby patches of sand. “I want shells. And pretty rocks.”

“Mm,” Nagi hummed, dropping lazily onto the towel beside you.

She returned a few minutes later with a palm full of damp, glistening things. “Papa, what do you think of this one?”

Nagi sat up slightly and peered at the flat speckled stone in her hand. “Hm… it’s pretty.”

You leaned over and wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder to take a look too. “Yeah, sweetheart, it’s beautiful.”

Time passed peacefully, until Shizuku stood up again, staring out toward the sea.

“I want to try going to the water.”

You blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“I want to learn how to swim.”

You grinned and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. “Alright. Let’s get your floaters hm?”

You carried it over your shoulder, adjusting their straps as Shizuku held her father’s hand. Nagi walked beside her, more alert now, already watching the water patterns. When the tide brushed her toes, she squeaked and jumped back.

“It’s cold,” she murmured, tucking behind Nagi’s leg.

“Shizuku, it’s okay,” you said softly. “You’ll get used to it, promise.”

It took… a while

Shizuku sat like a queen in her floater throne, legs tucked, arms relaxed over the sides, slowly drifting back and forth with the tiny waves. You and Nagi sat beside her in the sand, the sun warm, your feet buried. Nagi had his hand lazily resting on the edge of her float, keeping her from floating off too far.

“This is nice,” you murmured.

“Mm,” Nagi agreed with a yawn, eyes half closed.

Then the ocean had other plans.

A new wave appeared in the distance. It didn’t seem that big. Just… a little suspicious. You squinted.

“Sei… that one looks kinda-”

Too late.

The wave came in fast, suddenly not so little. It barreled in with the force of a caffeine-rushed toddler and slapped right into Shizuku’s float. The girl let out the tiniest “hm?” before the entire donut flipped dramatically, legs up, arms flailing, one plastic toy flying like it was ejected from a spaceship.

“WHOA-” Nagi lunged for her like he was doing a beach version of a FIFA save. He caught her mid-splash, but the wave wasn’t done yet.

It smacked both of them like a giant wet pancake and dragged them backwards like socks in a laundry cycle.

You stood up, mouth open in shock as you watched your husband and daughter being politely escorted by the ocean eight full feet downshore, looking like soggy laundry drifting away.

“SEI?!”

“Mmgh I got her,” Nagi replied, barely lifting his head above the water. He sat up with seaweed stuck to his hair and Shizuku dangling over his shoulder like a soaked burrito.

Shizuku blinked slowly, clearly trying to understand what dimension she had just entered. She had a clump of wet sand on her cheek and a single plastic dolphin toy wedged into her armpit.

“Papa… the ocean betrayed me,” she mumbled.

“Yeah,” Nagi coughed, looking mildly offended. “That wave was aggressive.”

You ran to them as they returned like two castaways from a shipwreck. Shizuku didn’t even cry, just looked incredibly done with nature. (she’s never stepping a foot on the ocean again)

Nagi plopped down on the sand with a grunt, holding her upright like a broken action figure.

“She still wants to learn how to swim?” he asked you, blinking away saltwater.

“I think we just learned how not to.”

After the chaos of the wave incident, Shizuku officially called it quits on beach life.

She didn’t whine, didn’t cry, just quietly wrapped her arms around her dad’s neck and mumbled something about “not trusting wet things anymore.” Nagi, soaked to the bone, didn’t protest. He sat on the shaded lounge chair like a human towel rack while Shizuku curled up in his lap like a little dumpling, wrapped in a dry towel from head to toe, only her nose poking out.

You brought them a warm juice box and sighed as you watched your daughter knock out completely in Nagi’s arms, her tiny breaths matching the rhythm of the ocean.

“She’s done for the day,” you murmured, pulling your phone out. Nagi looked up, a strand of seaweed still clinging to his hair like it lived there now.

“Don’t take a pic,” he groaned softly.

Click.

Too late. You zoomed in. Nagi’s arm wrapped securely around her, his other hand lazily draped over the towel like a cat napping in the sun. His face was still a little squished from the wave attack, hair sticking in weird directions, but the moment was perfect.

“You look like you just survived a shipwreck,” you teased.

He peeked one eye open. “Feels like it.”

You chuckled and sat beside them, resting your head against his shoulder.

The ocean roared, kids screamed in the distance, and yet here you three were, silent, warm, sun-kissed, and completely still.

Vacation chaos? Absolutely.

But moments like this?

Worth every wave.

Alexis Ness

You thought it would start the vacation well? Oh, you were totally wrong.

Your little kids were already fighting over beach toys while you and Ness placed your things in place. You had barely finished laying out the towels when you heard the first screech.

“I got it first!” Emma whined, pulling the red shovel to her chest “But it’s mine!” Hugo grunted, tugging it back with both hands like it was a medieval sword.

You looked up from the bag of snacks you were organizing, already regretting not packing earplugs. Ness, meanwhile, stood with his hands on his hips, sighing like a man preparing to walk into a hurricane.

And then, Hugo bit her.

“OUCH!” Emma shrieked, clutching her finger like she’d been maimed.

“Papa! He bit me!”

“She’s lying!” Hugo snapped, eyes wide with faux innocence.

Ness didn’t flinch. He walked over calmly, in full Dad mode. “Give me the toys. All of them.”

Hugo reluctantly handed over the bag full of plastic shovels, buckets, and a tiny rake like it was a national treasure.

“Apologize to your sister.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

Ness smiled the way a patient executioner might. “Fine. Then no toys for either of you until you both settle it.”

Cue the dramatics. Emma let out a wail and plopped down on the towel, arms crossed. Hugo threw himself onto the sand and stared at the sky like life had no meaning. It was silent warfare.

Meanwhile, you were trying to make lunch with the portable cooler balanced on your lap, slicing fruit like this was a survival challenge.

Ten minutes passed. Neither child moved an inch toward the other. Just passive-aggressive silence and the occasional glance of death.

You and Ness, side by side now in the shade, were deep in a conversation about some ridiculous thing that happened at work last week. It almost felt like a date—if your date had a background track of grumpy children sighing every thirty seconds.

“Emma, do you want some fruit salad?” you asked, offering the chilled container as you knelt by her.

“No,” she muttered, not sparing you a glance as she angrily dug her heel into the sand, creating a sad, stubborn little crater.

“Alright… Hugo?” you turned, spotting your son sitting with his arms crossed and his lower lip sticking out like he was chewing on it.

“Hugooo.”

“What,” he replied without moving.

“Want some fruit salad?”

“No!”

You huffed, louder this time, and stuffed the container back into one of the beach bags. “Fine.”

You dusted off your hands and stood, grabbing Ness’s wrist like a lifeline. “Let’s have a walk.”

“No.”

“No,” the kids echoed in perfect unison, like gremlins.

“Why not?” you frowned, dramatically placing a hand on your hip like this was the final straw.

“We’ll get ice cream,” Ness added smoothly, already reaching for his wallet.

That did it. Their heads snapped toward him like meerkats. They stood up silently and followed like obedient ducklings.

You blinked. “They listened to you.”

Ness smirked. “They know who funds dessert.”

Now the four of you sat at a beach café. Music played softly from overhead speakers, the scent of sunscreen mixed with espresso and sea salt. People laughed, seagulls screeched, and the beach stretched in golden heat just beyond the railing. It finally felt like an actual vacation.

Hugo was at your side, quietly eating his ice cream with the most aggressive scooping motions imaginable. Emma sat across from you, next to Ness, and made sure not to look at her brother even once. She licked her cone with the delicacy of a cat pretending not to be mad.

Ness leaned forward on his elbows, looking between them. “Are you two gonna be like this for the rest of the day?”

No answer. Not even a twitch.

They both stared at their ice creams like they’d just been given divorce papers.

“I want a sister,” Emma muttered suddenly, licking a stubborn drip of strawberry ice cream off her thumb.

Ness blinked. “What?”

“I want a sister. I don’t like Hugo.”

You nearly snorted your iced coffee through your nose. Ness chuckled quietly beside you.

“Charming,” you said, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I want a brother,” Hugo added from your side, not missing a beat. He didn’t even look up, just scooped another oversized bite of his vanilla-mint like it was a declaration of war.

You burst into soft laughter. Ness leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out with a smile.

“I think you two are more than enough for each other,” he said. “Trust me. No one else could handle you.”

There was a moment of silence, the café chatter humming around you like a warm breeze. Then:

“Mom should’ve been more cautious when birthing Emma,” Hugo mumbled, quiet and deadly serious.

You froze, straw halfway to your lips.

Ness turned to your son slowly. “What?”

“Where did you even hear that?” you asked, trying not to choke on a laugh. “Hugo, you’re seven.”

He gave no reply. Just kept eating his ice cream with that unreadable older-brother expression like he was pondering the mysteries of life… or Emma’s existence.

Emma, not to be outdone, calmly lifted her middle finger and pointed it right at him across the table. No emotion. No hesitation. Just a slow, theatrical gesture of tiny-sibling fury.

He looked at you, eyes amused “Next time, we’re bringing noise-canceling headphones. And duct tape.”

You leanedforward, laughter still lingering in your chest. “And birth control.”

Emma looked up innocently. “What’s that?”

“Your bedtime,” you both said at the same time.

Back on the beach, the sun was gentler now, casting a warm golden hue across the shore as the afternoon slowly leaned toward evening. Ness handed Hugo and Emma each a colorful bucket and a bright orange net, the kind used to catch unlucky butterflies.

you felt strong arms circle your waist. Ness rested his chin on your shoulder, humming softly as he watched the kids with you.

“Why did you bring the net, Emma?” he called.

She turned back toward you both, proudly holding it high like a sword. “I’m going to catch a fish!”

You stifled a laugh at her seriousness.

“You can’t even swim, idiot,” Hugo muttered behind her, squinting at the waves like he was judging their strategy.

“Shut up,” Emma snapped, but it was already too late.

Hugo shoved her with the casual cruelty of an older sibling. She toppled forward with a surprised shriek, landing face-first into the shallows, just deep enough to earn a mouthful of gritty seawater and damp humiliation.

You gasped, hand flying to your chest.

“Oh my god-” you started, but Ness didn’t move.

“She’s fine,” he said with zero concern, still holding you calmly. “Call it a life lesson.”

Emma stood up sputtering, hair soaked and tangled over her face like seaweed, sand stuck to her cheeks, eyes wild with betrayal.

“I’M TELLING MOM!”

“She is watching,” Hugo said smugly.

Emma flung her net at him like a weapon, and missed.

“Okay,” you sighed, patting Ness’s arm. “Time to play referee again.”

“You got this,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “I believe in you.”

You groaned. “Coward.”

He just grinned and tightened his arms around you, watching as chaos unfolded before you both like a perfectly scripted sibling disaster movie.

Emma had long abandoned her dreams of catching a fish.

The net now lay forgotten on the sand, tangled in seaweed like a monument to her failed hunt. Instead, she happily floated near Ness in a bright pink boat-shaped floater. she sat comfortably like a tiny captain.

“Wheee!” she squealed, kicking her legs in the water as Ness gently spun her in slow circles.

You lounged nearby in the shallows, half-submerged, arms lazily drifting at your sides as you watched them. Ness gave her a small push with both hands.

“Let’s send you to sea,” he joked.

“NO! Dad, take me back!” she shrieked, already paddling awkwardly with her hands to get closer again.

You laughed. “You made her sound like a siren.”

“I just wanted a moment of peace,” he teased, rolling his eyes fondly as he brought her back.

She grinned, dripping water and joy. “Again!”

He pushed her off again, slower this time, and she squealed dramatically like she was being cast off a pirate ship. “I’m abandoned! I’m alooooone!”

“She’s got your flair for drama,” you murmured to Ness, watching him chuckle.

But the peace didn’t last.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Hugo inching closer in the water, suspiciously quiet, and suspiciously smirking.

“Hugo,” you warned too late.

He grabbed the side of Emma’s floater and yanked hard and it flipped.

With a splash and a squeal, Emma toppled into the sea, limbs flailing like a startled octopus. Her float bobbed upside down, abandoned. She popped back up with her hair plastered to her face and sea foam in her lashes, gasping for air.

“HUGOOOO!” she roared.

Ness immediately pulled her toward him, checking her quickly. “You okay?”

Emma coughed and clung to him like a drenched koala. “He tried to murder me!”

“She’s fine,” Ness said over his shoulder to you.

“She inhaled half the ocean.”

“She’s dramatic.”

You came closer, pushing Emma’s float upright. “Hugo, get over here.”

“I was just helping her get more used to the water!” he said, shrugging like a lifeguard-in-training.

“Your sister’s going to file a lawsuit.”

“She’s got no��evidence.”

Emma stuck her tongue out at him as Ness carried her back to the shallow waters. “You’re not getting my ice cream later!”

Hugo scoffed. “I’ll get dad to buy me two.”

You sighed, looking at Ness as he carried Emma back. “They’re exhausting.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning as Emma wrapped her arms around his neck. “But they’re ours.”

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