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vetteltea · 5 months

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Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back.

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously.

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll.

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters.

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around.

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic.

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing.

He simply cannot stand for that.

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement.

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features.

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks.

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles.

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about.

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp.

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that.

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket.

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health.

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly.

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital.

Love is a scream for your name.

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome.

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in.

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital.

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving.

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes.

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife.

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.”

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married.

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside.

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes.

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now.

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight.

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further.

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about.

Love is notes left on a coffee cup.

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up.

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men.

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake.

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.”

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him.

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care.

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital.

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe.

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman.

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.”

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.”

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust.

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come-

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that.

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial.

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him.

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible.

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him.

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too.

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more.

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose.

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch.

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks.

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is.

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall.

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up.

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise.

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid.

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy.

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you.

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item.

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding.

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you.

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of.

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed.

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric.

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again.

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet.

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours.

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days.

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature.

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present.

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly.

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough.

“Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife. At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence.

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress.

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another.

“And Mrs. Leclerc?”

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you.

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything.

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again.

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.”

He needed to speak to you.

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend.

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard.

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault.

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore.

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor.

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.”

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds.

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint.

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you.

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much.

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared.

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too.

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps.

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues.

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.”

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer.

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now.

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?”

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting.

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes.

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover@barnestatic@omgsuperstarg@chimchimjiminie16@caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog@junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt@crowdthena@screemqueen@lewislvr@styles-sunflower@itspaddockprincess@adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins@formulanando@lorarri@christianpulisic10@gaypoetsblog@thisbitxhs-blog@goldsainz@ru-kru@magical-spit@hrlzy@nooshytushie@gaslysainz@marvel-at-stucky@sugarvibez@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

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featherandferns · 2 months

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orange juice (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | inspired by noah kahn's incredible music

content warning: mentions of drinking and drug use; mentions of abuse; mentions of bodily harm (vague, non-graphic); sexual content | feel free to message me with questions of detail if any of this concerns you before reading!

word count: 7.5k

blurb: in the most unlikely of settings, you and JJ reunite after five years apart in radio silence.

“You know, on my way here, I saw a dead rat.”

A cloud of cigarette smoke dispels into the air.

“It was funny, you know? Cause I felt bad that it was dead, even though it was a rat. I mean, I knew nobody was going to miss it, and that it didn’t have any rat family or friends which would mourn it or anything. But still…It looked like it had been hit by a car, and it was only small so it didn’t look very old, and it seemed so harmless lying there. It probably had a million and one diseases, but just laying there, it seemed harmless. And it felt weird to be sad about this thing dying which would have only maybe caused more damage if it had stayed alive – nibbling through electrical wires and all that.”

JJ takes another drag of his cigarette as he digests the anecdote.

“Anyway. This just made me think of that,” you quietly finish before sinking back into the silence.

“Did you just compare my dad’s funeral to a dead rat?”

You clear your throat. JJ watches in his peripheral as you look down at your feet and fidget your fingers.

“Shit, I guess I did.”

His eyes cut ahead the moment yours seem to flick up.

“Can’t believe that’s the first thing I’ve said to you in years.”

JJ inhales and exhales the nicotine of his cigarette. “Well, I can.”

That makes you laugh. Small and sheltered.

“I weren’t sure that you were going to come,” JJ tells you.

“Could say the same thing to you,” you reply.

Sighing, he drops the cigarette and crushes it under the heel of his boot. He probably should have worn smarter shoes. But then, why would he? Waste of money and space in his truck. Not like his dad was going to see them anyway.

“I only decided yesterday. Practically drove all night.” As if reminding himself of the sleep deprivation, JJ lets out a yawn.

“How is it, being back in Kildare?” you wonder.

JJ shrugs. “Weird. But also not weird at all. I guess I just feel old. I was driving through town and everything looks different.”

“I mean, it has been five years.”

“Jesus,” JJ chuckles, shaking his head. Had it really been that long?

He shoves his hands in his pant pockets and finally finds the nerve to take you in. His eyes scan over you like one might survey potential damage to a car after a close call. He never lets them go below your waist though. As if losing nerve, he flicks them back up to your head and meets your eyes.

“You look well.”

“Thanks. Right back at ya,” you smile.

With that smile – sweet and simple – JJ finds himself being hurled back through time to his teen years. The reminiscing of his youth and the memories that your presence stirs up feels like reflecting on a past life. Something that he almost had, and something that he didn’t exactly lose, but something that changed.

Everything had changed, really. The streets that he used to drive down with his friends, running away from security and darting to and from keggers and house parties, they all had new homes, new paint, new families. Old mom-and-pop shops were now trendy smoothie spots and hippie bars. Empty plots of land that were a good spot to share a joint had now been bought and developed into stylish holiday rentals. None of JJ’s family was left here, not even his cousin. None of his friends were here anymore either. Well, except for you. Is that what you were to him? A friend?

“It was a nice service,” you say.

“Was it?”

For someone like Luke Maybank, ‘nice’ is probably a generous term for a funeral service that’s void of cheery anecdotes and tender memories. It’s a shame that all the memories JJ held in high regard of his father – of the moments that they were bonded and close – often came with the overarching theme of alcohol or drugs. He wasn’t sure there was ever a genuine moment shared between the two. Whatever praise and pride he gathered from his dad was short lived and sparse. When his dad left the island on the boat he stole, JJ never heard from him again. And now he never would.

“Did they ask if you wanted to say anything?”

“What’s there to say? He was a guy and he died in a bender. Short and simple, I guess.”

You nod and go silent once more.

JJ knows that his answer evaded the politeness markers of small talk, but it was true. Luke Maybank was a human who lived on this earth with no mark to be left apart from those which he laid on his own child. The only way that he’d be remembered was in the nightmares that still sometimes have JJ waking up in cold sweats and reaching for the box of cigarettes by his bed.

“I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come,” you say.

“No, it’s not…” JJ shakes his head and offers you a smile, but he knows it looks unnatural. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling right now. Perhaps everything, if that’s even possible. “I’m glad you came. I’m just tired and…well, you know.”

The funeral of my father.

“Right. Of course.”

He watches you tuck your hair behind your ears and glance towards the graves. He remembers how you used to do that when you were both younger. It was funny to him: you’d go through the fuss of trying your hair back in one way or another, but you’d always leave out a couple of strands. “To frame my face” you’d tell him, and then you’d precede to spend the rest of the day tucking your hair behind your ears. He liked it though. When you’d be concentrating on something, like surfing or fixing something up or writing, you’d lean forward and they’d come lose and hang over your pretty features. He’d want to mess with them; tuck them behind your ears for you. Sometimes he did. He remembers when you’d be on top of him, kissing him senseless, and they’d come lose and tickle his face. Somehow it would make the whole thing more sensual, with his laughs and your giggles.

He feels his face flush as the memories of nights like those creep back into his head. He shouldn’t think of you like that, not after all this time. Not with how things turned out. And especially not at his father’s funeral.

JJ had come over to you once his father was safely tucked away in the ground, six feet under. You’d attended the service at the church, hiding near the back, and then the burial, and as everybody else departed to give JJ ‘a moment’ (whatever the hell that meant), he’d turned to find you stood near a bench, lost in thought.

“It was nice of you to come,” JJ thanks.

“I’m surprised none of the others are here.”

“They don’t know. I sort of kept it close to the chest,” JJ admits. “I’m actually impressed by the turnout.”

You go to laugh and JJ sees you stifle it. It helps him ease up, smile a real smile for a second, as wicked as that sounds.

“People have layers, I guess.”

“Not my dad.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

You meet his gaze again. Your eyes make it clear that you haven’t shed a tear and neither had JJ. He wasn’t sure if maybe that would come later, once the so-called shock had worn off. He doubted it though. And yet, there was a haze of sadness about him. Death is weird as a whole. The death of a parent like JJ’s, even weirder. Maybe it wasn’t just the funeral causing the sadness. Maybe it was you.

JJ makes a move to leave but before he can even shift his foot one whole step, you’re talking.

“Do you wanna come back to mine? We could catch up. I’m sure you’ve been doing all sorts since I last saw you. Maybe have a drink or two, for old times’ sake?”

“Oh, I don’t drink anymore.”

“Oh,” you say. A pause for thought, then, “well, I have orange juice.”

It’s a strange thing to offer in place of a bottle of beer or glass of wine. Most people would say a cup of coffee. But no - orange juice: that’s where your mind went. It makes JJ smile. It seems so on-par for you to offer him that.

“Okay. Sure. Orange juice sounds good.”

“Do you need a moment, before we leave?” you ask, glancing back over your shoulder to the gravesite of JJ’s deceased father.

The dirt atop of his plot is fresh and stark brown against the green grass. JJ stares a second. The groundkeeper is dusting some muck off the gravestone. The funeral director had offered him a fine granite with award winning chiselling, after recognising JJ from the articles of El Dorado and assuming some high-placed budget. JJ had opted for a simple thing though. Cheap and likely to be hard to read within half a decade. It’s what Luke deserved. Probably what he would have invested into JJ, if the roles were reversed.

“No, I don’t. We can go,” JJ says, voice vacant. He looks back to you. “I’ll drive.”

You don’t live in your childhood home anymore. The place that you’ve settled in is a small home in a sweet looking neighbourhood. In fact, it seems the only part of Kildare that feels familiar to JJ. The front garden is quaint but well kept, with trimmed grass and flower beds that clearly garner a lot of attention and care. The fence is in need of a lick of paint: the blue fading and peeling. A sticky note is attached to the door frame of the front door and it makes JJ smile. ‘Doorbell’s fucked – shout “ding dong” really loud’.

“This is a step up,” JJ says.

“Nice, right? My neighbour is a dick though. Always complaining that I leave my driveway light on in the middle of the night. As if I can even afford to that.”

JJ chuckles as he follows you inside. There’s an instant warm smell that hits him. JJ can’t seem to describe it in any other way than that it smells like you. The interior is safe and homely. The wallpaper and wooden floors pair nicely with the throw pillows and crystals and plants and flowers. Fairy lights are strung from end to end. A kitchen, open plan, feeds nicely into a sitting room. A dining table is tucked in the corner which seemingly functions more as a desk: books piled atop with sheets of paper strewn out. There’s a small corridor to the right and the walls are lined with framed pictures which JJ can’t make out from where he’s stood. He assumes it must lead to a bathroom and bedroom. It isn’t unlived in though. There’s a small pile of clothes which need ironing; they’re sat in a basket, next to the TV. Near the backdoor is an arts and crafts project of some kind strewn about on the floor in organised chaos, blocking the exit.

It's still early in the afternoon so you don’t bother flicking on a light, instead opting to soak in the last few hours of daylight before dusk. Kie used to compare you to a cat, basking in the sun and chasing the rays until there was none left to follow.

JJ closes the door behind him and leans against it.

“You can take your shoes off, if you want.”

“Alright,” he mumbles. He toes them off and kicks them to the side, amongst a pile of your own. He notices how there’s nobody else’s shoes there: just yours, and now his.

You pour out two glasses of orange juice and turn around, handing one to him. He takes it, lost in thought. It all feels surreal, stood here with you, after a five-year pause. When you go to the sofa to sit, he assumes he should follow. You sit on opposite ends. A part of him wonders why you haven’t stretched out your legs and dumped your feet in his lap. ‘These stink’, JJ jokes, poking your toes. You wiggle his fingers off. ‘Shut up, no they don’t.’ Force of habit: he always seems to get stuck on that past. Instead, you go to pull one of your legs up onto the sofa, and JJ flicks his eyes around the room another time. He sips his juice.

“So…” You start. “Any news?”

“Well, my dad died, so there’s that.”

You kick out your leg, aiming for his thigh. “Come on now. Be serious.”

“I am; you were at the funeral. Thought you might remember that,” JJ jokes.

Rolling your eyes mirthfully, you have a sip of your juice. The sun paints shapes on the coffee table, weaving through the thin curtains that line your window. It makes your skin glow, healthy and happy. He’s torn between staring at your face and remembering every detail of your features and avoiding you completely.

“When did you move in here? It’s nice.”

“About two years ago. Mom and dad are still at the old place. They’ve rented out my room though, for tourists and stuff.”

“That’s nice of them,” JJ snorts. “How’s your brother? Is he doing good?”

“He is. He’s at college actually. Graduates later this year.”

“The fuck? That’s so trippy,” JJ mumbles, almost to himself.

JJ can remember your brother as nothing more than a preteen, sulking around the house and begging for rides to soccer practice. Now he’s nearly got a whole ass degree. His eyes naturally fixate on the dining-table-come-desk in the corner.

“What do you do for work then?”

“I’m a teacher at Kildare high.”

Of course you are. JJ smiles, eyes still fixated on the table. It seems to prompt you to continue.

“It’s kinda weird sometimes cause some of the old farts still work there,” you say.

“Oh shit. Mr Rumble still there?” JJ asks, perking up a little, meeting your gaze.

You laugh. “Mr Rummel does still work there, yeah. Still likes to bring you up to me, actually.”

“Really? In what way?”

“Just likes to add the odd little ‘you remember when your boyfriend used to steal my stapler’ kinda things.”

JJ’s laugh is different this time. The word ‘boyfriend’ coming out of your mouth has his thoughts short circuiting. You glance down at your juice and swirl it around the cup.

“Anyway, it’s a pretty good gig. I like teaching, and I actually think I’m making a difference to some of these kids lives sometimes, which is sort of strange.”

“I bet you are. You were always good at helping people,” JJ tells you. Your smile turns soft.

“Thanks, JayJ.”

The nickname is like another sucker punch to the chest. JJ takes it like a champ. Washes it down with water; pretends there’s vodka in there somewhere.

“How are the others, then?” you ask. “How are they?”

“Good. Happy. John B and Sarah are expecting a kid soon.”

“Fuck off.”

“No joke,” JJ laughs. He leans back into the sofa, reclining in the soft throw pillows. It’s strange how easily relaxed he is in this new setting. “They’re debating between two names. Esmeralda or Eton.”

“No. Please God, tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish,” JJ snorts. “Not that I got much of a leg to stand on.”

“What do you mean?” you frown. You lean over and place your juice down on the coffee table.

“JJ? Kinda dumb name.” JJ has a sip of his own before mirroring your actions.

“Hardly. ‘John James’ is pretty proper sounding to me.”

“Meh.” JJ shrugs and props an arm up on the back of the sofa.

“What about Kie, and Pope?”

“Kie is on her environmentalist shit. Investing in rebuilding the coral and things. Pope is studying like crazy. Got a good job lined up too.”

“Only Pope would get a degree when he has literal gold in his savings,” you chuckle. “Didn’t you buy a shop too, or something?”

“A little surf shop with John B, yeah,” JJ nods, smiling proud. The surf shop is something that he would always take pride in. What felt like a pipedream was now his nine-to-five. “It’s doing real good, actually. We’re thinking about expanding.”

“Well, that’s good,” you say, nodding. The two of you lock eyes. Your smile holds steady. “I’m happy for you, JJ. Really.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m glad you’re doing good, too.”

And now the polite small talk is over and the catch-up is done. It’s so bizarre seeing someone again after so long. So many things in life have passed – relationships, jobs, fights, conversations, achievements, ailments – but when you finally come to sum it up, it only takes ten minutes. Going through a heartbreak lasts for months, but then a year later and the relationship is summed up in a sentence or two. Time doesn’t only heal, but it also shrinks. It seems to have shrunk whatever used to exist between yourself and JJ too, as you both sit, searching for things to talk about which avoid the dark and ugly. Things which avoid the obvious.

“Do you think you’ll stick around in Kildare for a bit?”

“I don’t know. I ain't really thought about it,” JJ admits. “I weren't even sure if I was gonna go to the funeral.”

“Where are you staying tonight?” you wonder.

He laughs to himself and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. Probably just crash in my truck.”

“You’re loaded as fuck and you’re gonna crash in your truck?” you laugh. It isn’t mean when you say it. Just amused.

“I don’t know. You don’t really get used to having money when you grew up without it. I still feel guilty buying a new pair of boots or something when my old ones ain't coming apart at the soles and shit.”

You nod. “That makes sense. Eminem had a similar thing.”

“Yeah, I’ve always thought me and Eminem were similar,” JJ deadpans.

It seems to strike well with you because you’re cracking up, laughing like he’s just told the best joke you’ve ever heard. He smiles. He always liked making you laugh. You have a horrendous laugh: truly awful. Cats in a bag being bashed against the wall-howling dog parade level of terrible. JJ loved it though. He used to tickle you just to hear it. Watching you now, head titled back, eyes shut and mouth agape, guffawing like a damn hyena…He feels like throwing up.

“Sorry, that…That was good,” you chuckle, wiping your eyes and catching your breath. “You were always good at making me laugh.”

“Fuck knows why,” JJ chuckles.

“Cause you’re funny,” you reply, as if its obvious. “You were always funny.”

It’s strange how the tone of the conversation rises and falls like a mountain range the longer the two of you sit on the sofa.

Your smile turns sombre, like when someone reminisces over a funny memory of their dead pet. Nice at first, amused, and then dampened with the reminder that those times have passed.

“It’s weird, to be honest. You’re so different now but you’re also still JJ.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. You glance around the room for a moment, as if you’d find the answer hidden in code on the spine of the books stacked on the windowsill. You look at him again. “Your face looks different.”

“It does?” JJ asks. He lifts a hand and strokes his jaw. He could do with a shave, he supposes. The vanity tries to bite through to ask how, but before he can, you’re talking again.

“You don’t drink,” you add, nodding to the orange juice still sat on the coffee table. “You’re quieter. Less…”

You seem to lose the words and so you gesture with your hands. Explosion.

“Calmer. Sadder, but not sad.”

“I can’t tell if these are good things or not,” JJ says, half-joking.

“You look at me different too.”

That makes him pause. He meets your eyes and holds your gaze, steady. The whole room shifts in a moment, from carefree catch-up to tense confrontation.

“Different?”

“Yeah. You look at me different.”

��I don’t know what you mean,” JJ mutters, going to reach for his drink.

“Yes, you do, JJ.”

Your smile is gone now. He can tell, catching it from his peripheral. Suddenly he doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be in Kildare, doesn’t want to be in this house, in this room.

“You could at least acknowledge it, you know?”

“I don’t understand—”

“It’s actually more rude to not acknowledge it,” you snip.

“I’m not being rude, I’m just making conversation. You’re the one who’s got me on blast like you’re some God damn therapist,” JJ hits back, meeting your steely stare.

“You feel like you’re on blast?”

“I feel like I’m being observed, that’s for fucking sure.”

“Maybe you are. Maybe you are being observed, JJ,” you return, voice harsh and cutting like how a blade slices through paper. “Because it’s fucking weird having you back.”

“You’re the one that invited me here.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” you say.

JJ takes a breath and closes his eyes. The anger never went away, despite what you’ve just told him, he just got older. Got better at hiding it. Got enough money to try therapy. He takes another moment to breathe through it. Push it down his throat and back into his stomach and let it burn out in the acid.

“I’m sorry,” you quietly say. The venom is gone. “I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

He isn’t sure why – can’t pinpoint a perfect reason behind it – but behind his eyelids, JJ feels tears swell. Feels his lips twitch like a child when they hit their funny bone. His next breath in is shaky.

“JJ?”

“Just…”

His voice cracks and he clears it, shaking his head. He wants to open his eyes but he’s scared he’ll start crying, and he’s not doing that, not right now, not today. It’s not even you. You’d seen him cry before. Held him through it and patched him up; made him smile after the sadness. But he refuses to cry today because he can’t give his dad that satisfaction, even if it’s not about him. Opening his eyes, no tears escape. He reaches for the juice and downs it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” he snaps. Then, softer, “please.”

You nod. There’s a quiet. Then, you move to stand and he closes his eyes again because it’s a struggle for you to stand. It’s a struggle. He rubs a hand over his mouth as if trying to shove the welling emotions back inside. There’s the sound of running water in the background as JJ tries to gather himself. The crack-crack-crack of a gas stove turning on and then the clink of metal on metal. You’ve put the kettle on, boiling water. There’s the tinker of porcelain mugs being taken off a stand. He seems to zone in on the peaceful sounds of you making coffee.

When you pour water into the mugs, he remembers the sound of your voice years back. ‘Did you know humans have the ability to hear the difference between hot and cold water being poured?’ ‘Why the fuck do you know that?’ ‘I don’t know. Just thought it was interesting.’

As the teaspoon repeatedly brushes against the inside of the cup as you stir in the instant coffee and milk, JJ finally feels all the emotions even out. As your footsteps make their way back over to him, you flick on the lamp by the front door. JJ opens his eyes to see you place a steaming cup of Joe in front of him on the coffee table. The mug is cute. It’s peach pink and says “I’m drinking tea instead of committing crimes” on the front in an innocent type-writer print.

“Cute mug.”

“Thanks. Thought of you.”

He silently laughs. You sit closer to him this time and your mug sits next to his. There’s no funny quote written across the paint. Then your hand is on his back, barely rubbing him, and it hits JJ that this is the first time you’ve touched him in five years.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so angry,” you tell him. “It ain’t my place to say any of that. Especially not today.”

“It’s true, though. That’s the kicker, ain’t it? That it’s true,” JJ replies.

He sighs and leans back, sitting upright once more. Your hand falls away and you clasp it in the other in your lap. He glances down and takes in your side profile. That stupid piece of hair has come lose again, fallen in your face. He distracts his twitching fingers by twisting one of his rings.

“I’m okay, you know,” you tell him. You look up and meet his eyes. Yours are damp with emotion, just like his were moments earlier. “I’m really okay.”

“You almost weren’t though.”

“Is that the problem? That I almost wasn’t?”

“It’s not the problem. You were never a problem.”

“I ain't mean it like that,” you tell him. You shake your head and JJ isn’t entirely sure why. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Am I the reason that you left Kildare?”

A bird calls outside and JJ seems to latch onto it like a lifeline. That question makes him feel stranded and scared. He wasn’t ready for it despite being fully prepared.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I…It ain't that simple.”

“Can you explain it to me, maybe?” you wonder. There’s no wrath to your tone anymore – no vendetta against him. There’s just curiosity and care, and this wonderful tenderness that JJ always associated with you from day one, when you offered him your cap to keep his hair off his face.

“I didn’t like the person I was in Kildare.”

“Okay,” you quietly say.

“I didn’t like how I acted. I didn’t like how reckless I was, and how I didn’t care who got hurt in the process.”

“Like me?”

JJ swallows. He doesn’t tear his eyes from yours though. “Yeah. Like you.”

“Okay,” you repeat, quieter still, nodding.

“After El Dorado, coming back here, everything felt tainted. I just…I needed to escape it. My dad and my past and…And you. I couldn’t face it. I felt like I’d caused some freak accident and had gotten away, and then I'd come back to face the aftermath and I just couldn’t stomach it. I just ran.”

You nod.

“I just ran,” he hears himself repeat. “And I’m not proud of it. Of any of it.”

“Okay.”

“And I wanted to fix things, but I didn’t know how. Every time I thought of coming back to Kildare, or picking up the phone, or going on Instagram and finding you…I just got so fucking scared, like a stupid shithead kid. I was so scared of becoming the guy I was again.”

And, again, you nod. When he doesn’t continue, you fill the space. “How long have you been sober?”

“The minute I left Kildare.”

“Fuck.”

“Cold turkey. It sucked ass. It still does. You don’t miss it any less. I miss the rage too, sometimes. I miss my dad sometimes, too. Miss him beating on me. How fucked up is that? That I miss him beating on me?”

You don’t seem to know what to say to that. You just look down at the coffee mugs and watch how the steam is slowly but surely going away.

“I am sorry. I know that ain't worth anything, but I am sorry.”

“It is worth something.” You clear your throat, voice coming out stronger when you say, “It’s worth everything.”

Your smile comes back, timid and tiny. You meet eyes for the millionth time that night.

“It feels like I’ve been ready for you to come back, for so long, and now you’re actually here and…I don’t even know where to start.” He watches your tongue dart out and wet your lips. “I wasn’t expecting you to look so good.”

“Disappointed?”

“Massively. I would have got my ass in the gym more if I knew it was a Goddamn competition.”

JJ smiles. “You were always a sore loser.”

“Says you,” you snort.

There’s another peak in the conversation after the long slug of the last dip. It’s so bizarre. So wonderfully bizarre.

“I’m proud of you, for getting sober. Do you feel better for it?”

“Depends.”

“Well, you look better for it,” you say.

“You’re drooling, I think,” JJ teases, reaching a finger out to prod your cheek.

Rolling your eyes, you mirthfully bat his hand away. “You’re hallucinating.”

“Well, withdrawal does crazy things,” he quips back.

You chuckle and shake your head. “I missed you like crazy.”

“I miss you too.”

Your lips part a little with that. Miss. You seem to hesitate to hold his gaze then, like it’s too intense. JJ feels as though he can see every emotion flash across your face in a second, like watching a car crash in slow motion. Surprise, shock, joy, anger, then sadness. It’s that sadness that hammers hard when you speak, voice weak.

“You left without saying anything, JJ. For five years. You just left me.”

“Don’t make it sound like that. Like I abandoned you.”

“But you did,” you whisper. The tears are back. You’ve both fallen from the top of the mountain. “You abandoned me.”

“You don’t get it,” JJ replies, voice suddenly thick.

“I was in it with you.”

“You didn’t see it,” JJ forces out. His tears are falling: they didn’t wait this time. “You didn’t see how it looked – how you looked. You looked so fucking fragile and tiny and small and your leg was so bent and twisted and black – it was black – and I thought you were already dead.”

Your breathing is shaky and broken. The two of you sit on your sofa in the sunset, eyes locked, tears streaming, chests heaving like you’ve run a marathon. The word ‘dead’ hangs in the air and haunts the room.

“I thought you were dead, and I thought it was because of me.”

“Do you hate me for it?”

“Why the fuck would I—”

“Because I didn’t die? Do you hate me for it?”

JJ blinks back his bewilderment. He physically shifts back in his seat, as if you just spat in his face. Horrified, he tells you, “Of course I don’t. Why would you even ask me that?”

“Because I’m still here, JJ. But you acted like I wasn’t for five years. You didn’t even come see me in the hospital. Didn’t sit with me in the ambulance. Hell, you can’t even look at my leg now! You think I didn’t notice? At the graveyard, and now. You think I can’t see it on your face?”

JJ whispers your name in a tearful plea. Stop.

“I’m still here, JJ. And I invited you back here, and I went to the funeral, because I wanted to see you.”

“To show me what I did?” JJ asks, harsher than needed.

You hold his gaze. “To show you I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, insistent. “It was my fault. If I hadn’t been drinking and if I’d been thinking straight, I would have never let you jump off the bike like that. It was fucking reckless and stupid and I would never, ever do it again. It was all my fault.”

“I don’t care who’s fault it was, JJ,” you whisper. Your hand reaches out and traces his cheek and jaw, and he can’t help but lean into your warm touch. There you sit, cradling his face as if he was the victim in this whole thing. It calms him almost immediately. “Nobody forced me on that bike. Nobody forced me to jump, not even you.”

“I shouldn’t have let you.”

“JJ,” you sigh.

He closes his eyes as you shift in your spot, and somehow you end up with your forehead pressed against his. He reaches out one of his hands for the other of yours that rests in your lap and he clenches it, tight. You’re both still crying but they’re silent tears now.

“I forgive you, JJ.”

He shakes his head whilst you nod.

“Yes, I do, I forgive you. I always have. You know why?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

“Because you were dealt the shitest hand I’ve ever known and look who you are. You’re sober, and you're healthy, and you have loving friends and a steady income and a job which you love, and a boathouse, and so much of your life left. And you didn’t kill anyone. You didn’t kill me, JJ. You didn’t even lose me.”

“I don’t—”

“We’re more than our mistakes.”

When JJ opens his eyes, you pull back enough to let him meet your gaze. As if you know what he’s about to ask, you smile. That smile…JJ feels like he’s coming home.

“You’re more than your mistakes, JJ.”

The moment his lips slot against yours, tentative and hesitant, like a bird exploring new ground for the first time, he’s home. There’s hardly a moment of reluctance, of confusion and mismatch from the time passed, before you’re kissing him back. The softness of your lips against his and the brush of your tongue. The sigh in your voice and the tilt of your head. It’s so seamless and sweet and safe. JJ feels safe here, with you. He feels like all the shit doesn’t matter. He feels like sober might actually be synonymous with happiness, with you. When he lies you down on the sofa, JJ doesn’t want to leave this room, this house, or Kildare. He wants to stay here, worshipping you, breathing you in until you consume all of his senses, because after five years, nothing has made him feel as alive as this. As you.

Everything is a wonderful illusion of being rushed and well-paced all at once. He revels in the way your skin gives gently beneath the scrape of his teeth. When he sucks at your throat, the skin is so delicate, and this close to you JJ can smell nothing but your perfume. He wants to fucking drown in it.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he pants. You’re gasping too. Fingers sliding through his hair, down his sides, along his face.

“I missed you,” you whine.

And that phrase gets repeated over and over like a mantra or a prayer. He hears himself whispering it against your skin with every button he undoes on your blouse. Basks in the sound of your voice, older and mature but still you, as you say it whilst pushing his dress shirt off his shoulder.

There’s a stalling pause when his fingers finish tracing down your stomach to your pants. You seem to notice it. Your hand comes to his face and thumbs at his cheek. They’re still sticky from dried tears.

“JJ,” you whisper, coaxing his attention back to your face. You’re glowing. You’re happy, you’re healthy, and you’re here. “It’s okay.” Nodding, you repeat. “It’s okay.”

Then, he watches your own fingers land on the button of your pants, slowly undoing it. Then the other and the third until they’re lose. He watches you wriggle out of them, pulling them down, struggling somewhat from the tight position on the sofa. Watches the scars emerge, faint but clear, and how they grow and spread like ivy on the side of a house. They merge with the cellulite and stretch marks. With a random bruise you must’ve gotten from hitting your leg on the table the other day. They’re a part of you – plain and simple. At the knee, there’s the connection for your prosthetic right leg. Once your trousers are off, JJ finds himself reaching out to touch it. This thing that he was partly responsible for, this marvel of medicine, the reason you can walk. He loves it and hates it desperately all at once. Glancing back up to your face, you’re watching him just as carefully as he was watching you. But you’re smiling.

“You’re okay,” JJ finds himself saying quietly. Because you are. You’re here, laying almost bare before him, just like you had years before.

“It’s rude to make a girl wait, JJ,” you tease.

With that, JJ’s smile is blossoming back like the returning of spring flowers following a brutal winter. He leans forward and catches himself above you with his arms, kissing you like you’re all the oxygen in the world. Your left leg rubs at his calf, still covered by his trousers, and you giggle against his mouth.

“Fuck, I missed this,” you say. “I missed you.”

“How much?”

“So much,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What’d you miss?” JJ persists, kissing down your neck.

“Your mouth,” you say through a moan. His hands slip behind your back and unclasp your bra. You arch your back enough for him to tug it off.

“My mouth?” he wonders, breathing it against your skin. You’re practically writhing. JJ laughs. “What about my mouth?”

“Don’t be a jackass, JJ,” you mutter.

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes,” you quietly beg.

“You do?” he checks, kissing over your breast, sucking at your nipple. “Where do you want it?”

“You fucking know where,” you sigh, impatience shining through.

He grins at the sudden hitch of your moan as he softly nips at the sensitive skin around your nipple. Then he’s kissing down your stomach until finally his fingers hook into the sides of your panties. He slowly, tauntingly, pulls them down. You kick them off at the ankles, a clear act of frustration, and he bites back his laugh.

“What? Here?” JJ plants a kiss to your hipbone. “You want my mouth here? Or…”

Another kiss, to your pelvic bone.

“Here?”

“Fuck you, Maybank.”

“You wanna?”

“I swear to fucking God,” you huff, laughing through the annoyance.

With that, JJ settles himself between your legs and praises you like you deserve to be. The noises you make are downright evil, considering he can do nothing about it and has to hold it together. You taste so familiar on his tongue.

“Fucking missed you,” he groans against you.

When he sucks on your clit, your hands latch into his hair. Your back is arching and you’re gasping and panting and desperate, and JJ feels like a young God. Pulling back, he slips a finger into your hole and it welcomes him so easily. He cusses at how wet you are.

“Come on baby. Come on, I know you’re close.”

The tells of your body haven’t changed since the last time you two were in this position. The way your mouth hangs open in a silent moan when you fall over the edge is so surreal to see after five years apart. He feels you spasms around him and basks in the scratch of your nails against his scalp as you try to ground yourself. He hardly has time to suck his fingers clean before your pulling his mouth to yours and kissing him stupid.

“Fucking missed you,” you repeat against his mouth, making him laugh. “Nobody fucks me as good as you.”

“Jesus Christ, you can’t say shit like that,” JJ chuckles. “Won’t last.”

“Don’t care,” you say. “Only thing bigger than your ego is your dick.”

JJ can’t help but laugh at that. He loves your giggles in response. And then your hands are shoving at his trousers and the humour is gone, replaced with nothing but raw lust and desperation. There’s nothing performative about it, when the two of you hurry to strip his clothes away as soon as possible. He takes note to get his socks off. You’d always had a weird thing about it, sex in socks, and nothing was going to taint this night. Not after so long.

Being inside you…JJ missed it more than all the alcohol and weed in the world. Nothing compared to the feeling of you clenching around him. The vice of your leg hitched up and over his back as he grips into your thigh, mean and firm, perfecting the angle. The senseless, endless whines falling from your agape mouth, eyes closed tight, lost in the feeling of it. JJ wants nothing to be less than perfect for you, for this. Every stroke, every kiss, every clench of his fingers…it all has to be perfect. He knows when you’re close and he’s more than fucking relieved. It’s taking everything in him not to come. He needs you to fall over the edge first.

“Do the thing,” you whine. “Do the thing, John.”

With that, JJ remembers five years back, to late nights and later mornings spent rolling in bed with you. He bites into his lip, holding back his shit-eating grin as the memories flood back, and he leans forward to your ear. Gently taking the lobe within his teeth, he croons into the shell of your ear.

“That’s my good fucking girl.”

And finally, you fall apart, taking JJ with you like you always would.

When the high finally passes and the endorphins settle down, the two of you are laying on the sofa, only covered by a throw blanket JJ had dragged down from the back of the sofa. You’ve somehow shuffled so you’re laying mostly atop of him. His arms are locked around your damp stomach like a vice, nose nestled into your hair, just behind your ear, breathing you in with every inhale.

“Will you stay in Kildare, just for a short while? For me?”

JJ wants to laugh but he knows how wrong that would be in this moment. The humour doesn’t come from the question, but from the notion that he’d leave after finally having you back in his life, safe and happy, after five long years.

“Anything,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your hair. Anything for you.

“You look like shit by the way,” JJ says.

His hands are warm in his cargo pant pockets. Head tilted down and gaze steady, he sighs.

“Guess you didn’t have chance to clean up though, right?”

Shockingly, the gravestone says nothing back. Well, says nothing asides form Luke Maybank in barely legible font.

It still feels surreal, that his dad is gone. That they’d never remedy anything, or even attempt to fix their relationship. That JJ wouldn’t be able to face him and show him what he’d become. How he’d risen past it all and grown from the pain and the agony. That he’d taken the shitty hand that he was dealt and turned it into nothing but flushes and full houses. That he hadn’t grown into a petty criminal or a tax-evading lowlife, but a strong, good-willed, well-intentioned man. The thought, bittersweet at heart, makes him smile.

“I’m happy dad. I know you probably hate that, being dead and all, but I am.”

As if on cue, there’s the high pitch giggles from afar that catch JJ’s attention. He glances over to spot you and your wonderful mini-you, sitting on your shoulders, waving at him. He waves back, small and short, smiling.

“I’m glad you never met her,” JJ tells his dad, never tearing his eyes away from the pair of you. You ease her off your shoulders and take her hand, pointing to a small bed of daffodils. “I was so scared I’d be bad at this. I was so scared that I’d be like you.”

She’s so fragile as she picks a flower free from the bunch, holding it by the stem, up to you. You nod and presumably smile in approval.

“But I’ll never be like you. She’ll never know what it feels like to live in fear,” JJ states, firmly. He looks back down to the grave. “I’m not your mistakes, and I’m not mine.”

He lowers to a squat and wipes some of the dirt off the stone, revealing the dates. “Happy birthday, dad. You suck, and I hope you’re finally at peace.”

“Daddy, daddy…”

There’s an insistent tug at his jacket sleeve. JJ smiles and looks down at the best mistake he ever made. Mistake is a strong word. ‘Oops, I think is better’, you’d said when you first showed him the pregnancy test.

“What’s up, bub?”

“I found this flower. Can I give it to papa?”

JJ takes the daffodil and glances to the grave. A brief moment of anger passes over him like the breeze of winter. He doesn’t deserve this. He isn’t your papa. I’m glad he’s dead. But he closes his eyes and breathes. Your hand squeezing gently at his shoulder tells him you’re there. It helps ground him.

“Yeah, bub. I think that’d be nice,” he smiles, handing it back.

She giggles as she puts it on the grass just before the stone. Her laughter is brighter and louder still when JJ scoops her up as he stands, looping her around him until she’s a backpack.

“You wanna get ice cream?”

“Hell yeah,” you whoop.

“Hell yeah!” mini-you copies. JJ laughs.

“Alrighty, lets go.”

As the three of you make the small walk back to the car, you intertwine your fingers with JJ’s, holding his hand tight and secure. JJ takes one last glance back at the gravestone. It all began here, in a way, the re-introduction to a life he thought he’d lost. Perhaps the nicest thing JJ’s dad ever did, the kindest act he ever performed, was dying. Perhaps that was his way of paying him back for all the crap he gave.

“Hey.”

JJ glances down at you.

“You okay?”

He smiles. Then, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

Everything is going to be okay.

#JJ #JJ Maybank #JJ x reader #JJ Maybank x reader #jj x oc #jj maybank x oc #outer banks #outerbanks #outer banks jj #outerbanks jj #outer banks jj x reader #outerbanks jj x reader #outer banks fic #outerbanks fic

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friendrat · 6 months

Text

Geez... I was just doing some reading on the internet and got a punch in the gut.

This started because I saw a post in a womb twin survivor support group where someone had posted and was describing how they were born with a pin hole in their spine, which sounded very similar to my own diagnosis of Spina Bifida Occulta.

Anyway, certain health problems are more common in Vanishing Twin Survivors, and I thought I remembered that Spina Bifida was one of them, so I was looking it up to see if I was remembering correctly.

As I'm scrolling, one link said, "Spina Bifida a vanishing nightmare." So I clicked on it, and it was a quick thing about how numbers were going down, and they weren't sure why, but part was attributed to terminating affected pregnancies. The conclusion was that if they continued "preventative measures" i.e. termination, Spina Bifida could disappear. Of course! The solution to this health problem isn't to work on an *actual* cure or improve treatments... it's to just kill the people who have it. That will solve everything.

I'm just... I don't even know why I'm surprised. They wanted to kill me then. Of course, they would want to kill me if I was born today. I don't know why I would expect anything else... but it made me so... sad.

You know... I had an older cousin who had a much more severe case of Spina Bifida than I do. And when I say older, I mean he was like my parents' age. He was worse off than me, but he was always smiling. He was always joking with people. He volunteered his time to his local church, he stood by his principals, he helped out people in need without ever asking anything in return... and when he died, the funeral home was packed. There was a line around the building of people waiting to say their goodbyes, and it kept up the entire visitation. People were parked way down the road and had to walk to get there. My cousin was a light in people's lives.

But if he had been born right now, people would just weigh his life based on his disability and determine that he should be killed before his light could reach anyone. But sure... we can eliminate this disorder by killing the people who have it. It's disgusting that people think that way. There's no other word for it.

#pro life #prolife #spina bifida #spina bifida occulta #womb twin survivor #vts survivor #womb twin #vts #vanishing twin #sunrise twin thoughts #abortion #anti abortion #true story

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the-desilittle-bird · 1 year

Note

Hii, I would like to request something for Daemon.

At Rhaenyra wedding he sees reader(targaryen or valeryion), who was away for some time, and he falls in love with her again seeing as in the past they had a fling. He chooses her over Rhaenyra and they get married days later with Viserys approval. They reunite with the family on Driftmark for Leana's funeral, there Rhaenyra gets jealous when she sees Daemon being soft with his childrens and reader. Later she tries to sway Daemon and make him leave his family with the excuses of the Greens being against her but he gets mad and threatens her or something like that.

Thankss

Author's Note- Thanks for the request. It was very interesting writing this one. I made a few changes in the scenes to fit in. Do not fret requesting for more. Requests are always opened and we'll appreciated.

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

Dancing with Dragons

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary- Things and situations are bound to change as well as hearts...

Tag List- @minaxcarter, @eliseline, @blackhoodlea, @little-moonbeam-666, @neenieweenie, @omgsuperstarg, @avalyaaa, @shopping, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @krokietinio, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @thekayarlene, @narcy, @helloitsshitzulover, @muushwrites, @daringboba, @bi2simps, @issybee0611, @yariany02, @agathe, @5moremin, @candypurplebutterfly, @saraelizabeth26, @moon-light1415, @targaryenmoony, @stargaryenx, @instabul, @shine101

Warnings- Threats, Suggestive Content? Westrosi Things

GIF Credits to @userparamore

Daemon looked around the feast in boredom, trying to find something to keep himself intrigued throughout the night. He could feel two pair of eyes on his figure. One belonging to his beloved niece while the other belonged to Laena Velaryon.

He wished to see a certain familiar face walking through those huge doors. It had been quite too long since he had seen his cousin sister, much to his dismay.

Even though it had been more than a few summers, Daemon still remembered the secret nights spent in each other's embrace. Moans and gasps mixing into groans of pleasure. Her smooth skin layered by beads of sweat. Eyes closed in euphoria, hair messed from tugging

Daemon smirked to himself as he took a sip of the Dornish wine served in the feast. His eyes traveled to the dusky skinned lady sitting on the opposite side of the table.

He stood up, stepping down the stairs and joining the dance. He could feel the movement of the Velaryon girl, turning to find her behind himself.

A conversation ignited and Daemon could feel a few sparks; though he knew it was not of love, but of simple lust towards a woman with a pretty face and pure innocence.

"Lady (Y/N) of Houses Targaryen and Arryn"

The room stilled as the dancing pairs moved out of the way of the late Queen Consort's younger sister strided in gracefully with an authoritative aura following her like the sunflower following the sun.

Her blue gown of expensive silks wrapped around her beautiful body smoothly, accentuating her features and pushing her breasts together to create ample cleavage. The silver thread forming falcons on the skirt of her gown.

Daemon let his eyes follow their way down her attractive figure. His legs moving on their accords as they lead him to her. Their eyes met, bodies only a few inches apart.

"Glad to see you here, Lady (Y/N)," Daemon bend down to place a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her palm. "The pleasure is all mine, Prince Daemon," her voice was music to his ears, making him hum in pleasure.

"Lady (Y/N), it is our pleasure to have you with us here," Viserys stood up with a smile. It was no surprise to anyone that the king was fond of his former good sister. Right from her birth, the Arryn Lady had been close to the king and his rebellious brother.

"It is much too my delight to join you in celebrating the Realm's Delight's marriage, Your Grace," (Y/N) said softly, her eyes kind yet a thin mask of caution remained. It had been quite some times since (Y/N) visited the place.

"Hope you enjoy the feast," the king said kindly, sitting down once again. The dancing resumed but this time, it wasn't Laena dancing in Daemon's arms but his old love. Sly smirks and non-verbal conversations exchanged amid the buzzing laughter of all the noble people.

"It's been long, sister," Daemon whispered in her ear, his hand discreetly grazing the curve of her back. "Indeed, brother," she whispered against the smooth skin of his neck.

A low groan bubbled in Daemon's throat. His hands grabbed her neck, bringing her closer to him as everyone danced around them. He could see the hunger in her eyes, the parting of her lips as a small whine of his name escaped; disappearing into the loud atmosphere as a small breeze on a winter day.

"Say it," he hissed, his eyes resembling a predator's, ready to pounce. "Mazverdagon nyke aōhon," (Make me yours) (Y/N) whispered, making Daemon smirk. One of his hands moved down to tangle around her waist, bringing her closer to him.

"Skorkydoso?" (How?) Daemon asked teasingly, his tongue darted out of his mouth, wetting his lips. "Mazverdagon nyke aōha ābrazȳrys. Tepagon nyke aōha riña, Daemon," (Make me your wife. Give me your child, Daemon) she replied back, her lips way too close to his to deem appropriate.

Daemon smirked, his hands grabbed hers, making his way to his chambers. His eyes darkening with passion. His mind clouded with all the pleasures to come.

The winds were a bit too wild in Driftmark but it was no issue to the huge dragons of the Targaryens of Dragonstone. The red and bronze dragons descended down the skies followed by two more dark dragons. While one was a full grown, coal black, the other was yet not a fully-grown one.

Vermithor growled loudly, making the guards straighten up as the Targaryens of the Red Keep stayed firmly on the ground, watching as the dragon-riders stepped down from their mounts.

Daemon was the first one to step down, walking to Vermithor to help his sister-wife down. A crimson red blanket wrapped around their youngest, a daughter. (Y/N) smiled as Daemon carefully took Daenys from her, cooing at her softly.

Daemon looked up to find his eldest daughter and son walking towards them, head held high as they both smiled at their parents. Visenys looked like her father, carrying his character traits as well while Aelar had took after her mother, while adopting a few things of his father.

"Brother, sister," came the fragile and weak voice of the king. Daemon and his wife turned, a smile on their faces as they moved to greet the rest of the family, their children on their toes. "Your Grace," Daemon and his son bowed while the ladies dipped into a curtsey.

"Look at you both," Viserys chuckled, the side of his eyes crinkling. Daemon moved closer to his brother, letting him look at the little Targaryen, who was no more than three summers old. "She is beautiful," Viserys said with a smile, placing a caressing hand on the baby's head whose was sleeping peacefully in her father's arms.

"Aemma," (Y/N) said, offering her good brother a smile. Viserys felt his eyes fill with tears at the name, as he smiled at the baby. "Alicent," (Y/N) greeted the Queen, who was until now, standing quietly with her kids. The Hightower Queen smiled, "Lady (Y/N)."

The Targaryen Lady found her eyes drifting away to the heir of the throne, Princess Rhaenyra, who stood by Laenor and her kids. While (Y/N) had heard the whispered rumors about the offspring of the princess, she didn't expected it to be true; but to find them gazing at her in reality, (Y/N) now made sense of the rumors.

"Princess Rhaenyra," she said with a smile. "Lady (Y/N)," the Princess replied with gritted teeth, her eyes burning holes at her as she looked at how she had turned Daemon into a soft and dotting father; a stark opposite of the man she knew him to be.

Rhaenyra could feel herself becoming jealous of her aunt. A nagging in the back of her mind as she watched Daemon place a loving kiss on (Y/N)'s forehead as she laughed at something her father had said. Their son and daughter standing beside them with a smile.

A plan formulated in Rhaenyra's mind as she silently watched the small family interacting with the king and her half-siblings. A sly smirk finding its place on her lips as she thought of what she needed to do.

Daemon stood against a dusted table, trying to find something interesting, while Rhaenyra spoke about something he didn't care about. He discreetly looked at her and thought of possible reasons as to why he was attracted to her at the first place.

Perhaps it was his want for the throne which made him crave her, or perhaps it was his somewhat rebellious nature which matched Daemon's. Or just frustration towards his brother.

"Are you listening to what I speak of, uncle?" Rhaenyra asked, sighing as she watched Daemon look up with raised eyebrows and bored look. "The Greens are against me and my children. Alicent and Otto will do anything under the sun to harm us. We need you. I need you."

Daemon scowled, glaring at his niece as she moved to caress Daemon's cheek with her hand. "Please, Daemon. I want you," Rhaenyra whispered, her lips near his neck. "Step aside," Daemon pushed Rhaenyra back softly. "I must warn you beforehand, Rhaenyra, if you dare come near me again, or attempt to get closer to me; I will have Caraxes eat you right in front of that lover of yours."

Letting the threat hang in the air, Daemon turned and went straight towards his wife who stood conversing with Rhaenys. "My love," he kissed her cheek from behind, letting his hand wrap around her waist. "Daemon," (Y/N) smiled, leaning into him.

"I will leave you two alone," Rhaenys said, excusing herself from the couple who gazed lovingly at their kids. "Visenys looks happy here," Daemon commented. Visenys was busy doing something in sand with Aemond, giggling like a child she is.

"They look happy," (Y/N) commented, looking at Daemon who frowned at her words. "He can have her after... 60 summers? Yes," Daemon grumbled, making (Y/N).

(Y/N) leaned into Daemon's chest, smiling dreamily as she looked at her happy family.

#hotd imagine #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon au #daemon targeryan #daemon x y/n #caraxes #request

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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 8 months

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A Game Of Cat And Mouse

Leona Kingscholar and Che’nya x Fem!Jerry Mouse!Reader

Note: Reader is Yuu/The magicless Ramshackle Prefect from another world

I have a ton of WIPs that I really want to complete but to help motivate myself to finish them I decided to write this

So Jerry’s personality seems to fluctuate depending on his iteration so I’m just going to tone down his more sadistic tendencies and make him more like the early shorts where he’s more mischievous and acts when provoked instead of going out of his way to ruin Tom’s life for no reason.

Honestly as a Tom girlie I felt so sorry for Thomas. There were times where that poor cat did not deserve what he went through - even when I was little I would root for him. Though this might just be an oldest child thing since my little sister and mum (who’s the youngest in her family) prefer Jerry.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

Honestly, his first impression of you wasn’t the best. Yeah, you’re a girl and he chugs gallons of respecting women juice for every meal but come on - you’re this tiny little mousegirl from another world who can’t even do magic (not to mention that he’s heard rumours that you don’t even speak that much). You’ll get eaten alive!

Then he met you and all of that went down the drain

The meeting went as it usually does: you stepped on his tail, he angrily confronts you (whilst subtly warning you of the dangers of NRC) but then you just give him this flat, unamused look.

“Hey pussycat,” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms as you jut your chin up so you level him with a glare, “maybe don’t go leaving your tail lying around everywhere if you don’t want people to step on it.”

Okay, so maybe you weren’t the meek little mouse that he thought you were. Even the predators in his dorm don’t have the guts to talk back to him. Honestly, respect.

Then word gets out that you defeated an overblot and his opinion of you gets more and more favourable.

Long story short, you start dating after his overblot.

And it does cause a few turned heads.

And who can blame them? A lion going out with a mouse. That’s definitely something.

And to the untrained eye, it does sound concerning. But to those who know you (read: have been around you for more than five minutes)? Well, they’re praying for Leona’s sanity because you are nothing more than an agent of chaos.

There was this one time before you and Leona got together where a bunch of Savanaclaw predators were trying to push you, Ace, Deuce and Grim around and without even blinking you just pummelled all of them right then and there. At one point during the curb stomp battle you just pulled a mallet out of nowhere and just started thrashing everyone until they were black and blue.

Congratulations the entire Savanaclaw dorm is terrified of you

All that training with Big Cousin Muscles really does wonders

NRC have two new rules: 1) don’t even think about going after the nagicless prefect because you will lose and even if you try to use magic she will dodge and it will be your funeral and 2) DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES hurt Ace, Deuce or Grim because that will probably be the last thing you ever do (memories of Jerry completely annihilating Tom after he hurt Nibbles are resurfacing)

One thing he admires about you is your cunning and intelligence and how you’re always a step ahead of everyone no matter what their plans are. Even when you do find yourself in trouble

Even Rook Hunt has trouble trying to catch you. Don’t worry though, he’s far too fond of ‘petite mademoiselle souris’ to be irked by that.

He does get jealous of how close you are with Ruggie though. Since the hyena is also a greedy little thieving bugger like you, you have found a kindred spirit in him. The two of you bond over raiding the NRC kitchen and making off with as much as you can. And also taking the mickey out of Leona.

You also get along great with Cheka. He’s noticed that you have a soft spot for children and other animals. The pro is that he gets his nephew off of his back by pawing him off to you (who he knows will make sure that no harm will come to him) the con is that you get along too well and your chaotic natures mixing will probably send him to an early grave - if your mischievous and provoking nature doesn’t already.

One thing he loves to do is tease you over your mouse-like qualities. Yeah, anyone with eyes can tell that you’re nowhere near as innocent as you look but those mouse ears, wide eyes, squeaks and cute little tail are objectively and indisputably adorable. He takes great pleasure in telling you how cute ‘his little mouse’ is, especially when you give such sweet reactions when you're flustered.

Though he does get taken aback by how bold you are. You definitely did that thing Jerry does where he holds mistletoe above his head and made kissing noises at Tom.

Your high pitched laugh makes his heart melt and he definitely uses his rich boy money to buy you all of the expensive cheese you can eat.

CHE’NYA

He loves you so much. Finally, someone he can be chaotic with - you’re a match made in hell.

His interest in you starts when he tries to sneak up on you whilst invisible but you pull one over him and just turn around, look directly into his unseeable eyes and sprAY WATER RIGHT ONTO HIS FACE-WHAT THE HELL?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT SPRAY BOTTLE FROM????

At first he was pleasantly surprised before his face broke into a Cheshire Cat grin. He felt cupid’s arrow hit him square in the chest and he just looked at you with heart eyes.

By asking Trey and Cater and hiding in the rose maze, he gathered enough information to decide that you are his future wife

Turns out that your troublemaking antics have you paired with Ace and Floyd for the position of ‘bane of Riddle Rosehearts’ existence’. Mainly because everytime you break a rule you always, without fail, evade punishment by avoiding getting caught - even when you are clearly the culprit

Trey has bribed you with so many cheese based baked goods to stop you from sneaking into Heartslabyul and causing mayhem (you felt sorry for him so you promised him that you’ll only steal from the main kitchen near the cafeteria. That’s not what he meant but he’ll take it)

One day he catches you kidnapping the dorm’s pet dormouse before an unbirthday party so that you ‘can help your fellow mice by freeing them from their subjugation’. He shrugs and nods in understanding before asking you if he should let out the flamingos and hedgehogs from their pens as a distraction.

And so a beautiful relationship was born as the two of you ran off with a tray of choux pastries and a bunch of angry card soldiers chasing you.

The two of you have a competition over who can sneak into and stay in Heartslabyul the longest without getting caught and you’re currently the winner.

He loves that you’re not scared of anyone and you’re not afraid to stand up to people that are almost quadruple your size. In fact, he’s there cheering you on whenever you fight back or plot your revenge (he does know that he has a whole other school to attend, right?). One time you showed him one of your revenge plans and he even helped you set the traps and everything. Oh the two of you working together has NRC running for the hills.

Like Leona, he does like to tease you but what do you expect? He’s a cat, you’re a mouse - that’s nature. Though he does love the fact that you’re always one step ahead of him whenever he does try to outsmart you. He loves a good puzzle and you certainly keep him on his toes.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #che'nya x reader #fem reader

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ellievickstar · 1 year

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Second Place 🥈 (Xavier Thorpe x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Reader is Wednesday’s cousin and has always felt inferior to the raven haired girl.

A/N: So I watched Wednesday….please tell me I’m not the only one that thought Tyler’s voice was low key hot when he was confessing everything to Wednesday at the police station. But, I am team Xavier. So as some of you know I ran into a bit of a writer’s block, and I was reading some angst and then poof, inspiration. So enjoy my imagination that I acted out to figure out what the characters were going to say. Also, just angst. Yeah, angst. But also fluff.

Inspired? Definitely, by someone. Multiple people. Fanfiction writers that have written Wednesday fanfiction.

Masterlist? Yeah, that doesn’t exist yet. I’m working on it. Don’t judge me.

Requested? No. Uh no, I’ve disappeared for a bit so everyone forgot abt me HAHAHAHA (I have issues okay? I’m sorry T^T)

WARNINGS- I forgot warnings….uhhh: insecure reader, angst to fluff

(Side note: Xavier is a hufflepuff or slytherin, and the gif is not mine)

~*~*~*~*~

Rain patted down your windows as you listened to Fester and Wednesday talk. Fester was your dad, and though you did not mind his absence most days, you couldn’t deny that you were hurt. Why would your father visit his niece, yet not spare a minute to check in on you.

However, you were not surprised. Growing up, you noticed how Fester was more affectionate towards Wednesday compared to you. When he came back from trips he always greeted you with a pat on your head and a smile. Wednesday, on the other hand, was hugged and they joked and laughed together. They had this unspeakable bond. It made you jealous, but you didn’t require a father, and you wouldn’t in the future.

A soft knock on your door snapped you out of your thoughts. Your attention snapped to open threshold. Xavier, your childhood best friend, was leaning against the door frame.

“Hi,” he smiled. You grinned back at the tall brunette. Xavier had first met you during his godmother’s funeral. While Wednesday felt like it would be amusing for Xavier to scream until the adults found him, you had immediately sprinted for the red button that kept him from being burnt alive.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the Nightshade library?” You asked. From what you knew, Xavier intended on doing some research in the secret library about the monster.

“I am,” He confessed, “But I wanted you to help me.” You pretended to think, but you couldn’t say no to his soft, pleading, green eyes. He hummed with delight as you rose from your bed and set down the book that you had had no luck reading.

~*~*~*~*~

“Uncle Fester?” Wednesday called out as she entered the Nightshade’s library.

“Who’s Uncle Fester?” Xavier asked as he seemed to materialise from the shadows. “My father,” You replied as you scanned through the last page of the book you held before putting it back in it’s rightful place.

You watched as Wednesday and Xavier insulted each other, it reminded you of squabbling rats. You rolled your eyes when Wednesday said that he liked her. Then you paused. No, it wasn’t possible. Xavier could not like Wednesday after she kept pushing him away.

“Wow!” Fester commented. You whipped your head around to him as he came out of absolutely no where.

“How long have you been lurking?” You demanded. “Long enough to feel the tension between Wednesday and Xavier! Seriously, you could cut it with an executioner’s axe,” He smirked. Wednesday’s eyes widened. You winced at the blatant reminder that your childhood best friend clearly liked Wednesday more then you, like everyone else.

The patter of fingers distracted you. Thing showed up from behind a pillar and Fester seemed so happy to see him…until thing started to throttle him over an old mission. You rolled your eyes. This was not new to you, Thing complained to you all the time about Fester, especially after they returned from a mission together.

“Stop,” Wednesday snapped. You froze as well at her intimidating tone. Wednesday was always the scary one. You giggled as Fester turned around, Thing still held on to the side of his mouth as they both looked at Wednesday innocently. Wednesday rolled her eyes this time.

Soon after, Fester approached the picture of Iggy Itt, one of the ancestors of the Nightshades, a distant relatives of you and Wednesday, as you recalled. Behind the portrait was a safe. You were astounded as you never noticed the safe when you were poking around the old portrait.

“Can you crack this one quickly, or do I have time for a nap?” Fester remarked. Thing stretched his fingers as he begun to fiddle around with the number combinations. After a minute or two, Fester let out an exaggerated yawn before saying, “you know, this is starting to become a replay of Kalamazoo.” Just as he finished his sentenced, the safe opened with a creek and Thing turned to give a little bow.

The safe only held a diary, Nathaniel Faulkner’s old diary. You had overheard Fester and Wednesday speak about it when he was in her room. Wednesday flipped through the pages before pointing to a well sketched drawing of the monster.

Scanning the pages you absorbed the information like a sponge. The monster roaming around the school grounds was called a Hyde. The Hyde required a master in order to be unlocked or a traumatic event. You have to manipulate the Hyde into doing your bidding by using hypnosis or by other means.

“This means…” You muttered as you pointed at the sketch of the master and the bowing Hyde. “It means we’re not looking for one killer, but two,” “The Hyde and it’s master,” You agreed with your cousin. “Whoever that wants to unlock a Hyde is a next level psycho,” Fester murmured. And he was right.

~*~*~*~*~

You left the Nightshade library soon after with Fester, the both of you knew that it was best to leave Wednesday alone when she wanted to think.

“Look, YN” Fester started, “I know about what happened,” You paused. Turning back to face the tall man, you feigned ignorance. “I don’t know what your talking about,” “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” You had never seen Fester lose his cool. He always seemed to be happy and optimistic. But now, he seemed irritated.

“I’m sorry that I was absent during your childhood. Most of all because I left you with your horrible mother. I was angry at you when you told her off during the family reunion but when Gomez drove her away, I dug into what happened when I was absent,” He explained. He begun to pull out your medical records. All of it was your personal medical reports from when-

“I found this at the hospital nearest our home. Your mother kept everything under wraps because she didn’t want anyone to find out what she was doing to you. Gomez seemed to crack the case first, which was why your mother left when you were thirteen,” You remembered that day.

You had awoken to an empty house, had run all the way to Uncle Gomez’s Family estate with tears in your eyes as you begged him to find your mother. He had refuse and told you that it was for the best that your mother left.

From what you could remember, your mother was abusive from a very young age. It only began to become physical when you were nine or ten. You were often brought to the hospital because of how hard she beat you and sometimes, she grabbed the closest thing to hit you with. It varied from flame pokers to golf clubs to even a vacuum stick at one point.

Why she hit you? Well, you were the spitting image of your father and his absence made her irritable. She used you as a form of punching bag. If she wasn’t hitting you, she used her words and it hurt like blades and daggers being stabbed into your back. She most often compared you to your cousin, Wednesday. From grades to fighting skills, she critiqued and compared the both of you. You were either the best, or a failure. Your cousins perfect grades didn’t help, nor did her shaky record and habit of getting the two of you into trouble.

You began to harbour resentment against the girl. The raven haired cousin who always had the perfect the grades, the perfect family, the perfect attitude. The one who gave zero effs about what other people thought of her, the one that had Xavier pinning for her because he strongly believed that she was the one who helped him out of that casket. The one who didn’t have to dress up to be pretty, who didn’t need to try hard to get people to like her because she didn’t care.

You wanted that. You wanted a mother who didn’t criticise every little thing you did. You wanted a mother who would be by your side. You wanted a mother who didn’t care about what you wear, who only cared that you were happy. You wanted to grow up thinking that only your opinion mattered. You wanted to be first place for once. You wanted, more then anything, to be the best, to not seem so insignificant compared to your cousin.

You stared into the guilty looking eyed of the man you used to call your father before he left you, time and time again, with that horrible excuse of a mother.

“I don’t need your apologies. I’ve forgiven you a long time ago,” You deadpanned as you began to walk away. And as you did so, you could have sworn that you heard Fester say, “Then why do you not call me your father anymore?”

~*~*~*~*~

“Why so down?” Xavier asked as he dashed paint again on the canvas. You hummed as you looked down at your empty sheet again. You were usually good at biology but Fester’s words kept bothering you. It felt like you were spiralling and the nightmares. The nightmares sucked. It kept feeling like you were back in that house, that you were still scared to wake up to your mother’s yelling.

You flipped through your textbook for something to help you write your essay. Defeated, you closed the text book and stuffed the empty paper in your bag with your books. “Hey,” Xavier stopped to look at you, “You know you can talk to me, right?” You nodded, but your next train of thought was:

‘Well not really because I can’t exactly tell you about how I’m starting to spiral because I’m slowly starting to believe I’m no good compared to my cousin, who you also so happened to probably like because you are so damned interested in her. You look at her like she’s the only person in the world and I wished that you out of all people would like me for me, and not because I’ve done anything for you, or helped you, or have because I have anything to offer, but i know that’s not possible because compare too Wednesday I might as well be insignificant.’

“I’m going back to my dorm, if I’m not there then I’ll be at the library,” You said as you got up to leave. “Uh-uh, sit down,” Xavier commanded, pointing to the chair that you just got up from. He pulled a stool from the corner and sat opposite you. “What’s going on?” He asked, trying his best to look you in the eyes. You looked away, silently begging him to let this all go and to continue with his painting of…

“Is that Wednesday!?” You blurted out as you spied the unfinished painting. Xavier flushed as he stuttered, “I just, well, no- I just-” You stood up quickly and left without another word. Tears flooded your eyes. It’s not like you didn’t know that he obviously liked your cousin, it just hurt to see the confirmation. Xavier mostly painted things that either haunted him, or made him passionate. The monster was something that haunted him, and before he dated Bianca he painted her too.

Yet, even as his best friend, you have never seen him paint a single portrait of you, let alone sketch you as practice.

It felt childish, but you stormed to the library, ready to let out some steam. The library was notorious for it’s good acoustics…and the number of student who made out here. You pulled out your violin, the smaller instrument from the string instrument as compared to cello. “And apparently the ‘easier’ instrument” You murmured bitterly. You had first started violin because you found the instrument fascinating. Your mother had been extremely supportive, until Wednesday picked up the cello a few weeks later. In her words, the violin was pathetic and unimpressive compared to the low octave and precision of the cello. It wasn’t even that impressive! By far, the violin probably was the most solo pieces in history and the most impressive composers known for composing the most difficult pieces were either Rachmaninoff or Paganini! One of which played the violin and was literally nicknamed the ‘devil violinist’.

You sighed again as you tuned the violin according to memory. It’s not like you had a piano near-by. You breathed in as you began your favourite Sarasate symphony (A/N: I hate making author’s notes mid-fic but if you want to know which symphony I’m talking about it’s Sarasate Malagueña Op 21 No 1. I know it’s not technically a symphony but I didn’t know how to dumb it down. Also, I do actually play the violin so this was so fun to write but I also had to hold back from spewing more really random facts)

When you finally finished playing it over and over again four times, you heard clapping from behind you. You turned around to see Ms Thornhill.

“Well, most students usually make out here and I was so surprised to hear Sarasate! Big fan of classical music?” She smiled warmly. You gave a polite smile back as you nodded, “Sorry if I disturbed you but I just love the smell of book and I love playing,” She laughed, “I much rather catch a beautiful piece then two students making out,” You flushed. “I wouldn’t call it beautiful-” “No way! You are gifted YN, maybe even more then your cousin in terms of music,” Her sentence made you flush again. Many people seemed to always think that cello was a lot harder then violin because of it’s sheer size, they always focuse on praising Wednesday’s gifts, being shocked on how she was able to write three novels while mastering an instrument.

You thanked Ms Thornhill for her compliments before picking up your violin case, you decided to bring it back to your dorm today instead of leaving it in the library.

~*~*~*~*~

“is that a violin?” Yoko asked as she looked poked at the case. “Yes,” You replied as you jotted down the last sentence of your biology essay. “How have I not known this last few months?” “Cause you didn’t need to know,” I said.

She huffed as she exited the room. Probably to go hang out with her friends or go on a date. You opened your music score sheets as you wrote down notes at areas you constantly made mistakes.

A soft knock caught your attention. The flash of green eyes and the familiar soft smile made your heart flutter.

“Busy?” He asked, motioning to the scores on your desk. You shook your head. “It’s not like I’m gonna figure out a good fingering any time soon, it’s been driving me crazy,” “That’s what she said,” He joked as he came close, observing the score and the numbers already written. “You know that’s not what I meant,” You hit him lightly. “You should change the C to an A1 so that you’d be on second position, shifting would be easier,” You were almost going to laugh. Surely, you probably already tried that, but as you rewrote the numbers, you were shocked.

“How did you-” “I started reading into music theory, specifically string instruments after…” You stopped listening. Of course, of course he read into music theory after he found out Wednesday played the cello. You turned to him as you spied flowers being held behind his back.

“Are those for Wednesday?” You asked as you pointed to the bouquet of beautiful purple mallows. “You probably should have gotten Black dahillas, that’s her favourite colour and flower. I’m actually surprised you didn’t at least get a black flower, but purple mallows are my favourite, I keep spare Dahillas for special occasions for Wednesday so I can give you one to put in the bouquet-” “The flowers are for you,” Xavier interrupted.

You raised you eyebrows. “I don’t understand,” You began but you were quickly interrupted as Xavier suddenly pressed his lips to yours. You froze for a second. He pulled away as he kneeled before you, holding your waist after setting down the flowers on your desk.

“I know that you think you’re second place to your cousin in every way. But, not to me. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. You might think that you’re not beautiful, but you only see yourself in mirrors or photos. You don’t see yourself when your excited for lunch, or when you watch the newest marvel movie trailers, or even when you finally master a new piece on the violin. I overheard you and your father talk and I know that your mother didn’t see you for you, but I love you. Not for the achievements you have or the grades you get. I love your excitement, your sensitivity, your empathy towards others. I love how you’ve struggled and you still find a way to love the world,” Tears filled your eyes as you looked his sincere ones. His genuine words made you choke on sobs as you hugged him tightly.

“I love you, YN Addams, I have loved ever since you befriended me. I love you for your crazy ambition, your murderous plans when someone pisses you off-” “You can’t lie and say that making someone choke on their own blood isn’t a cool way to kill them,” You mumbled against the crook of his neck.

“It’s my turn to talk, Addams,” “Is that so?” You giggled. “I love you, little psycho,” You laughed again as he kissed your hair. “You stole that from one of my books,” “I’m not wrong, though,” He mumbled.

You spent the rest of the day in your dorm, unaware of what was coming, but you couldn’t care less. You spent your life thinking you were second place. Now, you were finally, someone’s number one.

A/N: This made me cry. But it was also happy tears. I love the reader so much. Also, to the anon that made the Draco request, I’m working on it. But as I always say, procrastination is key :D (this is also a cry of desperation for more requests)

#Wednesday character’s x reader #Xavier x Reader #Xavier Thorpe x reader #Xavier Thorpe #Xavier Thorpe x you #Wednesday Addams #the addams family #Fester Addams #Uncle Fester #Reader

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humanpurposes · 1 year

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My Heart Belongs to Daddy part ii, modern!Aemond

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // And if it feels good, then it can't be bad

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, smut, daddy kink, spanking, degradation, questionable relationship dynamics, infidelity, mentions of grief/loss, no underage elements

Words: 5900

A/n: Thank you for the love on the first part! Let me know if you want to be tagged in upcoming parts or follow me @humanpurposes for updates. Also available to read on AO3.

The wedding of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen is turning out to be exhausting and a little overwhelming. It’s been built up for months as the event of the year in King’s Landing, extravagant and scandalous, which describes the family rather well.

Every room in the Red Keep has been booked to accommodate the city’s elite. It’s a beautiful venue, an ancient redbrick castle overlooking the bay, once a home for royalty, now the flagship of a chain of luxury hotels, and the crowning jewel in the Targaryen empire.

She glances around the ballroom where the guests are mingling while they wait for the arrival of the newlyweds. It doesn’t take her long to spot her mother, martini in hand, making smalltalk with Corlys Velaryon, who just happens to own the largest shipping company this side of the Narrow Sea. Alys Rivers is nothing if not efficient.

They had been surprised to receive an invitation at all, but then Rhaenyra has always valued appearances above everything else. They had hardly heard from her since Harwin’s funeral, and even then it was funny half-smiles and overcompensating niceties to gloss over the obvious pain in her eyes. That’s the thing about Rhaenyra, you can never really tell what she’s thinking.

She looked other-wordly floating down the aisle in a white satin and lace gown. Her father, Viserys, CEO of Targ Corp and patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, walked beside her. Maybe it was the lighting in the Sept or the red and black suit, but he looked pale, and his eyes were heavy and tired. Rhaenyra’s step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, trailed behind them in matching maroon dresses, while the three Strong boys lined up beside Daemon at the altar. A picture perfect family.

She tried not to judge Rhaenyra too harshly for wearing white– damn purity culture and the misogyny that comes with it, but she couldn’t help but think how she preferred the vintage cocktail dress she wore when she married Harwin.

She’d been too young to remember that wedding, but she’d seen the photos enough times. There was one she especially loved, of the bride and groom on the front lawn of Dragonstone, smiling to each other like they had a secret (turns out they did when Jace was born eight months later), while she and Helaena stood in front of them. Their faces were round and chubby, scrunched into the confused frown toddlers make when they’re made to wear pale pink dresses and carry round baskets of rose petals.

Alys fell out with her parents in her mid teens. She always said it was her uncle Lyonel who was there for her, who saw her through to adulthood, who offered her a room when a shitty ex-boyfriend left her with no money and a positive pregnancy test when she was twenty-two. And having no siblings, she said Harwin was more like a brother to her than a cousin.

Losing one of them would have been hard enough, but losing both had been devastating. In a lot of ways it still is.

“Harwin was so dear to us all,” was all Rhaenyra had said to them on the day of the funeral. So dear it took her just over a year to marry her own uncle.

Not that she’s in much of a position to judge.

A large, gentle hand settles on her back and Aemond hands her a flute of champagne. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He means the ballroom. Gold paints the vaulted ceiling and trails down the walls, the pillars and the archways, as sunset bleeds in through the windows.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, trying to hide a grin.

They’ve managed to avoid each other all day until now. He sat with his siblings at the ceremony, while she and Alys were on a bench at the back of the Sept.

She allows herself a better look at Aemond’s suit; midnight blue, with a subtle floral pattern that would be easy to miss if her eyes were only skimming over it, and a baby blue tie that matches his eyes perfectly. He’s cropped his hair for the occasion too, it’s shorter at the sides but still long enough at the top to run her fingers through, to tug on. He looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful.

His hand stays in place against her back, unassuming but just firm enough to keep her on edge as he leads her further into the hall. “The decor was inspired by Versailles, but the hall itself dates back to the original Keep. You’re into this sort of stuff, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t know why he needs to ask. At this point he knows better than anyone what she’s ‘into’.

“This used to be the throne room,” she says, nodding to the platform at the end of the hall. “Imagine, the Iron Throne used to sit there and now it’s a stage for fucking a jazz band.”

The corners of his mouth curl into a reserved smile that makes her heart hum. Aemond is rarely one for obnoxious laughter, but then every time she can make him smile it feels like a little victory. It hurts a little too.

They settle at the edge of the room and his hand slips away, but he makes up for it when he leans into her, close enough that she can smell the dark, almost boozy scent of his perfume on his neck. “How are you doing, by the way?”

It’s a question she’s avoided asking herself. She spots Jace, Luke and Joff across the room, sitting down at a table with Aegon, Daeron and another guy she doesn’t recognise. They look happier than she feels, and suddenly she feels ridiculous for wallowing in her own self pity.

She shrugs. “Alright I think.”

Aemond’s face is somewhere between a frown and amusement, the face that means I can see right through you.

She shifts on her feet, looking for something else to focus on.

Larys Strong, she notices, is standing by the bar. They had run into him at the Sept, and though they’d definitely made eye contact, he made no attempt at conversation. He keeps his head low, only looking up to glare at Alys.

“Gods that man’s pathetic,” Aemond mutters, following her line of sight. “Not still upset about Harrenhal, is he?”

“Considering mum took half his clients when she left, I’d say yes. He’s always been good at holding grudges, creepy uncle Larys.” Harwin’s brother, director of what used to be King’s Landing’s most successful PR firm, recently overtaken by Rivers PR.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘creepy second cousin Larys’?” Aemond says with a little smirk.

“My version has better ring to it, rolls off the tongue easier.”

A hand suddenly slaps her shoulder and she nearly drops her glass. Aemond quickly takes it from her as Viserys Targaryen pulls her into a stiff embrace and makes a grand exclamation about love and family that she forgets to pay attention to.

She’s a little bewildered but manages to smile. “Good to see you again, Mr Targaryen,” she says. As she pulls away she catches the eye of the woman standing over his shoulder. Alicent Hightower has donned her usual shade of dark green in a velvet dress that compliments her auburn hair and elaborate gold jewellery perfectly. She has a particularly sour look on her face this evening.

“How are you, love?” Viserys asks. “Doing well I hope?”

A thousand thoughts flood her head, but she can already see the interest dying in his eyes. So she just nods.

“How is school, you’re still at school, aren’t you?”

“She’s at the university, dear” Alicent corrects him, “final year, yes?” Her lips thin as her eyes finally spares a glance for her son. “Two years behind Aemond.”

Mother and son exchange a vacant look.

“Yes,” she says, making her best attempt at Alys’ networking voice, “I study History–”

“Excellent! Well wonderful to catch up, and good to see you too, son.”

Aemond nods in acknowledgement as his parents move away to offer a similarly shallow greeting to the next group of guests. His breath tickles over her neck as he sighs. At least Rhaenyra tries to act friendly.

“I’m sorry–” she blurts it out, not really sure why she assumes it’s her fault.

He smiles. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

There’s an uneasy feeling of guilt settling in her stomach. She knew Aemond wasn’t on the best of terms with his parents, but she hadn’t realised it had gotten to a point where they would hardly even look at him.

Her fingertips brush over his as he hands her back the glass.

She watches his eyes as they start to skim over her lavender summer dress, the thin straps running over her shoulders, the dainty gold necklace on her neck and the gathering of silky fabric at her bust.

“You look lovely by the way,” he says.

For a moment she forgets how to breathe. Maybe she should be used to his compliments and praises by now, but it still makes her nervous. “For a lovely occasion,” she says, taking a tentative sip.

“Hmm.”

“Not a fan of weddings?”

“Not overly fond. This…” he briefly sweeps his gaze around the room, at the endless arrangements of orchids and roses, the crystal centrepieces on the tables and the perfect smiles that are just a little too forced. “It’s all very pretentious.”

“I would have thought you like that, all the pomp and ceremony.”

He huffs a laugh as he takes her glass and casually brings it to his lips. “Call it a combination of circumstances.” He keeps his eyes on her as he tips the glass back.

She does the same, admiring the sharp features of his face, his jaw, his chin, his neck and the way it bobs when he swallows.

He “tsks” at the dryness of the champagne and hands her back the glass. “Things with my family have never been straightforward.”

But even less so over the last year, she imagines. For most of her life, the Targaryens existed at a distance. She and Alys used to see more of the Strongs– Harwin, Rhaenyra and the boys– for birthdays, the occasional family dinner and that summer they joined them at Dragonstone. But that was before things really started to get messy, before the lawsuits and the infighting.

None of it is helped by the fact that Viserys and Alicent despise Alys. They think she’s an opportunist, desperate for some profitable connections, stealing away their golden boy. She knows her mother better than that. Alys is less of an opportunist, more of a pragmatist, and to her credit she doesn’t pretend to be oblivious to the benefits of dating the son of the wealthiest man in Westeros.

She likes to think Aemond’s more than that though. A little less entitled than Rhaenyra, and certainly more motivated than Aegon, but brilliant in his own ways. He has a first class degree in International Relations from the University of Oldtown, a quiet but mysterious public persona, with a Hightower work ethic and an understated confidence, usually wrapped up in a Prada suit or a vintage leather jacket.

She finishes her drink before she asks, “have you spoken to Jace and Luke yet?”

His face darkens. Another point of conflict. Aemond had a falling out with the Strong boys when they were kids, something to do with inappropriate use of a kitchen knife on Luke’s part, resulting in the scar slicing down the left side of Aemond’s face. By some miracle it managed to spare his eye.

“Might be worth saying ‘hello’ at least?” She suggests.

He glances over at their table with his lips pressed together, rubbing his thumb over his index finger.

Before she knows it her hand is on his bicep, stroking her thumb over the fabric of his suit. It’s her usual reaction when she notices he’s anxious.

His eyes meet hers. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep inhale. “Maybe later,” he mutters.

A rush of cheers and applause announces the arrival of the bride and groom. Rhaenyra has changed from the elaborate gown she wore to the Sept to a black slip dress, with rows and rows of diamonds dripping from her neck. They make their way to the high table and the guests begin to settle at the round tables around the hall. She doesn’t look back to Aemond before she heads for Jace and the others.

Jace is in his first year at KLU studying politics. It’s a small campus and she often sees him hanging around the humanities block or in the library. Understandably he’s not been himself these last few months.

“Alright?” he says brightly, pulling her into the first genuine hug she’s received all day.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

Jace seemed so much younger a year ago. All three of the Strongs seem to have grown up far too quickly. “It’s just been… things have changed so quickly.” He runs his fingers through his dark curls, grown down to his shoulders, she notices. “I just miss him, you know?”

She offers him a bittersweet smile. “Yeah, of course.”

“But Daemon’s great. He makes mum happy. That’s what matters most.”

She sits between Aegon and the other guy at the table and realises she vaguely recognises him. He looks older than Jace, with dark hair, surprisingly sleek stubble and silver direwolf cufflinks on his sleeves.

The dinner is infuriatingly exquisite; seared tuna, steak that almost melts in her mouth, followed by a raspberry and rose pastry and a lemon posset topped with purple primrose petals. It’s all pretentious and so very Targaryen.

Her eyes keep wandering. There’s a haunting kind of beauty about watching Daemon and Rhaenyra. They keep their fingers intertwined and share smug, knowing glances. They fit perfectly together, despite the taboo of it all.

Alys and Aemond are at a table with the Velaryons and Aemond’s sister, Helaena and her girlfriend. Alys keeps a hand over Aemond’s as she talks to Rhaenys and Corlys about some (no doubt dull) business venture, but she’ll make it sound brilliant. Her skills of persuasion are second to none.

She had half expected Aemond to follow her, but that was a stupid expectation, wasn’t it? She’s enough to fuck behind closed doors, not enough to sit beside at a wedding dinner.

She needs to stop getting her hopes up. She needs to stop looking for more from him because she’s only setting herself up for failure. But that’s just the problem, she wants to cling to every look, every hand against her back, every whisper in her ear, and convince herself that, whatever this is, that it’s for something more than just carnal desire.

She often finds herself wondering if Alys really loves Aemond. It started off as a casual thing, from what she could gather without wanting to know the details. Alys would go on these overnight ‘work trips’, which she suspected were really dates.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she came downstairs one morning to find Aemond Targaryen in the kitchen, leaning over the island and sipping an espresso. That was after his last fight with Alicent and Viserys. He had been planning to retreat to Aegon’s, but ended up spending the night with Alys instead.

She watches Aemond, running a slender finger over his fork, his eyes moving sceptically around the room, until they settle on her.

He smirks, and then he turns to strike up a conversation with his sister.

Alys certainly likes him enough to get him involved in Rivers PR, to let him live in their house and sleep in her bed.

What does he get out of it, she wonders?

“Got your eye on someone?”

The unfamiliar voice snaps her out of her trance. The boy with black hair is leaning into her.

She glances down at his cufflinks. “Stark?” She guesses.

“Cregan. My dad’s an old mate of Viserys’.”

He’s a politics student too, a classmate of Jace’s and captain of the KLU rugby team with the muscles to prove it. She recognises him a little better as they talk; he was at Baela’s Halloween party last year, though they hadn’t spoken then.

Jace shoots her a quick wink from across the table and inclines his head ever so slightly towards Cregan. She swears under her breath and rolls her eyes at him. Gods, as if she needs help from her cousin to get laid.

It’s Aegon who starts ordering rounds of shots. She tries to stick to champagne at first, until she looks across the room again. Aemond leans into Alys, as though he might kiss her, but she turns her head and his lips settle on her cheek.

After seeing that, she reaches for the tequila, met with cheering from Aegon and Daeron.

Daemon and Rhaenyra take to the floor and sway to a dreamy number played by the jazz band. Rhaenyra soon takes Helaena by the hand and Daemon grabs his girls to join them on the dancefloor.

She smiles as she watches them all, Rhaenyra and Helaena spinning around each other, Baela and Rhaena giggling at Daemon’s smooth moves that come straight from a 50s movie.

“I feel like we should go up,” Jace says.

Luke starts to groan but Joffrey is already up and dragging his brothers with him.

Aegon turns to her in his seat. The oldest of the Targaryen Hightower siblings and undisputedly the messiest, but she had found him the most approachable that Summer at Dragonstone. “What do you say, kid?”

How could she say no to that sly, self-assured grin and those puppy dog eyes? They’re a little duller than Aemond’s, closer to grey than blue. She lets him lead her to the dance floor.

As she and Aegon sway to the charming brass and bass, she wonders if Aemond is watching them. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of checking. Not just yet.

Aegon leans into her ear. She ignores the sour, bitter smell of alcohol on his breath. “How is Aemond?”

It takes her off guard. She finds herself a little perplexed, eyebrows raised and lips parted as she tries to think of an answer that won’t seem suspicious.

But having to think about it at all must be incriminating.

Does Aegon know? If he did know, why would he want to bring it up?

“Good, as far as I’m aware.”

Her internal crisis seems to evade his attention. His eyes move between the space over her shoulder and the floor as he gnaws slightly on his lip. “Look, I know this isn’t your problem, but I just worry about him.”

Aegon Targaryen, worried about his brother?

“He said things were difficult lately.”

“Gods yeah, things have been tense with dad trying to sort out his will. Mum and Rhaenyra have been at each other’s throats, then there’s granddad trying to get something out of it all. It’s a fucking mess.”

Realistically she doesn’t know him that well, but between their few interactions and what she’s heard from Jace and Luke, Aegon is easy to understand. It’s strange seeing him so concerned, about anything really.

He sighs heavily. “Then Aemond went and completely fucked up a contract with Storm’s End and mum was livid.”

“That’s it? They fell out over a work issue?”

“She needed it. She’s really pushing for Aemond to take over from dad, because Gods know once Rhaenyra’s in charge she’s not letting the Hightowers get a fucking look in.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m the designated disaster child, no one expects anything from me. Aemond’s always been perfect. And now he isn’t.”

It would explain the dramatics of it all.

“Are they happy? Him and Alys?”

She’s not sure how she should know, or what the criteria for ‘happy’ would even be.

“They must be. I don’t see why he would stick around otherwise.”

Aegon’s lips flash into a crooked smile that disappears as quickly as it comes. “I think he wanted to get out. I said he could come live with me, hells, he could afford his own place.”

“So why doesn’t he? Get his own place, I mean.”

“He likes the distraction, something to get him away from Targ Corp, and the rest of us, I suppose. I think he needed an escape.”

The pace of the music picks up in a flourish and Aegon spins her under his arm. Aemond is looking at them.

At some point in the night, the band is swapped for a playlist of songs everyone knows the words to, and closer to midnight the hall becomes a haze of thumping bass and sparse bursts of red and green lights. She loses count of the number of cocktails she’s had, all she knows is her mind is buzzing blissfully. She feels happy and careless, but one drink away from a nasty hangover in the morning.

Aemond is still at his table, sipping a glass of what she guesses is whisky. He loves an old fashioned, if they’re out for dinner or if he makes it himself at home. He talks to Rhaenys and Corlys, and has a brief exchange with Daemon and Rhaenyra when they come over to him, but other than that he just sits and watches her.

She’s not sure how she ended up dancing with Cregan. He wraps a large, muscular arm around her waist and holds her close against him.

He brings his lips to the shell of her ear, shamelessly letting them brush against her skin. It feels nice. “Sure you’ve not got your eye on anyone?”

She smiles even though he can’t see her face. “Why is it important?”

“I’m trying to figure out what my chances are here,” he says as his mouth moves along her cheek.

She giggles as she pulls away from him. “You’re lovely,” she says.

“But?”

A hand lands firm on her shoulder. She recognises his perfume and a cool steel ring against her skin.

She turns into Aemond and puts her hands on his chest. “Are you going to dance with me?”

Aemond holds her wrists and leans into her so that she can hear him over the music. “I think you look tired.”

“I don’t feel tired. Where’s Alys?”

He cocks an eyebrow like he’s irritated she would ask. “She went to bed an hour ago.” Then his mouth curls into a smug pout. “Do you want me to take you upstairs?”

He starts to stroke his thumbs over her hands and his eyes, though hard to make out through the darkness, are fixed on hers. She can’t quite catch her breath. “Yeah, I do.”

They don’t speak as they head up. Her room is on the third floor, and they could take the lift but a few other guests have had the same idea. Quicker and quieter to take the stairs.

Occasionally her hand brushes against the sleeve of his suit but he doesn’t react. She listens to his breath, heavy and pointed, and imagines he might want to say something but keeps deciding against it.

They reach the hall on the third floor, lined with mahogany panelling, vintage gold lamp shades mounted on the walls and patterns of dragons swirling in the red carpet. It’s empty, so she weaves her arm through his.

Aemond holds her arm tight. “Had a nice time?”

It was nice to see her Strong cousins. It was nice to chat to Baela, and get to know Rhaena a little better. It was nice to dance with Cregan and to know Aegon cares about his brother.

“Yeah,” she sighs, letting her head drop against his shoulder. “You?”

Aemond starts to tell her about a conversation he had with Corlys about some new customs regulations that could screw over his company. She likes to watch him when he’s explaining something, how he moves his hand around, how he tilts his chin up and presses his lips together when he’s thinking.

When they come to her door she drags herself away from him and swipes her keycard over the lock. The door is heavy and Aemond reaches over her to prop it open as he follows her inside.

He switches on the low lights and hovers by the door to the ensuite, muttering about tariffs while she slips off her heels and places her jewellery on the vanity.

He looks deliciously casual and self-assured, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, the warm lights dancing over his cheekbones and the shape of his nose. “...they just can’t compete with the Triarchy, not to mention the extra costs…”

His eyes drift to where she stands. They stare at each other for a moment. The silence is screaming at her.

“Who was the guy you were dancing with?” He asks.

“Friend of Jace’s. He studies politics.”

Aemond hums and smiles to himself. “Looked like the two of you were getting on very well.”

She could point out his poorly placed frustration and that their entire involvement revolves around someone else.

“Is that why you came over?”

He’s still smiling but there’s an intensity to his stare. He puffs his chest a little as he takes a slow breath. He taps his fingers three times against the wall. “Did you like him?”

Restraint is one of Aemond’s most defining traits, she thinks, everything about him is meticulously planned, and every decision is a considered one. Restraint is also his downfall in some cases. He rarely raises his voice or gives into his impulses, but he tries too hard to hold back and craft his perfect image. It excites her whenever she sees the cracks and inconsistencies in him. They feel sacred, another secret she gets to keep.

She takes a few slow steps towards him, until she can smell his perfume again. “I might have done.”

“Might,” he echoes. “If it weren’t for what?”

She tilts her head. His eyes are soft and his lips are parted. She holds the scarred side of his face in her hand and kisses him. She intends it to be slow and reassuring but it’s too easy to get lost in him. She presses herself into him and caresses the back of his neck and she deepens the kiss.

Until his other hand cups her head, lightly pushing her away. “I should go back to the party,” he whispers.

“Why?”

He takes a breath through his nose.

“Stay with me for a little while,” she says, nudging her forehead against his. “I need you.”

His face starts to light up, a familiar playfulness in the curl of his mouth. “Need me?”

She trails her fingertips down his shirt, tracing over his chest and the ridges of his abs, dangerously close to his belt. “Aemond, please.”

He walks forward and she stumbles with him until her back is against the opposite wall. He grips her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. “Try again, sweetheart.” His voice is low and it makes her feel weightless.

“Please, daddy,” she whispers.

He half growls a “hmm” before he pulls her into him to claim her mouth. His kiss is firm, slow and hungry. She was right about the whisky. She can taste it on his tongue and feel it tingling on her lips.

His knee slides under her dress, between her thighs, and pushes up. She gasps at the pressure and starts to rut her hips against him.

“You’re so eager,” he hisses, “what a desperate little slut I’ve made out of you.”

His hands slip under her thighs to carry her to the edge of the bed. He’s careful as he draws her dress over her head and lays it out over the armchair by the window.

He leans over her, laying her down, working lips, tongue and hands over every inch of her bare body. He starts by kissing her neck, sucking at the soft spot that always makes her melt. His hands run over her collar to her breasts, kneading and pinching her nipples between his fingers. Then he goes lower, planting a trail of kisses down the valley that leads to her waist and her stomach. Usually he likes to drag this out, treat her to divine torture until she had to beg, but tonight he is urgent, no less desperate than she is.

His hands run down her thighs, skimming one moment and squeezing the next. And then she feels his lips against her panties.

“Oh you do need me, don’t you?” He teases. “You’re already so wet for me, baby.”

She writhes against his mouth, desperate for just a little more friction. “Oh fuck, please, daddy, just–”

“Not yet.” He stands over her, slips off his suit jacket and starts to roll the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the pale skin of his forearms. “I’m going to take care of this pretty pussy, but first you’re going to tell me why the fuck you thought you could flirt with Stark, right in front of me.”

She gazes up at him. His expression is stern and intense, and she finds it thrilling.

He pulls her to her feet and takes her place sitting at the edge of the bed, running his hands over the silky fabric covering his thighs.

“Come here,” he orders, taking her hand and guiding her to drape herself over his lap. She can feel the bulge in his pants pressing into her stomach.

He’s gentle at first, stroking his palm over her ass, toying with different pressures and patterns.

The first slap is gentle.

“How many– ah!”

The second slap is harsher and she groans at the sting it leaves behind.

“You’re gonna take what I give you,” he says, stroking softly again while his other hand rests on her neck. “We’re done when I say we’re done.” Slap. “Understood?”

“Fuck!” She gasps, “yes, daddy.”

“Hmm, that’s my good little girl,” he says, running his other hand through her hair. It’s comforting, lulling her into compliance. “Now, have you got an answer for me?”

“I wasn’t trying to flirt,” she utters.

Her answer is met with a few succinct blows. She doesn’t care to count them. She breathes through it, focusing on the burn and controlling her reactions to it. She tries to keep her hips still, but she can feel her pussy throbbing and her arousal dripping between her legs.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Aemond warns. “You’re smarter than that, baby, I know you are.”

He switches between tenderness and pain so easily. Every time she feels his hand against her flushed skin her belly tightens and she starts to shiver, never quite sure what to expect.

“Do you know what I think?” He asks, slipping finger underneath her panties, circling through the wetness and the sensitive flesh of her pussy. “I think you’re just a needy little whore, desperate for my attention. But it’s okay baby, I know you can’t help it, right?”

She can’t help the broken whimper that escapes her throat as he inches closer to where she needs him most, or the cry that comes when he withdraws his touch delivers another stinging slap.

“Shh, baby,” Aemond coos, “I know it hurts but I need you to know you’re mine,” a point he emphasises with another few strikes that have her squealing and squirming over his lap.

“I’m yours,” she mewls.

Slap. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, daddy!” She cries, “only yours.”

He strokes his palm over her again and she grips the duvet, expecting another slap. Instead, he curls his fingers over the hem of her panties and slowly drags them down over her thighs. “I’m going to take care of you, baby,” he says, planting a kiss at the base of her neck, “just like I always do.”

Unable to form a response, she nods absentmindedly. The anticipation is driving her crazy but she trusts him completely.

He positions her with her back on the bed again, and kneels before her. He kisses along her thighs, groaning with satisfaction at her little whimpers and moans.

He leans in and kisses her pussy as sweetly and delicately as he would her cheek, letting his lips linger against her. “I’ve been thinking about you all fucking day,” he says, teasing her with gentle pecks and licks while his hands knead at her thighs. “You looked so pretty in your little dress, I couldn’t wait to take it off and have you laid out for me, just like this.”

She runs her hands through his hair as he deepens his movements, that delicious feeling rising and rising as he draws his tongue from her entrance, up to tease her clit, and back down again.

He slides a single finger in, letting out a soft groan at her slick and the sound it makes as he inches further in.

Her hips buck when he starts to flick his tongue over her clit, met by the weight of his hand against her stomach to hold her in place.

“Just relax, sweetheart, be a good girl for me, that’s it.”

Her eyes start to glaze over as her orgasm builds slowly. Agonisingly slowly. She stills her hips, fighting the urge to grind against his mouth. She’s left panting and groaning, desperate for more but she has to be good for him.

“Daddy,” she chokes, feeling a single tear stream down her temple. “Please… please…” she whimpers as she feels herself hurtling closer and closer to the edge. Just a little more and she’ll fall apart.

“There you go,” he hums, pushing deeper and working his tongue faster. “I want you to cum, baby, want you to finish all over my mouth.”

Finally she comes with a stuttering moan, back arched and pleasure rippling through her body, leaving her pleasantly numb in the afterglow.

Aemond presses a sweet kiss against her quivering cunt, trailing back up her body, coming to nuzzle into her neck.

“You alright?” He whispers. “I’m not being too harsh, am I?”

She turns her head to look at him. His eyes are so bright and his breath washes over her skin. He’s still wearing his shirt. She wants to tear it off him, feel every inch of him with no barriers or modesty.

It just slips out, mindless and simple, like a breath or a heartbeat. “I love you.”

He looks at her, wide-eyed and vague. She leans up to kiss him and he pulls away.

Then he comes to his feet, looming over the bed. He wipes his hand over his mouth and drags it over his chin.

She’s sure her heart has stopped beating. Why is he staring at her? Why hasn’t he said anything?

“I should…” His eyes dart around the room, to his suit jacket discarded on the floor. Then back to her, trembling, breathless and bare.

She props herself up onto her elbows, drawing her legs together. She’s never felt ashamed of herself in front of him before.

“Aemond?”

Suddenly he snaps out of whatever trance he’s been under.

“Night,” he mumbles, disappearing around the corner of the ensuite. The door opens. The door clicks shut.

Her hands shoot up to her hair, tugging and gripping, if only to have something to do with her hands. When it gets too painful she smooths her hands over her neck. Her pulse drums under her skin and beads of sweat trail down her back.

What the fuck was that?

Tags : @marthawrites @randomdragonfires @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

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deliciousangelfestival · 1 year

Text

My Dear Wife - Lloyd Hansen Series

Character: Lloyd Hansen x Rich!Female Reader

Words Count: 3200

Summary: Our reader was safe from the hostage situation, and she got her answer for all her problems. But did she make the right choice being married to a lunatic sociopath?

Check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 (Extra Story)

A/N: This is the continuous chapter from 3 Billion Divorce. <<<Check it out if you haven't read it.

And check out my other stories from Masterlist.

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Thank you so much for reblogging the first chapter. 💕💕

I want to write the aftermath of the day Lloyd came to the reader's office with the divorce paper.

But I feel the story would be better when both characters get to know each other.

I would appreciate any comments and feedback you can give me. Please tell me if you have any ideas and feedback for part 3.

Don't be shy if you want to be tagged for part 3. 😄💕

In the family, there will always be an evil uncle, aunt, or cousin who says hurtful things. Their bullet would be:

"Why are you still single?"

"How much is your salary?"

"When will you get married?"

"My son/daughter just got promoted or bought a new apartment."

They will say anything to make their family better than anyone else.

The only choice is to ignore them and not return for another family gathering.

But with you, it's a different case. You wished they would say hurtful things rather than try to get rid of you.

They have shown you their true colors after your grandfather's funeral.

Their first act was you woke up at a mental hospital with the note that you're delusional.

You ran away and sued the hospital.

They even use your friend to spike your drinks. Since that day, you lost your friend, and you never took a sip that was being offered to you.

You almost got killed on the airplane, but the pilot didn't want to risk his life, so he told you the truth.

You can't even stay at your own house. Cause assassins always break in to get you while you're asleep.

That's just some of the cases.

After the suffering, you've been facing all these years.

It's time to get revenge.

You got an instant husband who is an expert at handling problems.

After your secretary sent the money, Lloyd untied the rope around your hands. What a paranoid man; he didn't trust you until he got the money.

"Mr. Hansen, where is my bodyguard?" You couldn’t stop worrying about Jimmy after the car crash. You didn’t know what happened to him.

He is still sitting and reading the contract. "Aren't we supposed to be husband and wife? Call me Lloyd, or hubby, or babe. Take your pick."

Lloyd wants to tease you and is curious about your response.

You’re not amused with his jokes, "Lloyd, I want my bodyguard to be alive and healthy."

Oh well, you’re not in the mood for jokes. He snapped his finger to his soldier to come forward. The soldier speaks softly, almost whispering, "Her bodyguard lost too much blood."

Lloyd clenched the soldier's collar, forced him to bend, and pointed his gun. "I don't care, treat him. If he needs to bathe in blood, so be it. Or do you want to pay the penalty of 3 billion?"

"No sir." The soldier shook his head and started to run.

He put down the contract and clapped his hands. "Good news sweetheart, your bodyguard is resting. He got dehydrated."

"So what does my precious wife want me to do?"

He strolls towards you. "Do you want to finish them as quickly as possible or slowly by torturing them?"

"The second choice."

"I thought you wanted them gone."

You scoffed. "They will lose their will to live when they see me become the head of the company."

Lloyd felt a shiver when you said that. He likes it when you sound desperate but bossy at the same time.

"I need to ask you, are you sure you want to pay me that much money? I could give you a discount if you want."

You shook your head. "It doesn't matter to me as long as I'm alive."

You walk around him while your eyes stay focused, looking at his blue eyes. "I see how you work, kind of spontaneous but deadly. You immediately betrayed my relative after I offered you more money."

Suddenly you stopped and smirked, "That means you're not afraid or just don't give a shit. I need a fearless man who is also a lunatic at the same time."

"Besides, I'm worth more than 40 million dollars."

He felt shiver again, and now his heart was beating loudly. He doesn't understand why.

Lloyd's hands cover his face. "Stop, stop, I'm blushing because of your compliment."

"We could write this into our marriage vows."

You rolled your eyes. "By the way, is there any room that I could use? I want to rest."

Lloyd smirked, "Oh honey, I haven't decorated the bedroom for our wedding night."

You sighed heavily, your finger running through your hair."Lloyd, Right now, your wife is exhausted, 4 hours ago, I thought I would die. I have no energy to banter with your joke."

"Okay princess." Lloyd raised his hands; he knew it was time to stop teasing you. "My man will take you to your bedroom. By the way, my room is next to yours. If you feel lonely, just knock." He winked at you.

You rolled your eyes. "Ooh, and I want to have breakfast tomorrow. Black coffee and egg Benedict."

‘GASP!' Everyone inside the house was astonished at how brave you were giving orders to their boss.

"Don't tell me 1 billion is not enough to get me proper food?"

You shook your head.

Lloyd looked at you.

You didn't know the last time someone gave him an order, that person got thrown into the sea.

This is the first time a guest has ordered breakfast in his mansion. To be exact, a former hostage became an honorary guest in his house.

At the stairs, you look down at him. "Don't make me regret investing in you, Lloyd."

His jaw twitched, but he stared at your back without replying.

He never tries to prove himself. But to you, he has too. He doesn't want to disappoint you since you gave him so much money.

God, he loved a challenge.

He snapped his fingers to call the servants, "Tell our chef to give his best for tomorrow."

After you closed the door behind you, you finally took a breath.

Honestly, you didn’t plan to sleep, but after you find the answer to your problem, you feel somewhat relieved, and the fatigue you've been holding in for four years finally releases and drains your energy.

It’s a funny world; you feel safer sleeping in a house full of guns. Everyone here wears weapons like accessories.

*****

While you are resting on the second floor, everyone is working since Lloyd orders his IT team to start looking at your family.

It will take a while to get the info; while waiting, Lloyd took a cigarette to the terrace. He took a deep puff and exhaled smoke as he looked at the garden.

He thought he could finish this job easily. But now it’s more complicated.

‘BZZT’ The sudden vibrating phone woke Lloyd from his deep thoughts. He grins when he sees the caller.

"There's a new job for you." That British accent sounds annoyed, probably caused by Susan's nagging.

"Can't. I'm busy."

"I thought you'd done with the last mission."

"That one is done. This one is different."

"What is it?"

"I got married."

"...."

"You're… not… laughing. Are you serious? With who?"

"Y/N L/N."

Lloyd moved his ears away from the phone because Carmichael cursed too loudly.

"L/N? Don't tell me she's from the conglomerate family L/N & Co?"

"Yes."

"I heard she will be appointed as the leader next year. Lloyd, you lucky bastard."

"Thanks man. Hey, can you send all the files of the L/N family?"

"Sure. Consider this as a wedding gift from me."

That phone call was short but helpful. The best part is Carmichael didn't ask questions and was ready to help him.

In a few minutes, Lloyd received the files. It seems like the CIA has been sniffing around. Everything is here.

Your grandfather has eight kids, but after your father died, that left seven kids. 5 aunts and two uncles, that’s how many opponents you have to deal with.

The fight is different with your uncle and aunts because they don’t mind getting their hands dirty as long as they achieve their goals.

The files have dirt ready to use if the agency wants to blackmail your family. Your uncles embezzled the company money; there are also some cases of sexual harassment.

Your aunts do money laundry using their art gallery and boutique shops. Their husbands are politicians, it's obvious they received a bribed.

He got the info and everything he needed, and next, he opened your files.

Only your father chose to be low profile. He handles car manufacturers. He’s good at his job, and the car he designed improved. Your mother is just an ordinary housewife. Your family is quite normal than other relatives.

But the normal life is gone when your two uncles fail a mega project and humiliate the family business. It made your grandfather mad.

Your grandfather chose your father as the next successor, but before the official announcement, your parents died in a car accident.

It is still a mystery where the driver went missing.

There’s a big question mark on the files. A big chance the one who hired the assassins is in your family.

Your grandfather took you in, and you became a prodigy under his wings. Everyone knew you would be the next successor.

After high school, you decided to study abroad, not in an Ivy League university your grandfather told you to attend. This is the first time you disobey him.

He only participated in your graduation and asked you to get a master's at Harvard.

Lloyd chuckled about the fact you went to the same university “No shit, she's a fellow alumnus.”

This time you did what he asked. While getting a master, your work in the company as an intern. It was difficult, but you learned a lot.

The way you work in business also improved; your grandfather often asks your opinion to find solutions. The interaction between you both made others jealous.

There’s also a hospital record of a car and ski accident. All the evidence showed all the equipment was broken on purpose.

"Such a heartless family." Lloyd shook his head; after he dug deeper, he realized your family is more complicated than he thought. Money is more important than blood.

After finding out what happened, there’s an uneasy feeling knowing you’re alone right now.

Lloyd went into your room to check in; he knew this house security was top-notch, but it doesn’t hurt to check. He could talk to you until you fell asleep if you were still awake.

When he went in, he saw you sleeping peacefully.

You were wrapped in a white blanket like a burrito. He looked at you, defenseless like a bunny.

He leaned down a bit before sitting at the side of the bed; you didn’t even notice. You must be exhausted.

He can’t imagine if he were in your position—four years of running and hiding. Surviving without any military background is quite impressive.

Lloyd knew his job was to protect you and stay professional, but right now, he couldn't help feeling protective towards you; he wanted to get all your relatives to the basement and torture them to death.

“Don't worry, I won't let you get hurt. I swear in the name of 3 billion dollars." He whispered before leaving the room.

Usually, he doesn’t care if his client is satisfied with how he does his work. But with you, he wants to see you smiling and proud at his job.

*****

The next day,

The sun was beaming through her blinds, causing you to stir. It’s been a long time since you’ve awakened from a deep sleep. You felt refreshed.

“Rise and shine.”

Your body jumped; you didn’t realize someone else was in the room.

There he is, already in his best outfit. He dresses like he wants to go hunting. In contrast, you look like a mess. There’s nothing underneath the blanket since they didn’t provide you with any spare clothes.

You clenched your blanket when he walked towards you. His right knee rests on the bed while you move backward, but he moves faster. You flinched without realizing it.

As a woman, you know he has a beautiful body at first glance. Even his perfume smells nice. Too bad he’s a lunatic.

While you were lost in thoughts, he swept you with the blanket into his arms, cradled you to his chest, and carried you out of bed.

“Ah! What are you…?!”

Lloyd smirked; he found it amusing to see you caught off guard. “Didn’t you ask for breakfast?”

He carried you to the dining room and put you near his chair. In a few minutes, people appear, their hands carrying a food tray. They put down the food, and there it is.

You could smell good coffee in a glass, not instant coffee like you always made, and egg benedict. The food looks beautiful. You’ve always wanted to have an aesthetic breakfast.

You touch the coffee cup, enjoying the warmth in your hand. Lloyd thought you were scared. “There’s no poison in it.”

“I know.” You bring the cup to your lips” I remembered your vows.” You want to giggle, but you hide it by sipping the coffee.

Lloyd burst into laughter. It turned out you were awake. You keep surprising him. He felt like he had achieved something when he saw you enjoying breakfast.

Suddenly one of the servants knocked on the door. "Sir, they're here."

"Great, let them in."

After he gives permission, you see a group walking into the room. Each of them has a different style.

You have so many questions; Lloyd said, "You are my honor guest. And you deserve the best treatment. I got the best hair stylist, and fashion expert to treat you."

Lloyd smiled generously. "This is my first gift to you."

"After you're done, there will be another surprise waiting for you." He said before leaving.

After the makeover is done, you feel like you are being reborn. It’s been a long time since you got pampered like this. You got to admit he did a great job.

Before you go down the stairs, you see the silhouette you’ve wished to see.

“Jimmy.” You ran down to hug him.

“You're okay. I'm so glad.” Jimmy sighed, relieved; then he talked in his serious voice, "I know we're desperate but not this desperate to make a deal with him."

The moment he woke up, he punched one of the soldiers. No wonder why the car chasing is too much. It was Hansen Security who got hired. He heard about the company. They are famous as gruesome and heartless mercenaries. They will use every method to finish their job.

He was confused, and even though the soldier got hit, he wasn't mad. It turns out you made a deal with their boss. The money you offered was insane. But to you, money is not the issue.

"I care for you like my own kid. I don’t want you to get hurt."

You want to cry when he says that. You've known him since your grandfather was still alive. He's a man of loyalty, and you're grateful for that.

"This is why I made a deal with him. I don't want to lose you. Even though we're not related by blood. But to me you're family.”

Jimmy sighed again because you were right. There's nothing else you can do.

“Ehem, pardon me for interrupt. But boss wants to see you both.”

The soldier guides both of you to the room. He opened it with a passcode. When the door opened, you were awed by how many screens were inside and computers.

“Sir, the honored guest is here.”

Lloyd was looking at the screen when he turned around and became quiet when he saw you. The stylist he hired did a great job. You look different... in a good way.

He cleared his throat. “I want to show you something.”

You saw the screen behind him.

“Before we start planning to made your relative suffer, there’s another thing you should know.”

A picture of a news article and a photo of a wrecked car is shown.

“Car accident that happened 19 years ago."

Your body flinched when you saw the pictures. It's a taboo topic. Nobody around you will try to open the Pandora box.

But this man… just opens the source of your trauma.

Jimmy was ready to destroy the hardware if you asked him to. Because this is your nightmare.

On the other hand, Lloyd discovers new facial expressions from you. He likes looking at you as being weak. Lloyd wants to punish you a little bit. He still holds a grudge when you humiliated him last night.

"I found the missing driver.”

“They made it look like an accident. But I found the driver and the person who hired him."

"Who?!!" You've been looking for the answer but always found a dead end.

"The eldest child from your 3rd aunt's family."

Your cousin? That most spoiled person you've ever known?

You remembered another cousin making fun of him, saying he needed a nanny to wipe his ass until he was ten. He couldn't even pass every test unless his parents bribed the schools.

You heard he worked as a notary, but he was stupid. The land he handled for a mega project doesn't have a permit. While the investors had put their money. For sure, they sued him.

He came to your grandfather, begging and crying for help.

He was the last person you could ever think of.

"Your aunt and her husband get rid of all the traces."

Lloyd's words hit you like blows to the chest, and each of them made you lose breath. You always want to know the truth, but the pain is too much. You struggle to stand on your own feet.

"Yeah…, there's …no way…. he can work ….alone."

Lloyd noticed you start panting, your eyes not focusing anymore on the screen.

"What about…my other… family? Do they… know?"

"All of them are working together. "

"Urgh." The pain in your chest became unbearable. So their condolences at your parents' funeral are an act of pity? And your grandfather?

That's when you realized.

Oh, God.

Your grandfather knew the TRUTH. That's why he chose you as the successor to forgive his children.

Your vision becomes blurry, your legs wobble, and it feels like the floor is moving.

Lloyd moved fast when he noticed you couldn't stand on your feet. He caught you before you fell.

Your hand clenched his shirt to make him bend down. Your face and his were so close that you could feel his breath.

You saw his expression, he was not worried, but you could feel he was amused seeing your reaction. This bastard does this on purpose cause yesterday you embarrassed him.

There’s no way you would cry in front of this psycho.

"Forgot… what I said….last night. I want them…gone."

Lloyd smirked. His hand removed yours that was holding his shirt. He touched your knuckles and kissed them gently. "As you wish my dear wife."

A/N: What do you guys think about this chapter? If you have any ideas for part 3, please tell me. It will be helpful.

Don't be shy if you want to be tagged for part 3. 😄💕

This chapter is from Lloyd Hansen's Series - 3 Billion Divorce.

And check out my other stories from Masterlist.

Check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Extra Story

Tag list :

@jasminxts @alchemxx @imsolatetothegame @thorinsmistress @bree-lyrie @another-tblr-fangirl @buckysteveloki-me @motivation-idontknowher @cherrybubblebullet @supraveng @avery199 @evansce1 @ridingthehotmessexpress @hoely-maria @katymae12344 ara-theo @rebeccapineapple @spikeluv84

#llyod hansen x y/n #lloyd hansen x fic #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x fem!reader #lloyd hansen #soft!dark lloyd hansen imagine #the grey man #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x reader #chris evans characters #3billiondivorce #soft!dark lloyd hansen x y/n #soft!dark lloyd hansen #soft!dark lloyd hansen x reader #dark!lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen x reader

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moniquill · 11 days

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youtube

Watership Down - first the film, then the book, is one of the most formative media influences in my life. I’ve written about it briefly, here https://i-blame.tumblr.com/post/69030937937/moniquill-moniquill-kucala-moniquill

but having watched the above video essay, I want to say more.

The first time I saw a deer up close was in my grandfather’s back yard; I was about four years old. I don’t remember the reason that my mom dropped me off at my grandfather’s house for an afternoon, but I know that it was unplanned - because he was in the middle of processing a deer. It had been field dressed, organs already removed, and was hanging by its ankle tendons from the t-shaped steel pole at one end of the backyard clothesline. I was startled, worried, concerned that the animal was hurt. There was blood! There was flesh!

My grandfather responded by calmly explaining what he was doing, step by step. Explaining why he was skinning the deer, and quartering it, taking it from this https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White-tailed_deer to this https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venison

He talked about hunting, and about gratitude, and about humans and our proper place in the world - what meant to live in a good way.

By the time my grandfather was cooking tenderloin medallions and plating them up to me with grape jelly (don’t knock grape jelly on meat until you’ve tried it!) and instant mashed potatoes, I wasn’t startled or concerned anymore. I had a deeper understanding of the way the world worked, of my role as a consumer, a predator. Of the responsibilities that entailed. I couldn’t have explained it then, of course, with my 4-year-old mind and vocabulary - but Philosophy had been set into motion. This is a core memory for me.

I did not have nightmares about the butchered deer.

I was six when I first saw Disney’s Bambi. I DID have nightmares about that; between Bambi and The Land Before Time, I was absolutely convinced that my mother was going to die. That I was being presented with these media themes to educate and prepare me for that eventuality. I am the youngest daughter of a youngest daughter, and I have an extended tribal family. My grandfather died when I was six. His was one of many funerals I attended at that age; his generation succumbing to age and illness. I was aware of mortality.

I wasn’t a ‘normal’ child, by the standard of the community that I went to school in. I was too poor, too indigenous, too very obviously autistic (without being diagnosed). I had very different media influences and interests than the other kids at my public school. No one else was deeply obsessed with David Attenborough’s documentaries (Life on Earth 1979, The Living Planet 1984, Lost Worlds, Vanished Lives 1989). No one else had even heard of Dot and the Whale. No one else in my class had Lifeways Lessons classes, because they didn’t have tribes.

I wasn’t terribly interested in most media intended for children; it was boring because it was simple. I didn’t feel motivated to watch Disney movies over and over. Don Bleuth films had more staying power in my mind; An American Tale, All Dogs Go To Heaven, The Land Before Time. More complex stories, stories that confront suffering and death. My mom read me CS Lewis and JRR Tolkein, Jack London and EB White - lots of other stories that were not ‘age appropriate’, stories that were written for People, not Children.

I watched Watership Down for the first time when I was about five, and my mom read the book to me when I was about six. I was not disturbed by the violence, being far more interested in the themes explored in the video essay above. I had, by this time, seen a rabbit skinned IRL. I’d eaten rabbit stew.

I did not have nightmares about Watership Down.

I failed to make friends with the kids at school, for the most part - I primarily socialized with my cousins. In fourth grade (age 9), my class did a unit on tropical rainforests, and I brought in this video: I did not think that there was anything at all controversial about it, but at about 32 minutes in David Attenborough talks about the Guarani people and their traditional ways of life. There’s footage of an unclothed man climbing a tree. His penis is briefly visible. THE CLASS WENT WILD, and the teacher rushed to turn the video off, and I was sent to the office. It caused a school-wide incident, and bringing in videos was thereafter banned. I was deeply, deeply confused by this series of events. The video had come from the public library - how could it possible be offensive? But the incident became a vector of bullying that followed me until middle school - the adults had confirmed to the kids that I had done something taboo, that I was fundamentally wrong in some way. I quietly came to the conclusion that Most People(™) are very stupid and very reactionary, that one has to carefully coddle and explain things to them.

It took me many years to only mostly overcome that conclusion.

Later that same year, I had my first real success in making a childhood friend - someone who came to my house after school and had sleepovers and such. She had transferred from another school and didn’t know I was THE WEIRD GIRL the way my other classmates did. I remember trying to introduce my favorite movies to her, as she introduced her favorites to me. She was a Horse Girl(™) and much more interested in Age Appropriate Girl Things than I was, but we shared a love of My Little Pony - I had a bunch of episodes on VHS, recorded off TV. She thought that https://mylittleponyg1.fandom.com/wiki/Rescue_at_Midnight_Castle was ‘too scary’ and preferred https://mylittleponyg1.fandom.com/wiki/My_Little_Pony:_The_Movie.

I showed her Watership Down. She freaked out about it. It gave her nightmares.

She was, as many people, deeply disturbed by the violence of the film. She had not, at the age of nine, seen animals butchered. She didn’t seem to care about the deeper meanings and philosophical treatises presented; the fact that there was violence and death was too shocking.

I’m not sure how to conclude this essay, except with this: Watership Down is now a litmus test, for me. If a person is aware of it and appreciates it, we’re intellectual compatible. If a person’s whole reaction is shock and disgust and cries of ‘nightmare fuel!’ then we are not.

#watership down #media censorship #media for children #media for adults #Youtube

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wardenparker · 8 months

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The King's Queen - chapter 6

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Prince Javier of the Balearic Islands has always known that one day he would have to follow in his father's footsteps to be the caring and steadfast king that his people deserve. What he did not know is that he would be stepping into the next phase of his life alongside a woman he has never met before - and amidst a rocky sea of unusual circumstances of every kind.

Rating: Mature, but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 11.4k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this series: arranged marriage, age gap, classicism, cursing, food and alcohol, mentions of American politics, deceased parents* So much more fluff with no apologies in sight. But also, discussions of death/deceased parent, investigations, and medications. Summary: A stressful breakfast is followed by even more stressful meetings for King Javier, but the sharing of a drink together each night is becoming tradition. Notes: Warning tags are DELIBERATELY VAGUE this week, my darlings. If you want a full disclosure of tags, containing spoilers, feel free to slide into my DMs before you read.

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5

The two days that pass seem to be in a push-and-pull relationship with time. Appointments drag, the clock seems to tick slower and slower every moment, but then the second that you have time with Javi time flies past you in a blink. A few guests have arrived to stay at the palace during the official week of mourning so your meals have been more formal, but you’re starting to settle into the routine. Today is different, but it will be good. Today your brother is arriving, and you practically run to the breakfast room after Flores helps you dress in an appropriate black dress with subdued jewelry. To go out you’ll need a hat and veil, but that will wait. For now, you’re eager to see Javi again after having spent another night in his arms in your bed.

Javi has already had a meeting. Three of them, in fact. Finding it highly irregular to have Lucas demanding an audience before breakfast, he had told his man to have him come to his dressing room. Discreetly staying behind to attend the meeting as his cousin had raged that the King’s body has not yet been displayed for his state funeral.

“Good morning.” His eyes light up when he sees you rushing towards him with a smile on your face.

“Good morning, mi amor.” It doesn’t matter to you that other people are in the room already, you walk directly to his arms and kiss his cheek. “How has your morning been?”

“Interesting.” He murmurs quietly and glances over at where his cousin is making himself comfortable at the breakfast table by demanding hotter tea.

His gaze tells you everything it needs to, and you offer him a pinched smile. If you were wary of Count Lucas Gutierrez of Ibiza at first glance, you can readily say now that you loathe and wish you could avoid the man. He is demanding, slimy, and arrogant. A narcissist. And of course all the things that go hand-in-hand with that. Instead of remarking on it though, you nod, and take your place to Javi’s left side at the table. “I have the first meeting with the wedding planner after lunch today,” you remind him conversationally as a footman sets your plate in front of you and another immediately appears to pour your coffee. Being served is still new and uncomfortable for you but you thank both men for doing their duties. “And Sebastian is arriving this morning.”

“Is it wise to bring in a foreigner?” Lucas has obviously been listening, even if he is a few seats away. Removed from his normal seat and pissy about it. “I mean,” he gives a flat smile that is meant to be charming but there is a cruel light to his eyes. “The position as personal assistant to the queen is one of high honor. What message would it send to give it to an American?”

“That the future queen is cognizant of the importance of family and the connection between the crown and her own parents, and that is why her brother has had the appointment.” Maisie drolls, sipping her own coffee as though Lucas were no more than a fly on the wall. “He is not getting a cabinet appointment, he will be managing her calendar. They are very different things.” Additionally, Julius has already arranged a member of staff to be the support person for the approaching wedding and coronation, to make sure that cultural expectations are met. The whole thing is actually remarkably well organized right out of the gate.

“Besides.” Javi adds. “The Queen’s personal assistant is just that – personal.” He smiles at you. “Just because I was comfortable with keeping Julius on does not mean that I could not have chosen someone else. There’s not been a Queen’s personal assistant since my mother’s death.”

“It will be a very smart decision, I am sure.” Maisie nods as if to dismiss any more question of the topic and picks up her fork to start eating only after the king does.

The way that Lucas smiles makes Gabriela stiffen beside you and her head ducks down even more towards her plate. Aware that his smile is not meant to be comforting. “Of course.” He coos, syrupy sweet. “I am only looking out for the optics of your reign, cousin. It is a heavy burden to carry for anyone, especially you.”

Looking up, you frown to see Gabriela looking spurned and Lucas gleaming with slick confidence beside her. If this keeps up you’ll be seating them on the opposite side of the table at meals. “All the more reason to surround ourselves with people we trust,” you tell him with a breezy air that belies the fact that you don’t trust him as far as you can throw him.

The silence over the breakfast table is a second too long before Lucas answers. “Of course.” He agrees, waving his hand like it was the natural answer.

“I trust everyone will be prepared for the formal processional to the cathedral tomorrow?” Javi had insisted on delaying the ceremony for a proper examination of his father’s body to be performed, and as such it will technically be a day late. The examination is necessary, though, to everyone’s mind. Everyone except Lucas, but Javi will have to tell you about that later.

“It should be today.” Lucas scoffs but shakes his head. “King Miguel will lie in state for the country to mourn.”

“We will be prepared.” Maisie assures you, steadily ignoring Lucas as she eats her breakfast. “Gabriela and I will be beside you, princessa.”

“I appreciate you both immensely.” Without admitting it in front of Lucas, you are fully grateful for their presence in your first true appearance as princess. So far the country has only heard your name, nothing more.

Javi is thinking along those same lines. “I am sorry that your first appearance must be my father’s funeral.”

"There are far worse circumstances we could be in, amor." You set your hand over his on the table momentarily and give it a supportive squeeze. "I am glad you don't have to face the occasion alone."

“It has been a difficult time for us all.” He smiles softly and is happy that you don’t let Lucas get to you. The man’s anger at the examination of his father’s body surprised him and now he doesn’t know what to think. Delaying the viewing by a day isn’t too much to ask.

"Have you decided how long you will wait to crown your princess?" That thought, at least, is happy, but it is surprising coming from Gabriela. Firstly because you did not think she would want to contemplate Javi committing to you more fully, but also because she rarely speaks when her husband is present.

“I have not decided.” Javi admits. “We could do the coronation on the same day as the wedding. But I do not know if Margarita would want that.” He knows a wedding day is special, and a coronation is as well. He doesn’t want you to feel as if the wedding is overshadowed by the affairs of state.

“Apologies, your Majesty.” Maisie smiles easily, not wanting Gabriela to feel embarrassed in front of her husband. “The Contessa is eager to celebrate a new princess. We know that the wedding is still being planned.” In fact, both women are an integral part of the planning process already. “But to elevate the princessa to Crowned Princess can be done simply, no?”

“Yes, you are right.” Javi sends Gabriela a small smile. “Perhaps we should crown the princess the day after the King’s funeral? Give the people a little light in such a dark time? What do you ladies think?”

“Very appropriate.” Maisie praises, looking pleased with the change of topic. “Perhaps in the gardens? It would be lovely, and very lively.”

“When your mother was crowned, there were sweets and a string quartet.” You remember reading all about it and seeing the pictures in online archives. “Maybe…we could pay tribute to her in a small way? Use the rose garden as she did?”

“I would like that.” Javi nods, swallowing harshly as he thinks of how considerate you are. “You should wear her tiara.” He suggests. “Unless you would like to pick another. Her first tiara was always her favorite. It has been in the family for over four hundred years.”

“I will wear whatever you like best.” Sentimental value, cultural value, all of it is wonderful. What matters most to you is making the statement that you are here to support Javi as he cares for his people. Your people. “I will add a meeting with the appropriate members of our staff for this morning. That is one less thing from your plate, querido. Maisie and Gabriela will help me make sure that it is perfect.”

“Tonight, perhaps we can visit the dungeon?” He asks you with a smirk. “That is where the Royal Jewels are kept.” He explains after a moment when it’s obvious you are confused.

“After dinner?” You suggest with a smile. If you go off together after dinner then there will be no detaching yourselves from other – presumably last minute – questions or issues. You can simply climb into bed together afterward.

“I think that is a perfect way to end the evening.” Javi hums and Maisie can’t help but giggle. “Of course it is.” She announces to the table. “It’s every girl's dream to play with priceless, royal jewels.”

The entendre is not lost on you, and you almost choke on the sip of coffee you had just taken. Narrowing your eyes at her across the table, you manage to barely swallow your smirk. “I am sure the Crown Jewels will be treated with the utmost respect,” you answer, knowing that Javi is not likely to be in the mood for anything besides more cuddling on the night before his father’s funeral.

“The utmost respect.” She agrees with a small wink, ignoring the way that Lucas pouts because the conversation is not going the way that he wants.

Julius appears, oblivious to the barely contained giggles radiating from yourself and Dama Maisie, and moves to Javi's side silently. "Your Majesty," he murmurs only when he has reached the space between you and Javi at the table. "My apologies for the intrusion, but your next meeting is in a few minutes."

“I am afraid I must leave you.” Javi stands and leans over to kiss your cheek.

“Cousin, I can attend in your place.” Lucas jumps to his feet, abandoning his own breakfast. “So you do not have to worry about such things.”

There is a moment where the entire table pauses, all heads turning to look at the count in confusion. The outburst is entirely unprompted and more than that, it is unwanted. "The king can attend his own meetings, but your generous offer to help is duly noted." Turning back to Javi, you place a kiss on his cheek in turn and give him an encouraging smile. "If you are able to join us for lunch I will be very happy to see you, but otherwise we will catch up on our meetings at supper tonight. Have a good and productive day, mi amor."

He nods and along with Julius, quickly disappears out of the breakfast room. “That was odd, was it not?” Javi asks his assistant as they walk down the hall. As his father’s assistant, he would be around Lucas more when the count was working closely with King Miguel.

“I wish I could agree, your Majesty.” Julius walks half a step behind him, as is traditional, but makes sure to keep his voice low. “But it is far from the first time that the count has offered to take up royal duties unsolicited.”

Javi stops and turns towards Julius with his head tilted slightly, a frown on his face. “He was often around the palace.” He realizes. “Did he spend much time asking for additional duties from the king?”

Careful not to sound as though he is passing judgment of any kind, Julius does nod and urges the king to keep walking. “He has been desirous of a cabinet position,” he explains as matter-of-factly as possible. “For quite some time.”

“What were the king's thoughts on this?” It’s easier to think of his father as ‘the king’ right now. Allowing him to compartmentalize like Miguel had told him he would need to once he had taken the throne.

“That…” Julius pauses, recollecting King Miguel’s exact words with care. “Until he could be desirous of the position because of an urge to help instead of an urge for power, it would not be allowed.”

“I see.” The journey to the room where he was having his meeting continues as he thinks about this carefully. “Who is the meeting with?” He asks, the meetings over the past days jumbling together through his grief.

“This is the cultural attaché, your Majesty.” It does not phase him one iota that the new king seems to have forgotten — having constant demands on your attention would make any man’s memory blur. “With the sculptor who will be creating the statue in your late father’s memory. They are bringing miniature models for you to choose the tribute you think is most appropriate.”

“I see.” He knows that it is important he chooses the best one. “The meeting with my father’s doctor is later today though?”

“It will be after the attaché.” Julius replies with a nod. “I knew you would be anxious to hear the results, so it will be this morning.”

“Good.” Javi nods. “After that meeting, I wish to speak to the cabinet members. Convey the information myself.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” Toying with the king’s schedule is nothing new to his assistant. He will make whatever King Javier needs happen with the least fuss possible.

“Are we pushing anything too vital?” He is aware that he will be incredibly busy during the transition, but he wants to give any news to his cabinet personally. Most of them served with King Miguel and he felt he owed them that courtesy.

“Not if you do not mind taking a working lunch, sire.” Just because King Miguel had a habit of working through meals did not mean that King Javier would be the same way, and Julius wants to make sure he knows which rules are hard and fast for the new monarch. If meals with his fiancée are a priority, Julius will do everything he can to make it happen.

“I think that as long as you can assure that I have dinner with Margarita, then working through lunch should not be an issue.” He knows that he will have to make some sacrifices and changes, especially in the early days of his reign so he is successful.

“That is what will happen, then.” Filing away that lunch meetings are acceptable but dinner with the future queen is a priority, Julius nods and walks with the king into his office. “I will show in your next appointment, sire.”

The king’s working office isn’t a throne room like so many envision. Perhaps in the days of old, but the large office is functional. The desk is nearly three hundred years old, made from hardwood that has been lovingly polished and maintained. The heavy leather chairs that sit in front of it are meant to be comfortable and yet be slightly imposing. He had been in them many a time and can attest to that when his father was still sitting on the other side.

Julius escorts an elegant woman of around thirty into the room along with the cultural attaché that Javi has met many times at various events over the last ten years or so. Both parties show their reverence with a deep curtsy and a bow, respectively, and the woman carries a large case in her nervous hands.

“Good morning.” Javi is nervous as he shows her over towards the separate area that is less formal than the desk. The couches and coffee table were picked by his grandmother, although his mother had them recovered after he was out of his toddler phase. “Please, sit. Would you like a refreshment?”

The woman shakes her head politely and manages a smile. Her case is heavy and she sets it on the floor to open it carefully. “Thank you for making time for us, your Majesty. We know your schedule is a busy one.”

“A statue in honor and celebration of King Miguel is very important to me.” He promises as he watches her carefully. “His reign should be memorialized for the people.”

"In that, your Majesty, I believe we are in agreement." In extracting her figurines from her case, she sets them carefully on the coffee table between her and the king. "The late King Miguel, may he rest in peace, was very involved with the growth of King's College on Menorca. They have offered us a place on their campus for his tribute with your approval."

He takes his time, wondering how many hours have been put into these figurines. Picking up one and his lip trembles slightly when he sees how perfectly it resembles his father when he was a younger man. “They are exquisite.”

"I—thank you, sire." The young woman is very aware of her own abilities, but the unsolicited compliment makes her practically tremble with pride. "I was a recipient of the arts scholarship at King's College that His Majesty King Miguel, may he rest in peace, made in your mother's name after she passed. So you see...without their generosity I might never have been able to pursue my dream. And so this means a great deal to me, as well."

“Then it is fitting that you create this statue.” He’s touched by the story. “And include that story underneath your name on the plaque.”

"If I may, sire?" The young woman picks up the figurine that depicts King Miguel standing, with one hand resting over his heart and the other holding a book in its palm. He is wearing his most habitual choice of crown and there is a flower in his breast pocket. "The flower is called a Gloria cosmo," she explains, pointing it out carefully. "For Queen Gloria, may she rest in peace. And the book..." She smiles shyly. "I wondered if you might know his favourite book. It is not something that was widely known."

He smiles softly, knowing this is the one that he wants for him. “One Hundred Years of Solitude.” He answers quietly, his thumb brushing over the figure. “I think that I wish for this to be the statue, but—” he looks up at her. “I wish to ask a question.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” The artist nods immediately. “Anything.”

“I want to know how much for all of the figures. These.” He asks, biting his lip. “I want to buy them.”

“Your Majesty I could not possibly.” Within seconds she is shaking her head and motioning for him to take the figures right away. “It would be my honour to give them to you. And the final statue will have a likeness of Marquez’s masterpiece in his hand.”

“No, I must pay you.” He insists. “You have spent considerable time on these.”

“Perhaps…” A small smile graces her lips thinking that the new king might cherish these statuettes of his father, made by her own hands. “Perhaps you might remember my name when the guest list for a royal event comes up. Your Majesty is one of the only people in the world who can actually pay in exposure.”

He cocks his head to the side and he hums. "I see." He leans back and weighs the figurine in his hand as he looks towards the others still sitting on the edge of the case. "Then I will have another request of you?"

The young woman looks to the man she came in with – the cultural attaché who had worked with King Miguel for numerous years. When the man seems be as confused as she is, she simply turns back to the king and nods. "Of course, sire."

"The princess, my— the future queen, will be Crowned in the gardens the day after my father's funeral." He explains. "I would like you there. And if I may ask another favor, I would like a figurine of that moment. Her first moment wearing the Crown of Mallorca." He gives a small smile. "As a wedding present to her."

She melts in her seat, one hand over her heart in almost the same expression as the statue she has created. "It will be a momentous occasion," she murmurs, quietly in awe. "And it is a very romantic gift. I will make certain that it perfect."

"That, I must insist on there being payment." Javi tells her. "No matter how much you offer it as a gift."

"As your Majesty wishes." It will mean a great and meaningful commission for her, to have done two pieces for the crown, and she nods gratefully. "If there is anything specific you wish to be included in the image, it would be useful to know ahead of time," she tells him then, taking out the sketchbook that she had brought in case the king did not approve of any of her designs and she needed to start from scratch. "A material you might prefer, or a favourite stone of the princess's?"

"I think we should use local limestone." Javi frowns slightly and looks towards the artist with a curious expression. "Would that be too hard? Too soft? I had thought marble, but I think that it would be more symbolic that way."

"Limestone is perfect because it is soft." The young artist assures her king. "That is what makes it desirable for my craft. I will plan to use limestone as you suggest, sire. It will be a beautiful tribute to your princess." She, like everyone else in the country, was surprised to hear of a princess's existence but that surprise has become intrigue. No one ever thought that Prince Javier would settle down, and now it seems that he has found his match.

"Good." He sits back, relieved that he had chosen correctly and a small hum of pleasure comes out of his throat. "I will make sure that my assistant gets your contact information and you are formally invited."

"Thank you very much, your Majesty." She is beaming at him as she clasps her empty case shut again and stands with the older man who had shown her in. She curtsies again and it is surer this time – the nervous shake of anxiety gone from her posture and replaced with excitement.

"Come," Julius motions toward the door they had entered mere minutes ago. "I will collect your information and make sure you are added to the formal invitation lists." He will, without mentioning it for now, add this charming young woman to all of the guest lists for the foreseeable future. It will be good to have new faces in attendance and especially those who represent the next generation of the kingdom's future.

Javi continues to stare at the figurines of his father, noting the craftsmanship and the way that he can practically see his father's face in the material. Making him miss the man even more and he sighs as he picks up the entire set to bring over to the bookshelf behind his desk.

When Julius returns a few minutes later, he is nearly silent while he observes the new king at his desk, only clearing his throat when he is certain that he will not disturb or frighten the young king with his appearance. "The royal physician is here, your Majesty."

Theres a slight sense of dread that curls in the pit of his stomach, wanting to make him refuse the visit. As absurd as it is considering he had asked the doctor to meet with him. Insisted upon it. Now that the moment is here, he cannot shy away from it. A document with his father's seal is under his fingertips as he looks down, admiring the decisive signature. "Send him in." He nods, pushing down the childish fear and facing the truth to come.

Julius nods, retreating for only a moment before reappearing with Dr. Garza. The man's presence is a familiar one for Javi, as he has been the Royal family's primary physician for nearly ten years, but today he is nervous and his movements stunted. He almost looks scared. "Your Majesty," he murmurs, bowing deeply to the new king.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me.” Javi is very aware that the doctor is a very busy man and just because he is king does not mean the people come at his beck and call. His father has continuously reminded him that the monarchy was there to serve them, not the other way around. “Can I offer you a drink?”

"I think it would be best...to abstain, sire." Dr. Garza steps forward again and Julius motions for him to sit, but the doctor remains standing. "I am scheduled to examine your fiancée after this meeting and I would hate for any impairment in my judgement to lead to an undesirable result."

At first, Javi frowns, immediately wondering if there is something wrong in the short time you have been apart. Only to realize why the doctor would be examining you. "I see." He clears his throat and knows that he shouldn't argue against the tradition, knowing that you have been run through full physicals already in the US, but of course his own country would demand their own examination.

"I am sure the princess is in perfect health. It is only a matter of custom," the doctor assures him, but shifts nervously again on the rug.

"Is there something upsetting you?" Javi asks, motioning towards the couches in case the doctor wished for a more informal setting. Some do no like to feel as if they are called onto the carpet, he knows that too well.

"Your Majesty, the final examination of your father..." Dr. Garza gulps down a heavy sigh. "It yielded something...unexpected."

"Had the cancer spread?" He asks softly, his eyes betraying the hurt of losing his father so quickly after finding out about his sickness. If only there had been more time.

"Well...yes...sire." Garza licks his lips nervously and extracts an envelope from the pocket of his jacket which lists all of the official findings in medical specificity. It is his job to put those findings into layman's terms. "The cancer had spread. With what I found, I would have optimistically have given your father three-to-six more weeks. However...the advancement of his disease is not what I was referring to as unexpected."

Three-to-six more weeks. Less time than he had been told, more time than he had. Javi looks over at the figurines on the bookshelf. "What else would be unexpected?" He asks softly, unsure of much medically.

"There was a medicine found in your father's blood work that was not prescribed to him." Though Garza hesitates to use the term drug, that is technically correct. He just knows that it has negative connotations so he says 'medicine' instead. "It is a prescription medication that neither I nor any of the doctors at the hospital ever recommended or prescribed for him. And it..." Garza shifts in his seat. "It is not something that we would have recommended for him either, given that it often does not interact well with the chemotherapy medication that he was properly prescribed."

Silence fills the office for a long moment, Javi absorbing the news and feeling the way that his stomach churns. "He was...he was poisoned?" He manages after a moment. "Is that what you are telling me? The king was murdered."

"It is not strictly what I would call a poisoning, sire." Dr. Garza interjects quickly, feeling panic strangle his own heart in a moment of intense irony. "But we need to determine where and how the king obtained this warfarin. You see..." Gods help him, he has to explain this to the man's son... "It was in the bottle that he had in his pocket. But the label was different. So either the king had replaced his diazepam with the warfarin that caused the blood clots that killed him...or someone else did."

"My father did not like taking medication." Javi reveals, frowning as he looks down at his hands, trying to think of what could have possibly happened. "He took what he had to, but he – he wouldn't – there's no way he would change his medications out." It feels like his chest is tightening and he shakes his head. "I— no, he couldn't have – Julius—" He turns towards the man who probably spent more time with the King than anyone else.

"An investigation will have to be opened." Julius advises solemnly, the tightness in his voice betraying just how troubling he finds this fact. "This could only have been done by someone close to the king, so I can only imagine that the royal guard will want to undertake the investigation personally. And as quietly as possible." He shakes his head, knowing that he will be a primary focus on the investigation early on. He hardly ever left King Miguel's side for the last few months. "As quietly as possible, sire," he advises again. "Or else whoever did this may flee."

Javi's eyes close and he takes a moment, needing it to relearn how to breathe. "Make it happen." He orders, opening his eyes again to look up at his assistant.

"Yes, your Majesty." Julius motions to Dr. Garza that the meeting is over, ushering him from the room, when he returns a moment later after escorting the doctor out of the ante-office, he returns with a solemn, drawn expression. "I would not mention this to anyone beside the princess," Julius cautions, knowing that the new king has chosen his wife-to-be to keep his secrets. "We cannot yet know who was involved."

"I don't know if I can tell her." Javi admits. The truth of this is just too horrific, but he doesn't know if he can honestly keep it to himself.

"This is a heavy fact to carry on your own, sire." Julius warns, though he understands that it is difficult to process. Or to speak the words aloud. "I would offer myself to keep this secret, but I know that I will be investigated heavily because of how close I was to your father. They will suspect me immediately simply because I had access to him." Shaking his head, Julius stands in front of the young king and his voice turns firm. "May I speak freely, your Majesty?" He asks with caution.

"I don't believe that you would have murdered my father." Javi admits quietly, not really meaning to speak his mind, but he is too off kilter to guard his words right now and he would rather be frank. "You loved him, there would have been nothing for you to gain." He frowns and remembers that the other man had asked to speak freely. "Yes, please speak your mind."

"That was all I was going to say," Julius murmurs, sitting down across from the younger man with a soft, melancholy smile. "That I loved your father very much, and that all of the best things in my life were things that he had had a hand in. He encouraged me to better myself, even in his employ, and even introduced me to my wife. I—" Julius shakes his head again. "I cannot possibly express my gratitude for everything your father did for me. So no, your Majesty. I never would have wanted him to leave this world. Not ever."

He had never known that. Not that his father had caused the introduction between Julius and his beloved wife. "I know." Javi nods. "I know that you would never harm him. But I need to know who would."

"Unfortunately, there are many candidates." It is not something anyone ever likes to contemplate – the thing that would cause someone to actually commit murder – and Julius shifts in his seat to look King Javier in the eyes. "But we will find the person who did. I am sure of it."

"I will be investigated as well." Javi seems almost surprised when he realizes that. "They will look into me for my father's death."

"Yes." Again, Julius nods. "And your princess, as well. But you will both be quickly eliminated. They will only suspect you formally so that they can say they overturned every possible angle." He does not believe that the young king had any hand in the misdeed whatsoever and he knows that the guard will not believe it either.

"Perhaps it is a good." He leans forward and wipes his face with his hand. "Looking at everyone. I don't want this person to get away with this."

"I cannot imagine that anyone does." Reluctantly, Julius stands again and smooths the trousers of his suit carefully. "I will bring the Head of the Guard to you, unless you would like some time to yourself before having that discussion?"

"Give me two minutes." Javi tells him quietly. He knows that he cannot fall apart, not now. He will wait until he has time alone with you.

"Of course, your Majesty." Julius goes out, intent on ordering a cup of tea from the kitchens to be delivered to the king immediately. There are some things that are just good for the soul, and that includes tea when one is upset.

The window of the study is actually a set of French doors that lead off to the rear of the palace, overlooking the gardens. He wonders how many times his father had decided to take a stroll to clear his mind.

For a few moments he stares off into the middle distance, contemplating taking a walk himself, before his personal cell phone buzzes in his pocket. It is not often that he gets a message there since few people actually have the number, but when your name flashes across the screen it is the best possible scenario for someone contacting him.

Margarita: Just wanted to see how you're doing and make sure that you're remembering to breathe. Te amo, querido! Julius says you're working through lunch, so I will see you for dinner tonight. ❤

He smiles down at the screen, already feeling slightly relieved at the message you sent him. Not knowing how you manage to do it, but you had an uncanny knack about putting him at ease. He takes a breath and types back his own message.

I am looking forward to dinner and even more, to sleeping in your arms again. I love you.

******

After breakfast, Flores quietly comes to your left shoulder and leans down. “Your Highness, the plane is twenty minutes out. Would you like to meet it on arrival? I can have one of the drivers take you in the car or in the boat if you would prefer.” She asks softly, making sure an obviously curious Lucas cannot overhear her.

“The boat would be wonderful.” To show your brother his first glimpse of the palace the same way you saw it sounds perfect, and it will be a little faster than taking a car. More direct, at least. Given the fact that you’re supposed to meet with the royal physician this morning, you can’t dally too much in picking up Sebastian.

“Of course, your Highness.” Flores loves the role of temporary assistant but doesn’t begrudge the addition of your brother to help manage your day to day affairs. She will be working closely with him and wonders what he is like. Hopefully he will be as kind as you are. “I will have the footmen travel to the airport with a truck large enough to carry back any and all personal items your brother might have brought.” She curtsies slightly and quickly backs away to carry out her tasks.

“Well, it seems as if that is my cue.” You had sat at the breakfast table with Maisie, Gabriela, and Lucas a little longer after Javi left for his meeting but it is time to get the day rolling. “Ladies, I will see you soon. Good morning, Count.”

Lucas narrows his eyes, wondering where you are scurrying off to. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark. “Gabriela.” He grunts. “Let’s go for a stroll in the gardens. It has been a while and I miss my wife.”

No one at the table believes that for a second, but Gabriela dutifully stands and excuses herself to follow him out the door. Maisie, left to her own devices until you return, decides to go and see what information she can put together on the style and color choices from the last few royal weddings as a resource for you. Reading and research are one of her strong suits and it will keep her busy for a time.

As promised, when you reach the dock, the same speedboat that had brought you across the small channel is waiting with a driver that is in a water friendly version of the drivers for all the palace cars. “Your Highness.” The swarthy man’s coloring is indicative of a man who spends his life on the water and he bows respectfully before he steps into the boat to offer you assistance climbing aboard. “The tower radioed. We will arrive five minutes before the jet lands if we push off now.”

“Thank you very much.” You are careful getting into the boat in a dress and heels but the man keeps you steady, waiting until you are seated to start off for the private landing strip at the airport. The sun is bright today but the weather is not too hot, making the breeze that blows over the water as your driver cuts through the waves seem very refreshing. If it were not for the impending funeral, you might be tempted to call the day’s atmosphere perfect. But there is much to do before perfect can even be thought of.

There’s not to be much conversation as the boat slices through the water but the driver cannot help but look back to check on the newest Princess. Curious about you and he smiles when he sees that you are soaking up the sun with your head back and your eyes closed for a moment. It seems as though you have a bit of the Prince’s spirit and that is a good thing in his opinion.

Sea air helps immensely as you try to shake off the mood Lucas left over the breakfast table, and by the time Valentino – you asked his name – cuts the boat’s engine at the dock you’re feeling much better. Sebastian’s arrival is only five minutes away and the only thing to remember is not to squeak and run down the strip to hug him. That would be…slightly less than dignified.

“I will wait with the boat, your Highness.” Valentino tells you before motioning towards the boat. “Would you like a drink while you wait?”

“If you tell me that you have a bar stashed in his boat somewhere, I shall be very entertained to see that one day.” You smile, and when the older man chuckles, you laugh with him. “Thank you, Valentino, but I am just fine. I will return to you with our other passenger in a few minutes.”

“Yes, your highness.” He smiles and bows again. There is a small bar built into the back of the control panel and perhaps the prince will show you since he loves to drive the boat around. For now, he will wait for you to return.

The jet is just taxiing on the runway when you reach it, and the difference between this morning and when you arrived a few days ago is stark. This morning you are wearing mourning clothes and a modest veil, but nothing in the world could disguise the ring on your finger or the way the guards on duty snap to attention when they see you. Your face has already been in the tabloids, so it is not exactly difficult for them to do so. Instead of saying anything you merely stand politely by, waiting for the door to open and expel your brother into the morning sun. Hopefully he’s slept on his flight. There is a lot to do today.

Sebastian adjusts his suit that he had quickly changed into. The jet had the bonus of a bedroom in it and he had been extremely grateful for the chance to try and sleep since he knows the first few days will be chaos. He will be learning a new regimen and new country in addition to dealing with a king’s death. Nodding to the stewardess, he thanks her and exits the jet, immediately looking around for his baby sister.

Stepping out into the middle of the runway once you see the familiar line of your brother’s trusty black suit, you give him a very polite wave instead of hopping forward like you want to. You’re on display now, and manners are everything, so as soon as Sebastian is in front of you, you mouth “Bow” at him silently. He looks at you with a half smirk before acquiescing, and only after that do you step forward with open arms to give your brother a hug.

It is very different having to bow to your sister, but Sebastian makes up for it with the crushing force of his hug. “God I missed you.” He admits, observing propriety by not swinging you around like he might have before. “How are you doing? How is he doing? What can I do to help?”

“I missed you too, Sebby.” The admittance and the force of hugging him is an enormous relief and you barely manage to stop yourself from giggling. “We’re doing pretty well, all things considered, but there is a lot to fill you in on. Let’s get back to the palace and I’ll get you as up-to-speed as I can until we’re alone. There is a lot going on.”

“Of course.” He nods and takes your arm. “Um…where is the car?” He asks, looking around and not seeing one.

“Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to give you the coolest arrival I possibly could?” You grin at him and steer him toward the docks, waving your arm grandly in presentation. “Valentino is taking us back in the boat, and you’re going to get the best view of the palace from the water. I promise.”

“Wow, seriously?” He asks, a boyish grin on his face as he takes in the sleek lines of the speedboat. “That’s mighty fancy, your Highness.” He teases. “All for little ol’ me?”

“Javi picked me up in it when I got here a few days ago.” And the mortification you felt at not recognizing him immediately is still burned into your brain. “But I figured…if you’re going to be working and living here, you might as well get the perks of how beautiful it is right off the bat.”

“That’s…incredibly romantic for a …how did you once put it?” Sebastian hums evilly. “I think you said that he was ‘a soulless, boring, impotent, stuck-up prick’.” He knows you were drunk and venting all your fears, but the soft smile on your face when you mention ‘Javi’ must be pounced on like only a sibling can.

“Oh my god, do not say shit like that out loud in public anymore,” you hiss, stifling a laugh because you know he’s quoting you exactly. “And for the record? I haven’t slept with him yet. I mean I’ve slept with him, like actual sleep, but his father just died. The mood is not exactly sexy.”

“But you want to.” That is surprising, considering you used to compare yourself to a sacrificial virgin having to be dragged to the marriage bed. You hadn’t been amused when he reminded you that you weren’t virginal.

“I—” Honestly you can’t even deny it, and you end up shrugging right before you get to the boat. “I really do. But I’ve waited this long. A little more time won’t kill me.”

“This long?” Your brother barks out a laugh. “He must be amazing.” He smirks. “My baby sister looks so happy.”

“He’s…really kind of extraordinary, if I’m honest.” You fluster as Valentino helps you into the boat and you settle back in your seat again. “I am happy, Sebby. I know it’s different than what I expected, but maybe that’s a good thing. Having my expectations subverted works for me, apparently.”

“Apparently.” He snorts, leaning back and watching you for a moment. “So, how are you handling it? You said you’re happy, but how’s the stress?”

"Some aspects are surprisingly less stressful than I had anticipated, others are more so." Motioning for him to sit down beside you, you thank Valentino as he sets off for the palace again without a word. "Like the first thing you'll be present for?" You murmur to your brother, lowering your voice. "Is an examination with the royal physician."

“Oh boy.” Seb pulls out his phone and opens his calendar. “Your last period was two and a half weeks ago, right?” He asks, confirming a date and then looking up at you for your answer.

"Yes, it was, and I am not going to pretend that your magical ability to always have chocolate and ice cream in the apartment at exactly the right time is not half my motivation for making you my personal assistant." That makes both of you laugh, and you get momentarily distracted by the shine of your engagement ring in the sunlight before you look back at your brother. "I'm...I'm honestly really glad you're here, Sebastian. The more I think about it, I don't know if I could do this without you."

“You’ll be running circles around me in no time, Princess.” He tells you with confidence. “You’ve always had the uncanny ability to immediately master something if you really want it. And this?” He cocks his head at you and gives you a brotherly smile. “You’ve decided that you want this.”

"I really do." It's almost a shock to your system to hear it put so bluntly, but you can't deny it. "He's wonderful. And he's going to be such a good king. Anything I can do to help him, I want to do all of it just to see him be brilliant at something so enormous."

“You will be brilliant at it as well.” Sebastian promises. “You have been born for this and now your heart is in it as well.”

"I think you'll like him." As the speedboat rounds the corner and the palace comes into view, you reach over and squeeze your brother's hand. "But first? Welcome to your new home."

“Oh wow.” His eyes widen and he has to stand, taking in the view is the magnificent palace, imagining that if it’s this stunning on the outside, it will be even more so on the inside. “It’s – you’re literally living out a fairy tale.”

"I really am." That releases a torrent of giggles from you, and you have to gather yourself up quickly to be princess-like again. Sebastian's reaction is everything to you, and you can't help but gaze up at the palace with the same awe. "Your room is technically in the staff wing but Javi let me choose the room myself. It's basically the size of our old apartment inside the palace."

“As it should be.” He decides, adopting a snooty tone playfully. “Seriously though? I’ll be fine anywhere as long as I have internet.”

"Fastest internet I've ever experienced in my life." You promise him as Valentino turns the speedboat around the corner of the cliffside and toward the dock for private palace use. For royal use. "Hopefully I'll get to introduce you to Javi's assistant fairly quickly. Julius is invaluable and I know you two have e-mailed back and forth a little but he really is just a miracle in human form."

“Who is your maid?” He asks, scrolling through his information. “Flores? She would be the one to ask about attire and things like that until I get my bearings?”

"Flores is a godsend." As the palace gets closer and closer, you feel yourself taking a surprising breath of relief. As if you had missed it for the thirty or so minutes you were gone. "You'll meet her right away. Between the two of you I really think you'll be able to cover all the bases pretty easily. And then there's my ladies in waiting for all the other bits of guidance."

“Ladies in waiting.” Shaking his head, he marvels over the way your life has changed. “I’m sure I will get to know them as well.”

"It's a whole new world here, big brother." You hum as the speedboat comes to a graceful stop at the dock. "And I think you're actually going to like it."

******

Dinner is stuffy and formal due to new arrivals in the palace. Extended family has come to the capital and will be staying through the funeral and your crowning, though they were polite enough not to interrogate you directly at the table. As soon as you could politely get away, you took Javi's arm and happily let him lead you away to have a cocktail together on your balcony. Another pitcher of that delicious Clover Club Cocktail and two glasses will be waiting for you to unwind with.

Every step towards the seclusion of the balcony that he has been sharing with you brings a little nervousness for Javi. It's a good possibility that it would become a tradition, one that he would enjoy immensely and tonight his heart is heavy with the knowledge that he has. Although he knows he needs to tell you, it's not something that he wants to start, keeping secrets. But how does one tell them that they will be investigated for a king's murder?

"You seem distracted, querido." It's just a small observation, but he had seemed to have a dark cloud over his head all through dinner. "If you do not have the energy to go to the vault after your day I will more than understand."

"No." His expression clears and he sends you a smile as he reaches over and pats your hand. "I feel as though the happiness of the moment will be much needed in the coming days." He admits softly. "My apologies if I have been negligent in attention."

“Not at all.” You shake your head and sip your drink, but turn to give him your full attention on the balcony. “Can you tell me what is upsetting you?”

"I met with my father's doctor today." He tells you quietly, looking down at his drink and sighing. "There will be an official inquiry in King Miguel's murder."

"Murder?" Hissing the word on the quietest whisper you can summon, you feel like your heart has stopped beating and it's a miracle you don't completely drop your cocktail. "My god. Javi, I'm— are you okay?" Setting the glass aside, you immediately reach for him to offer the comfort that you've already learned he craves. You're very alike in that way. "They're certain that it was intentional?"

"He— his medications were in purposefully tampered with. What was in the bottle was not the prescription and my father did not like taking medicine to begin with." Javi explains.

"Shit..." The word drags out as you shake your head, and you take a moment to breath as Javi leans into your arms out on the balcony. "I'm so sorry, love. So, so sorry." What else do you even say? His father was intentionally killed. Assassinated. It's completely beyond belief.

"They— they are going to question you." He decides you need to know everything about it. "Question me. I would rather they insult my integrity than for someone to get away with taking the last few weeks I had with my father away from me."

"Of course they will." You nod, albeit slowly, and gently squeeze his arms as he leans against you. "They should question everyone who had something to benefit from your father's death. Of course that includes us." Perhaps it is a particularly American point of view, but you don't even consider it an insult of integrity. It's just being thorough, and you can't even imagine a world in which this investigation is not thorough.

He sighs softly, relieved that you understand. He had been worried that you wouldn't, and resist an investigation, which would only make them look into you more. "They will exclude us quickly. It was never a secret about my desire to not be king."

"I imagine they will look into me much more deeply." A fact which, again, does not bother you. In fact you're fairly surprised at how unbothered you truly feel. It isn't even for Javi's benefit. "If the people do not know that their kings have arranged marriages already, they will find out soon enough."

"You have just arrived, and had few meetings with the king." Javi is sure they will clear you out of their questions. You did not kill his father.

"Javi." With one hand on his cheek, you offer him the most reassuring smile you can possibly muster in this moment. "I did not kill your father, and I had absolutely no reason to want to hurt him. But the investigation has to treat me as an equal suspect to everyone else, which means they will look into me in every way. And that definitely includes how you and I met." A few days is no time at all, and it will not take them long to clear your name from the list, but it still has to happen.

"I know." He leans into your touch and presses his forehead against yours. "I love you, Margarita. I don't know if I would be this calm if you weren't here."

"I love you, too, querido." It is deeply, earth-shakingly true, and you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek. "We will get through this, and we will see the person responsible punished." Somehow you're certain of that, and it's a strength that you'll have to draw on in the weeks or even months to come. Depending on how long the investigation takes. "And in the meantime, it is our job to set an example for the people. To give them good things to look forward to despite the gloom."

"Which is why we need to keep our plan to visit the dungeon." Javi insists. "Our plans should not change because of this."

"Then how about we have a drink and go downstairs?" You suggest, wrapping one arm around his waist. "We can have our second glass when we come back up, before we crawl into bed?"

"That sounds like a perfect ending to a rather stressful day." He admits quietly. "Although one day, I swear you will be tired of me."

"I find that highly unlikely, handsome." Picking up your glass again, you raise it to him in a small salute and take a sip. "I don't remember Cinderella ever getting tired of Prince Charming in the fairy tales."

"That's because the movie ends at the 'happily ever after'." Javi jokes. "You don't see where Prince Charming snores or does other things in his sleep. Or chews with his mouth open."

"What else do you do in your sleep besides cuddle me?" Deciding to turn the conversation to something distracting like silliness, you raise one eyebrow at him and smirk. "And get morning wood, of course."

“I don’t know, I’m asleep.” He cannot believer that his face does not burst into flames it is so hot. “And I— I apologize again for that. I should not have pressed it against you.”

"You don't need to apologize." He had been embarrassed by it this morning but you waved it off, and now you simply smile. "Honestly I might have been more upset if it wasn't there," you tease gently. "At least I know you were having good dreams."

“I dreamed of you.” He admits, reaching for your hand. “And I know that if it was under different circumstances, I would ask to touch you.”

"There's no pressure for it to happen until you're absolutely ready," you promise him, watching your fingers lace through his as he holds your hand. "But when you're ready, I can all but guarantee that I will be, too."

“You want me?” Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. Surprising in the light that he’s aware of his own appeal but had thought that it would be something that was admitting later on, after time was spent together.

Charmed by the sweet softness of his reaction, you nod gently and shift slightly closer to him on the balcony as you sip your drinks together. “Badly,” you admit with a laugh. “But I’ll happily wait as long as you need. There really is no pressure.”

“There’s pressure.” Javi snorts, grinning when you do giggle. “But I want our first time to be free of the black cloud over us right now.”

“So maybe I should say that there’s no rush,” you clarify. “I had my appointment with the royal physician today, by the way. Officially not pregnant. But I knew that already.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through such an exam.” He apologizes, picking up your free hand and kissing it.

“The doctor was very polite, and it was done quickly. Honestly? I wish all gynecologist exams were a simple ultrasound and a pee test.” Given what they really are like, you just shrug and offer Javi a smile. “And now it’s done. So the decision of when to take the next step is purely up to us.”

“I want it to happen naturally.” Javi admits quietly, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Not because of anything but that you and I want each other.”

“It will be. Whenever we’re ready.” You’re certainly not about to pressure him, and you tilt your head back to kiss his cheek softly. “But until then, I do like waking up in your arms.”

He hums, happy that you enjoy being close to him because your presence calms him down and he has slept through the night when he hadn't expected to sleep at all. "Let’s go look at every woman's favorite thing." He teases. "Jewelry."

“I’m not even going to debate you on that.” The two of you finish your first glasses together and he leads the way – down into the bowels of the palace to the vault where the Crown Jewels are kept.

"The dungeon was converted around the time of my great-grandfather." Javi tells you as the stone walls start to slowly get closer and the electrical runs in conduit since it was obviously added after construction. "The security has improved, but I don't think anyone really wants to break into a dungeon. For obvious reasons."

"They would if they knew what was down here." There are soldiers posted along the long hallway – palace security wearing a badge of special significance, and you follow their lead by returning their small nods of acknowledgement on your way to the main door. A broad man with an unmoving expression takes one look at the pair of you and moves to unlock the door with an elaborate code.

"Anything and everything in here can be worn." He explains. "Although some are used for special occasions only."

"Good lord..." You murmur, gasping softly as you look around the twinkling room at all of the gems winking back at you in their soft, golden lighting. "I didn't think there would be so much!"

"It is a lot, isn't it?" Javi asks as he looks around, trying to see it through someone’s eyes who has never seen it before.

"I mean it's beautiful, it's just...a whole lot." Your hand is still in his, and you tug him forward a little so that you're both fully inside the middle of the room. "Do you want to show me your mother's tiara, querido?"

Of course he does. “It is over here, with my father’s— my crown.” The lights shine on the pair as they sit on crushed velvet pillows.

There is a trio of headpieces under the brightest light in the dungeon. King Miguel's preferred crown sits beside a more petite version of its magnificence, and beside that there is a glamorous tiara of countless carefully carved diamonds in a combination of shapes and sizes to create a repeated teardrop pattern that takes your breath away.

"It's gorgeous," you sigh, equal parts afraid to go anywhere near it and wishing you could reach out and touch it.

“Perhaps you should try on the others first.” Javi offers, pushing a button on the wall so that it slides open and rows of tiara’s and crowns appear. “So you can say you didn’t just choose the first one.”

"I don't think anyone could blame me for choosing the first option, but I'm also not about to protest looking at more tiaras..." It's such a surreal thing to say, and you cling a little more tightly to Javi's hand as he walks you over to the wall that just popped open in every conceivable way. "Do you have a favourite?" You ask him, eyes drifting over the large collection. "Besides your mother's, I mean?"

“I do.” Javi moves over to the case and selects a specific on. It’s too elegant for his more causal dinner suit. The sapphires that are in the middle shine like fire, surrounded by the diamonds. “This one.”

"Oh wow..." In the back of your head you have a feeling that you're probably not going to be able to manage full sentences which each of these gorgeous pieces of jewelry, but you inspect the twinkling sapphires and diamonds in his hands with wide eyes. "I—I can wear whatever one you want," you promise him, knowing that the moment you are crowned will be caught on camera to be added to Balearican history books. "As long as you're proud to be putting it on my head, the tiara can look like anything."

“Whichever one you wish, my Princess.” He murmurs, smiling at the awed expression on your face. “They will all look lovely atop your head.”

"I can't believe I actually get to wear one of these," you admit with a sheepish grin. "That you actually want me to wear one. With everything that it means..."

“There is no one else I wish to wear it.” Javi murmurs softly. It’s true, even as much as he had cared for Gabriela, you have come to mean more. His father had been right that he would move on after she and Lucas had been married.

"I love you, too." Even murmured into the darkness, it is such a relief to mean it so deeply. For almost your entire life you were terrified that it might not happen, and now here you are. Completely in love with him in a mere two days.

“You will be a queen who is beloved by her people.” Javi predicts with a smile. “And her king.”

“I truly hope so.” Although it might be awful to admit, in this moment, that his love currently means far more to you. It is only because you have not yet had a chance to really be a part of this kingdom — only of his life.

“So, do you have anything that speaks to you?” He asks curiously. “My mother said her favorite tiara spoke to her. She wore others, but that was the one she wore most.”

“I think something a little less grand calls to me,” you confess. It is almost like the feeling tells you that modesty will be an immense virtue in this case. There is one on the second shelf that is composed of small, winking diamonds and scrolling gold so that it almost looks like curls if you think about it on someone’s head. It is delicate and elegant without being too small or understated. “Wearing your mother’s tiara for the crowning will be the most appropriate, but I believe that this one,” you point it out carefully. “Might be my favourite?”

“Elegant, understated and sophisticated.” Javi takes the crown from the shelf with care and he smiles down at it. “Try it on?” He asks, looking up at you.

“Is that…okay?” It seems like the sort of thing that belongs untouched in a museum even though you know logically that these things are just incredibly expensive and elaborate jewelry. Jewelry that is meant to be worn.

“Margarita, all of these jewels are to be worn by the royal family. Which you are now a part of.” He reminds you. “It is perfectly okay. If you wanted to wear a tiara while in your pajamas and drinking wine, it would be okay.”

“That sounds like the most decadent idea you could possibly have.” And you can’t help but laugh at it, feeling light and giggly at the image.

“Perhaps.” He chuckles. “You might like to have a party like “The Princess Diaries 2.” He jokes, remembering the Princess sleepover party that had actually seemed pretty cute.

“A bachelorette party of preteen princesses?” That makes you laugh again, and you eye the tiara in his hands. “I didn’t think real princesses had bachelorette parties.”

“Real princesses can have any kind of bachelorette party they want.” Javi reveals. “There is normally a press blackout on those days. And it’s held somewhere that is discreet.”

“Hmm.” Pretending to think very hard about it, you end up grinning. “So not Vegas, then? I would never consider Vegas discreet, although they do say that whatever happens there, stays there.”

“I have always wanted to visit.” His eyes widen at the thought and he grins. “Although I’m sure you would want to go to Monte Carlo.”

“Is Monte Carlo better?” The way his eyes widen makes you want to promise you’ll take him to the States immediately, but you know that that is tricky. Especially right now. “I don’t know anything except that it’s supposed to be very fancy.”

“It is. But it’s less…flashy than Las Vegas? At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve been to Monte Carlo many times and I’ve enjoyed it a lot.”

“I guess we’ll have to see what we want to do.” You will encourage the thought constantly, though, knowing that he has spent a long time being denied things. Adventure within reason should not exclude some safe travel destinations. “Both of us.”

“A— a joint thing?” He asks in surprise. Delighted surprise, but surprise.

“It can be whatever we want.” The gentle reminder that he makes his own decisions now does not go awry, and you don’t harp on the fact that it’s because his father has died, either. “We can certainly do something together if that is what you want.”

“I think that we should decide when it comes. First we have to get through the other pressing matters.” Javi tells you, guiding you towards the mirror that is gilded and has been in the family for years. “Now, see what you will look like wearing your tiara.”

It seems like the air is sucked out of the room when he turns you to face the mirror, and frames himself against your back to set the delicate tiara on your head for the very first time. Its scrolls and shimmering diamonds look brilliant in the low light, winking back at you in the gilded mirror and making you look nearly ethereal. Before this moment you would have said it was silly to talk or think that way, but here you are – standing in front of a mirror and gasping at the image in front of you so earnestly that you actually might shed a tear.

“Beautiful.” He whispers, his fingers trailing along your shoulders to rest there. “The Princess that will become queen. My bride to be. My margarita.”

______

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