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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 4: Zeus, God Of Thunder]

A/N: Can you believe we're already 1/3 done with this series?? I sure can't! I hope you enjoy Chapter 4. I'm so excited to show you where we're headed. The times are indeed a-changin'... 😉

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 7.3k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji @sunnysideaeggs @minttea07 @babyblue711

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You unzip the floral suitcase that Alicent gave the nurses to pack for you. Inside are the hundreds of greeting cards sent by people from the Atlantic to the Rockies; downstairs, Eudoxia is distributing a dozen bouquets of flowers throughout the house with appropriate grimness, and more arrive each hour. You lift cards out of the suitcase by the handful and lay them down on your bed. Every movement feels slow, every thought muddled, bare feet in cold wet sand that swallows you to your ankles. The windows are open, the sheer curtains billowing. The wind whips in off the ocean, smelling of brine and sun glare, life and death.

Aemond emerges from the bathroom in a gale of steam. He finishes adjusting his eyepatch and then dresses himself: white shorts, blue polo. Aemond wears a lot of blue. It is Greek, is it American, it is the Democratic Party, it is the color of the sky that was once believed to hold Olympus, it is everything he’s ever been or wanted to be. He’s humming The House Of The Rising Sun. It’s the first time you’ve truly been alone since the night before he caught his flight to Tacoma.

Beneath the greeting cards you find the books, cosmetics, and three new sundresses, none of which you ended up wearing home. Alicent bought you a plain black shift dress, matching gloves and flats, and opaque sunglasses to hide your face from the journalists who waited outside the hospital. And there is one last item to unpack. At the bottom of the suitcase is a clear plastic bag containing fabric, white dotted with bruises of common blue violets. At first you are confounded, and then you turn it over to see the dark, saturated stain of crimson. It’s the sundress you were wearing the day you were rushed to Mount Sinai to have Ari. The nurses hadn’t known if you wanted to keep it, burn it, bury it.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

Aemond’s brow furrows, like he’s surprised by the question. He goes to his writing desk and turns the chair around so it’s facing you. He sits, crosses one leg over the other, leans back and hides his hands in his pockets. His tone is gentle, but his gaze is hard. “By the time I heard that you’d had the baby, it was already over. You were out of surgery, he was in an incubator, and that was the immutable reality. I figured there was nothing I could do at that point to improve the outcome. And that’s true. Me flying back early wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“But you should have been there,” you insist, eyes wet, voice quivering. “You should have known him like I did.”

“Winning Washington was important.”

“Washington is a basket of votes, Ari was our child, he was real.”

“No one told me he was dying—”

“Because you didn’t pick up the fucking phone.”

Aemond is incredulous, like he couldn’t have heard you correctly. “It’s not like I was playing golf or drinking myself under some bar, I was campaigning 20 hours a day and it worked.”

“Nothing on earth could have kept me away from you when you got shot in Palm Beach.”

“So maybe it wasn’t just about Washington,” Aemond says, and his words aren’t gentle anymore. They are razored, dauntless, daring you to battle him. “It’s about the whole picture, it’s about the momentum. If I had underperformed in Washington, the dominoes would fall in Kentucky, and Utah, and Virginia, and then at the national convention in August, and then against Nixon in November. I don’t have the luxury of disappearing from the public eye to sit adoringly by your bedside when we both know there isn’t a single goddamn thing I can do to help.”

“It would have made you look like a better man.”

“But not a better president.”

And like a fracture being snapped back into place, you remember what Aegon said on that bloodstained night in Florida: You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you. You stare down at the ruined dress entombed in plastic, still clutched in your hands. You don’t dare to let Aemond see your eyes. You’re afraid you won’t be able to disguise the betrayal glistening there. You ask, a whisper, a whimper: “Why aren’t you sad?” I thought you loved him. I thought you were always so worried about him.

“Of course I’m sad,” Aemond says, more kindly now, patiently, like he’s speaking to someone who can’t be expected to comprehend. “But it’s different for the mother.”

You can’t reply. If you do, something lethal will pour out, smoke and poison and arrows, something that shoots to kill. Ari was quietly interred at the Targaryen family mausoleum in Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park. It had felt so wrong to leave his tiny casket there in a silent stone prison full of strangers.

Aemond is behind you now, trying to knead the tension out of your shoulders. And for the first time in two years, you wish he’d stop touching you. Your belly hurts, your head hurts, your heart hurts, you are a garden blooming with bruises and scars. “I know you aren’t in your right mind. Everything will be better soon. I promise.”

Tears gather on your eyelashes. “I miss him.”

“We’ll have others. Here, let me take that…” Aemond grabs the bag holding your ruined dress and it’s out of your reach before you can think to resist. “You should get ready for dinner.”

“Okay,” you reply numbly, now gazing down at your empty palms. Aemond leaves with his grisly parcel, and you never see it again. But once he’s gone you don’t shed your black mourning dress, blood-soaked pad, bandages, and shake loose your hair and step into the shower. Instead, you walk around the bed to pick up the mint green rotary phone on your nightstand. You speak to a series of operators before you reach the Harbour Rocks Hotel in Sydney. While you listen to the ringing through the intercontinental wire, you sit down on the bed. You’ve never felt low like this. You’ve never felt so unmoored from everything you had believed about your life.

A gruff, familiar voice answers. He’s just waking up, slurping on his morning coffee, dabbing his moustache with a napkin. “Hello?”

“Daddy, I don’t think I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

“What?” he asks, and immediately he is no longer groggy but desperately concerned. Your parents are away on a month-long tour of Australia and often incommunicado. By the time they received news of Ari’s death and called Mount Sinai in hysterics to speak with you, you had told them not to rush home. You were about to be released, and they would not make it in time for the funeral regardless. Aemond insisted on a swift, private ceremony, a detour on the drive back to Asteria, like it was something he couldn’t wait to put in his rearview mirror. “What are you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Aemond, he…” He’s not the man I thought he was. I don’t know him, I don’t trust him. “He’s not acting right, he’s not…he didn’t…Daddy, it’s like he doesn’t care. And I don’t want to be here anymore. Can I fly down to Tarpon Springs when you and Mama get back? Can I stay with you for a while? And then…and then…” You don’t even know what words you’re looking for. They don’t exist in your universe.

“Listen, honey,” your father says with great tenderness. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.” You’re trying to stifle your sobs so no one downstairs hears you.

“You’ve just been through something terrible. So terrible I can’t even imagine it. And of course you’re feeling out of sorts. But Aemond is your husband, he’s your protector and your ally, your best friend, your partner in life. He’s not the one responsible for what happened. You can’t misdirect your heartache at him.”

“But he’s…Daddy, there’s…there’s something wrong with him.”

“Oftentimes, it’s easier for women to talk about their emotions, both good and bad. But for men—especially men like Aemond who are so self-disciplined by nature—it can be like pulling teeth to express themselves. They don’t like to be vulnerable. They actually think they’re failing in their commitments to their wife if they let her see how much they’re struggling. Aemond is hurting just like you are. He might not show it in the way you expect, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. Of course he cares.”

How do you know, Daddy? Have you cut him open and studied his brain, his ropy nerves, the dark chambers of his heart? “I thought he saw me like you see Mama, I thought he included me in everything because he loved and respected me, but that’s not it. He just needs someone to help him get elected, that’s all Ari and I were to him, and I can’t…I just can’t…the thought of him touching me now…”

“Sweetheart, Aemond is a good man,” your father says. “He does love you. He does respect you. And he’s doing such incredible things for this country. I have friends in Florida who’ve been voting Republican since Hoover, but they’re crossing over for Aemond. They think he’s the one to clean up this mess. Vietnam, poverty, civil rights, the riots, the shootings, the hippies, the drugs, the Russians, the Chinese, someone has to pick up the pieces and create something that makes sense. Do you think Nixon or Humphrey would end the war by this time next year? Do you think either of them would compel the South to enforce voting rights or desegregation?”

“No,” you say, closing your eyes. But that doesn’t mean I can forget what I’ve learned about Aemond.

“Here, your mom wants to say something.” Your father vanishes; your mother’s voice comes piping across the copper submarine cables that span the length of the Pacific Ocean. You wonder—randomly, distractedly—if any of the wires connecting you to Sydney run through Arizona, the place Aegon told you he didn’t want to leave.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Mama.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, distraught, hearing the exhaustion and misery in your voice. “You’ve got the baby blues, and no baby to hold good and close to help them run their course. I’m so sorry. It’s just awful, so awful.”

You speak before you know what you’re going to say. “I don’t want to be married to Aemond anymore.”

“You’re confused, sweetheart. Your hormones are all over the place, you’re in pain, you’ve just had major surgery, and after this year with all the stress from the campaign and that horrific shooting in Palm Beach—”

“He’s not like Daddy.” Tears are flooding down your cheeks; your voice is hoarse. “I thought he was, but he’s not.”

“You cannot make a mistake like this,” your mother says, and she’s turned from silk to steel. “If you do something drastic now, you’ll wake up in a month or six months or a year and realize you’ve ruined not just your life, but the chance this country had at a better future. Don’t you realize what’s at stake here? Every marriage goes through tough times. Every husband needs to learn how to care for his wife, and every wife how to best support her husband. That’s natural, and you’ve only been married two years. Of course you and Aemond are still learning how to navigate life together. It only seems so much worse because of what’s happened to the baby.”

Is she right? Am I wrong? “I don’t know,” you say weakly.

“If you leave now, what happens?” your mother demands. “You abandon the campaign and Aemond’s support plummets. You are a divorcee, a sinner, a failure. You don’t get your son back. But you do lose everything you’ve helped build. Marriage isn’t an experiment, ‘oh let’s give it a try and if we hit any bumps we’ll call the whole thing off.’ No. It’s a covenant. Marriage is for life.”

Yes it is, in just about every faith, and certainly for the Greek Orthodox Church. You are suddenly consumed by mistrust for your own body, this flesh that failed your son and now is deceiving you with doubt so heavy—like cold iron or lead or platinum—it masquerades as truth. How could you imagine a life after Aemond? What waits for you in Tarpon Springs besides the promise of an eventual remarriage that is banal, powerless, bleak, exactly what you’ve always plotted so willfully to avoid?

“Do you understand me, honey?” your mother asks, and she’s soft and kind again. “I don’t mean to be strict with you. My heart breaks for you, and I love you. I’m not trying to upset you. I’m trying to protect you from yourself.”

“Yes.” There are people getting massacred in Vietnam right now; there are people who can’t afford roofs over their heads. Who am I to complain? Your tears have stopped; your breathing is now slow and measured. “Yes, Mama. I understand.”

After you’ve hung up, you stay where you are for a long time, your hands folded limply in your lap and gazing at the paintings hung on the pale blue walls: small replicas of The Birth of Venus, Romulus and Remus, Prometheus Bound, Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, Echo and Narcissus, Jupiter and Io. Then you get up to sift through the greeting cards you’ve piled on the bed, not really seeing them. Only one captures your attention. Only one jolts you out of the fog like a flash of lightning through dark churning clouds.

You take the card Aegon gave you back when you were still a mother and set it upright on your nightstand, consider it for a while, wander into the bathroom to scrub the despair from your skin and change into something less somber for dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re playing Battleship with Cosmo by the edge of the swimming pool while all the other children splash around, howling with laughter and diving for toys they throw to the bottom and then fetch with their teeth like golden retrievers, G.I. Joes and Barbies and Trolls and even a waterlogged Mr. Potato Head. The nannies are observing intently, poised to leap in if anyone should appear to be at risk of drowning. If Ari had lived, I wouldn’t have wanted nannies to raise him, you think. I would have wanted him to have a normal childhood. I would have wanted to know him.

“Your turn,” Cosmo says with a grin. He’s the one who looks the most like Aegon, or how you imagine Aegon must have looked before the pills and the booze and the long caged decades. His hair is so light a blonde it’s nearly white, his eyes huge and glimmering and mischievous. Battleship is a bit advanced for a five-year-old. Cosmo keeps guessing the same coordinates over and over, so you periodically lie and tell him he’s sunk one of your ships. When you launch a successful attack against his, he seems to think it’s fair game to relocate the vessel to a more advantageous location.

“D7.”

He picks up his aircraft carrier and repositions it. From the record player drifts California Dreamin’. “Nope! Nothing sank!”

“Wow. I’m so bad at this.”

Cosmo is snickering. “Yeah, you are. Really bad.”

“If I got drafted, the Army would be better off leaving me at home. I’d just be a nuisance.”

“What’s drafted?”

“Never mind. Your turn to guess.”

“J12!”

The grid only goes up to 10. Nonetheless, you slap your own forehead dramatically. “Oh no, not again! You sunk my battleship!”

“Yay!” Cosmo cheers, then turns to the Jacuzzi. It’s brand new, just installed last month. “Mom, did you see? I’m winning!”

You glance over at Mimi. She has passed out, her latest Gimlet drained and her head resting atop her crossed arms, propped on the rim of the Jacuzzi. “Uh, Cosmo, run inside and ask Doxie to make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, okay?”

“Okay.” He scampers off, toddling on reckless little legs.

With no shortage of difficulty, you manage to stand. Each day your abdominal muscles feel less like they’ve been shredded and then mended with threads of fire, but the pain is still bad, very bad, and there are spots of skin on your belly that are numb when you skim your fingertips across them. You will have a long vertical scar like Aemond’s, an irreparable reminder of the blood you’ve paid to the cause. And for all your anguish, this particular fact doesn’t torment you. It is proof that Ari existed, however briefly, however futilely.

You amble over to the Jacuzzi, your roomy lavender dress flowing in the wind, and shove one of Mimi’s shoulders. “Mimi, wake up. Get out of the water.”

She mumbles incoherently in response. You reach for her before remembering you can’t lift anything. You look around. Alicent and Helaena are on lounge chairs at the other end of the pool; Alicent is trying very hard to look interested while Helaena shows her about 100 different butterfly species pictured in a kaleidoscopically colorful book. Criston is off giving Ludwika a tour of the property, flanked by a flock of Alopekis hoping for treats. Ludwika is Otto’s wife of six months but only newly arrived, 30 years old, perpetually unimpressed, modelesque, golden blonde, if Barbie was from Poland. Aemond, Otto, and Viserys—his sparse threads of silver hair hanging like cobwebs around his gaunt face, grimacing and clutching the armrests of his wheelchair—are conspiring on the lawn between the main house and the pool. They haven’t noticed your predicament. Fosco is sauntering by wearing some of the tiniest swim shorts you’ve ever seen. He is the son of an Italian count, gangly and chatty and from what you’ve seen almost certainly addicted to gambling.

“Will you help me move Mimi, please?” you ask him. “I’m afraid she’s going to drown.”

“Of course, of course, no problem. Let me handle it. Do not hurt yourself.” He has her half-dragged out of the Jacuzzi before Mimi startles awake.

“What’s going on?” she slurs. “Put me down, I can walk.”

“I doubt it,” you say.

“You are alright?” Fosco asks Mimi as he steadies her on the cement, wet with pool water. She clutches at his forearms helplessly.

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Mimi, go inside,” you say. “Eat a sandwich. Tell Cosmo you’re proud of him for winning Battleship.”

“Battleship? Well, that’s just ridiculous. He’s five. Five-year-olds can’t play Battleship.”

“And yet you will congratulate him regardless.”

She can feel your impatience, your judgement, sharp like wasp stings. Mimi retreats like a kicked dog to the main house, somehow summoning the will to remain mostly upright.

You look to Fosco. “Do you know where Aegon is?” You want to see him, but you also don’t; each time you’re in the same room now is a disorienting storm of familiarity, curiosity, painful reminders, annoyance, awkwardness, longingness to again feel as close to him—to anyone—as you did during those fleeting moments at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

Fosco chuckles. “Where is he ever? Napping, sailing, drinking, on the phone with one of his lady friends. I could not say. I have not seen him recently.”

“Okay. Thanks anyway.” The music stops—the record needs to be flipped over—and now you can just barely hear what Aemond, Otto, and Viserys are discussing.

“And you criticized me for going too young,” Aemond says to Otto. “What’s your age difference with Ludwika? 40 years?”

“She’s good publicity. She defected from the Eastern Bloc in search of the American Dream.”

“Being married to you?” Aemond quips. “I think she found the American Nightmare.”

“Speaking of wives,” Otto continues. “I assume since yours had one surgery, that’s how all the future children will need to be born, is that right?”

Aemond nods, frowning. “Yeah. And the doctors said she shouldn’t have more than three. It weakens the uterus, I guess, all that slicing and suturing. Do it too many times and ruptures get more likely, and those can be fatal.”

“Very unfortunate,” Viserys rasps. “Children are our greatest legacy. I wanted at least ten, but your mother…well…after Daeron, it just never happened again.” And you know that this is just one of the ways in which Aemond had planned to win his father’s admiration: by contributing more new Targaryens to the dynasty than anyone else. Now that’s impossible.

Otto sighs wistfully. “To have a brand new baby to parade around in the fall…that would have been wonderful.” For the first time in two years, you can sense that you have disappointed him. Fosco is watching you, uneasy, ashamed, sorry without knowing what to do about it.

“Absolutely,�� Aemond says, as if this is not the first time the thought has crossed his mind. “But it’s done now. There’s no sense in dwelling on what might have been. We must look forward. It’s feasible that…well…if we try again and get good news by October, we can announce in time for Election Day…”

You can’t listen anymore. Your belly aching, your bare feet hurrying through warm emerald grass, you traverse the lawn and disappear into Helaena’s garden, painstakingly tended and continuously expanded since she was a little girl. There are marigolds and daffodils, tulips and roses, azaleas, asters, butterfly bushes, chrysanthemums, lilies and lupines, sunflowers, violets, life blooming in a hundred different shades. There are tiny statues too, tucked away in random places, stone angels and untamed creatures, alligators and turtles and rabbits and cats, the only sort the Alopekis will tolerate. At the very center of the garden is a tall circle of hedges with only one opening, an arched doorway cut into the thick lush green. You’ve been here before, though only with Aemond. On a property shared with so many family members—and the occasional intrusive journalist—it’s a good place to escape prying eyes. You pass through the threshold with a hand resting absentmindedly on your belly, as if you’re still pregnant. You keep doing this. Each time you remember you’re at the end of something rather than the beginning, it carves you open all over again.

Around the inside perimeter of the circle are twelve sculptures positioned like numbers on a clock: eleven Olympians and Hades, confined to the Underworld. In the middle of the clearing is the largest stature of all, a wrathful Zeus hurling lightning bolts and surrounded by a gurgling fountain of glass-clear water. Under the shadow of Zeus, Aegon is sprawled on the ground and smoking a joint. “So you’re hiding from them too, huh?” He gives you a sly, welcome-to-the-club smirk, then offers you his joint. “Want a hit?”

You shake your head, not taking another step towards him. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He is confused. “Done what?”

“Any of it.” I told him about my life before. I made the mistake of thinking I could go back.

Aegon still doesn’t seem to understand. “You’re scared I’m gonna snitch?”

You shrug, evasive. It’s not just the fact that he knows. It’s the sensation that you’ve unlatched something—an attic room, a jewelry box, a birdcage—and now you can’t get it locked again, and the door rattles with every footstep and storm wind, and you are no longer Aphrodite or Io but Pandora, a hunger growing in your stitched womb like a child.

“What? What’s wrong with you?” And that’s always how he says it, not what’s the matter or are you alright or what did I do or how can I fix it?

“I’m kind of…embarrassed, I guess.”

“Embarrassed,” Aegon echoes. “Because of me?”

“I feel like I said and did a lot of things that were out of character because I was emotionally compromised.”

“They were out of character for who you’ve been trying to convince everyone you are since you married Aemond, sure. But they weren’t out of character for you.”

He’s treading too close now, arrows piercing their mark, a tremor near the epicenter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Au contraire, I have acquired many interesting revelations recently.”

“Where’d you learn French? From Mimi?”

His smile dies. “Boarding school.”

You don’t know how to reply. You don’t know how to be around Aegon without either hating him or letting him see parts of yourself that you’re trying to drown like Icarus in the waves. You glance yearningly towards the doorway cut into the hedges.

All at once, Aegon is furious. “You don’t want to talk to me? You want to go back to how it was before, you want to pretend Mount Sinai never happened? Fine. You got it. Wish fucking granted. Whatever you have to do.”

He turns away from you. You flee from him. But that night when Asteria is hushed and still—Aemond, Criston, and Otto are attending a fundraising dinner in Philadelphia, and you are temporarily excused from accompanying them as you recover—you creep down into the basement of the main house to apologize. Mimi sleeps in a bedroom on the second floor, but here Aegon can keep odd hours and drink and smoke to his heart’s content, and even entertain clandestine guests, girls who are beautiful and giggling and never invited twice.

Aegon isn’t here. He might be passed out somewhere, or at a party, or maybe even upstairs with Mimi, and something about this idea twists through your mending guts like a blade. In his absence, you take a quick look around his room, something you’ve never done before. You hadn’t had any interest; it wouldn’t even have occurred to you. There’s a large green futon, a matching shag carpet, a television, a bookshelf full of notebooks and paperbacks—Kurt Vonnegut, Harper Lee, Sylvia Plath, Truman Capote, Ken Kesey—and vinyl albums, a record player, and his two acoustic guitars. The first is unpainted maple wood covered with stickers. I’d rather be nowhere reads one; Burn pot not people proclaims another. The second guitar is the souvenir he bought in Manhattan, an aquamarine blue six-string.

There's something strange on his end table. Along with a dozen empty cups is a full ashtray, and there’s a folded piece of paper tucked underneath. You slide the paper out and open it. It’s the receipt you used to solve the long division problem in your hospital room.

Why would he keep this? you think, mystified. There are footsteps above your head, and you quickly return the receipt to where you found it and leave before your trespass can be discovered.

When you emerge from the basement, Fosco is waiting in the hallway and carrying a Tupperware container filled with something that resembles kourabiethes, Greek shortbread cookies. “I thought I saw you sneak down there. What were you looking for?”

You scramble for an explanation. “One of the dogs is missing. Alicent wanted me to check the basement.”

“Ah, yes, I see.” He passes you the Tupperware container. “These are for you. I hope they are not too bad. I baked them myself.”

“Are they…” You shake it. “Biscotti?”

“They are ossi dei morti,” Fosco says. “Bones of the dead. We make them to remember loved ones we have lost. They are hard, so you should dip them in coffee or tea before you try to eat them.”

You open the lid. Inside are long thin cookies coated with powdered sugar. You inhale almond flour, cloves, cinnamon. And you are so touched you cannot find your words.

“You know, there still places in Italy where mothers wear black for years to mourn their children.” This is not trivia; it is an acknowledgement. Your son is gone. There is no shame in the grief that is left behind. In another house, it would be expected, it would be required.

“Thank you, Fosco.”

He smiles warmly. “We are in this together, no? We are pieces of the same machine.”

Then he plods off towards the living room, sliding a rolled-up horse racing program out of the back pocket of his tight plaid pants.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re in Louisville, Kentucky, where thunder quakes the eaves. An hour ago, Aegon was popping Valium and leisurely plucking at his pool water blue Gibson guitar, slumped against the wall, nipping at a flask filled with straight Bacardi. But he’s not anymore. Now he’s gathered around the small color television with you, Criston, Otto, Fosco, Helaena, and Ludwika. The news is just breaking. There was a civil rights protest at the University of Kentucky in Lexington one hour to the east. Someone threw a rock, or someone claims someone threw a rock, or someone threw something that was mistaken for a rock, and in any event the situation escalated from there and local police who were monitoring the demonstration opened fire on a crowd, killing five students and injuring another dozen.

Outside, word is spreading through the crowd of over 2,000 people that have gathered for Aemond’s planned speech at the historic Iroquois Amphitheater, a New Deal project finished in 1938. Rain is pouring, and the venue has no roof. Aemond is already 20 minutes late. The voices are becoming louder, more demanding, more wrathful. They’re shouting that Aemond is too afraid to face them now, that he’s trying to figure out what his statement will be, that he’s cowardly and calculating; and if President Lyndon Baines Johnson was here tonight instead of cursing his bad stars up in Washington D.C., he would certainly have something to say about the capriciousness of voters who love you, hate you, carry you higher, drag you down, all without ever knowing you.

In truth, Aemond is not stalling on purpose. He’s in the bathroom trying to get his prosthetic eye in. It’s been giving him hell all afternoon. He wears his eyepatch at home, but he’s never made a public appearance without his glass eye clean and perfect in his voided socket.

“He’s going to have to say something about it,” you tell the others as you watch the news coverage.

“Say what?” Otto snaps. “If he doesn’t treat those dead kids like martyrs he’s going to get booed off the stage. If he condemns the police he’s going to lose the suburbs. They’ll run to Humphrey now and Nixon in November.”

The weather report called for storms—which is why Alicent, Mimi, and the children are already back at the Seelbach Hotel for the night after a long day of shaking hands and smiling gamely—but no one expected it to get this bad. The room you’re huddled in is just off-stage, so you can see it all: the wind ripping signs and flags from people’s hands, drenched clothes, sopping hair, snarling faces, rain turning puddles to rivers. The stomping of boots is now as loud as the thunder. Rocks and bottles are being pitched at the stage.

“Is America always like this?” Ludwika asks, scandalized.

“No, not at all,” Otto says. “Goddamn animals…”

Aegon replies, not taking his eyes from the television: “You’d be mad too if cops were shooting your friends and the only graduation present you had to look forward to was getting disemboweled by guerillas in Vietnam.”

“I’ve had it with you and your Marxist bullshit! You want to liberate the dispossessed masses? Why don’t you start by donating your monthly drugs and rum budget to the—”

“We should cancel,” Fosco says. “Just call the whole thing off. Tell them Aemond is sick or something.”

“That’s the headline you want? ‘Senator Targaryen hides from grieving supporters who braved a thunderstorm to see him’?! Just give the White House to Nixon now!”

“I don’t think we can cancel,” Criston says softly. “I think if we tried to leave, they’d swarm the car.”

“It’s a riot,” Otto moans, rubbing his face with his hands. “This is what happens when you court voters like this, college kids and hippies, professional malcontents…”

“Aren’t there police outside?” Ludwika says anxiously.

“Yeah, a handful,” Criston tells her. “And if they try to do anything this will erupt and we can add to the body count in Lexington…”

You leave them and follow a hallway to the men’s bathroom; on the periphery of your vision, you can tell that Aegon is watching you go. You push the door open and find a row of stalls and three sinks, one of which Aemond is standing in front of as he stares into his reflection and attempts to shove the prosthetic eye into his empty, gore-red left socket. His suit is navy blue, his hair neatly slicked back, his shoes so polished they’re reflective like a mirror.

“Fuck,” he hisses, flinching. His right cheek is wet with tears of frustration and agony. It’s July 26th, and tomorrow are the final three state conventions in the Democratic primary. Humphrey is almost certain to take Utah; Virginia will go to Governor Mills Godwin, who is only running in his home state to control the delegates and will hand them over to whoever he feels is most worthy in August. But Aemond is the favorite to win here in Kentucky. Or at least, he was an hour ago.

“What can I do? What do you need?”

“You can’t do anything. It’s…it’s this goddamn nerve pain, it feels like I’m being fucking stabbed, I can’t get the muscles to relax enough…”

Like an apology, you say: “Aemond, the crowd is getting out of control.”

“So you came in here to rush me?”

“No, I’m here to help.”

“You’re not helping. You’re doing the exact opposite.”

“I think you should give this speech with your eyepatch on. It looks good, and you’ll be as comfortable as possible, and the crowd won’t have to wait any longer than they have already.”

“No.”

“Aemond, please—”

“No! FDR didn’t make speeches in his wheelchair and I’m not making mine without my eye in.”

“Do you want me to get you Aegon’s pills? Rum, weed?”

“You don’t think I’ve already taken something?” He tries to force his eye in again and strikes his fist against the sink when he can’t.

Then you ask gingerly: “Do you know what you’re going to say about the shooting?”

“Get out!” Aemond shouts. “You’re making it worse, just get the fuck out! Go!”

You bolt from the bathroom, hands trembling, throat burning. You don’t want to return to the television where the others are standing; you’re worried they’ll be able to tell how upset you are. You go to the edge of the stage, arms crossed protectively over your chest, and peek out into the crowd. Above their chants and jeers and howled threats, lightning splits the sky.

I don’ t think we’re going to be able to find our way out of this one. I think this is the end of the road.

“Hey,” Aegon says, tapping your shoulder. “Back up.”

“I’m fine here.”

“No you’re not.” He grabs your arm and tugs you farther backstage. Seconds later, an Absolut Vodka bottle explodes into crystalline shrapnel where you were standing. You yelp and Aegon gives you a little eyebrow raise. I told you, he means.

“Someone has to go out there,” Otto says, still lurking by the television. Fosco is comforting Helaena, who is quietly weeping; Ludwika is watching the news coverage in horror, surely reconsidering all her life choices. A sixth University of Kentucky student has been declared dead. “We can’t wait.”

“No we can’t,” Criston agrees. Then they both turn to you expectantly.

Your blood goes icy. Tonight was meant to be your first official appearance since the baby. Your hair is up, your dress a navy blue to match Aemond’s suit, gold chains around your wrist and throat, a gold chain of a belt. You thought you were ready. But it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Don’t you look at her,” Aegon says, sharp like a scalpel, like a bullet, like something that punctures arteries and lungs. “They’re throwing glass. You figure something else out, don’t even look at her.”

Otto relents, perhaps halfheartedly. “No, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Criston starts heading for the bathroom to get Aemond. Otto is watching the television again, his face vacuous as his ambitions are carried away by a flood of rain, wind, rage, blood. Aegon snatches his guitar from where he left it by the wall. He tosses the strap over his head, gives the strings a few experimental strums and retunes them, starts walking towards the stage.

“Aegon, what are you doing?” you ask, panicked.

“Someone has to distract the crowd.”

“No, stop, you can’t—”

“Hey,” Aegon says. And when you glance past him at the uproarious, storm-drenched frenzy, he turns your face back to his to make sure you’re listening. His hand is insistent but gentle, his voice steady. “Don’t go out there. Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, startled.

He gives you one last small, parting smile, a flash of his teeth, a daring glint in his murky blue eyes. Then he’s out in the torrential rain, soaked to the skin in seconds. His frayed green Army jacket clings to him; his hair is ravaged by the wind. As he takes his place behind the microphone, a stone that someone has hurled skates by him and nicks the apple of his left cheek. You can see a trickle of blood snaking down his sunburned skin before the rain washes it away; you feel a desperate gnawing dread that someone will hurt him, not just here but anywhere, not just now but ever. The crowd is still seething, shouting, stomping their feet to join the inescapable growl of the thunder. Aegon’s pick flies over the guitar strings as he begins playing, raindrops cast from his fingers like spells. At first, you can barely hear him.

“Come gather ‘round, people, wherever you roam

And admit that the waters around you have grown

And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth saving

And you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is settling down now. Some of them are singing along. You can feel that Otto, Ludwika, Fosco, and Helaena are gathering around you, but you don’t grasp anything they’re saying. You can’t tear your eyes from Aegon. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time, this radiant sunbeam of a man, a light in dark places, a constellation that whispers myths through the ink-spill indigo of the night sky. How could you ever have hated him? How could you ever have thought he was worthless?

“Come writers and critics who prophesize with your pen

And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again

And don’t speak too soon, for the wheel’s still in spin

And there’s no tellin’ who that it’s naming

For the loser now will be later to win

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Aemond and Criston appear beside you at the edge of the stage; Aemond’s prosthetic eye has at last been successfully placed with no lingering evidence of a struggle. You expect him to apologize for what he said in the bathroom, but he doesn’t. Instead he says when he sees Aegon: “What the hell is he doing?”

“Saving your career,” you reply simply.

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call

Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall

For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled

The battle outside raging

Will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Now Aegon peers pointedly off-stage to where Otto Hightower is gawking. Aegon beams, throws his head back to get his dripping hair out of his eyes, comes back to the mic.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land

And don’t criticize what you can’t understand

Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly aging

Please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand

For the times, they are a-changin’”

Everyone you can see in the crowd is singing and swaying. It’s not just a Bob Dylan song from 1964 but an anthem, a prayer, a rallying cry, a dire warning for the powers at be.

“The line, it is drawn, the curse, it is cast

The slow one now will later be fast

As the present now will later be past

The order is rapidly fading

And the first one now will later be last

For the times, they are a-changin’”

The audience is applauding and whistling. Aegon steals a glimpse of where you are standing backstage, checks that Aemond is still there with you and that he’s ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Aegon broadcasts with a wicked grin. “I am now proud to present the next president of the United States of America, Senator Aemond Targaryen!”

And Aemond is crossing the stage, no trace of pain or self-consciousness or prey-animal fear, no mere mortal but someone chosen by the gods, and the rain is slowing to a drizzle, and the clouds are opening to let through rare pinprick aisles of daylight, and the riotous spectators are now his disciples, exorcised of any rage they’ve ever felt for the scarred senator from New Jersey. He and his family are not the enemy; they are the solution. They are revolutionaries who have bled for the cause. They bring with them the change that is required. Aegon steps back and the rest of you join him in a semi-circle like a crescent moon behind Aemond. When you walk out onto the stage, the cheers swell to screams.

Aegon takes off his guitar and then leans into you. “He’s lucky you aren’t 35,” Aegon whispers, soft lips that curl into a smile as they brush your ear. And he’s teasing you but he’s not mocking, he’s not mean. He’s so close you share the same atmosphere, the same gravity. “Maybe when he finishes up his second term you can start building your resume for your first.”

“I want your endorsement.”

“From the disgraced former mayor of Trenton? What an honor. You’ll have to fight for it.”

You ball up a fist and playfully bump your knuckles against his chin. He pretends to bite at you. And you laugh for the first time since a doctor and priest entered your hospital room 13 days ago. Aegon slings an arm around your shoulders, pulls you against him, soaks you in his rain.

“Today in Lexington, we lost six brave and brilliant souls,” Aemond says, his voice booming through the amphitheater. A hush ripples through the crowd as they listen, enraptured. “Their sacrifice was for the most noble of causes, but they should never have been forced to pay the ultimate price. They deserved long, full lives in a better America than the one we now call home. This tragedy is a symptom of the sickness that has infected this nation, a fatal failure to empathize with our fellow countrymen, a deafness to pleas for justice, a blindness to mercy. But the remedy is within all of us, for it is our own humanity. When we purge the diseases of war, prejudice, and ravenous greed, we will reclaim our best selves—our true selves—and our nation will at last be cured.”

The amphitheater is illuminated with not only strobing lightning but the flashbulbs of cameras. The journalists have arrived just in time.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii fic

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galaxyedging · 5 months ago

Text

You asked for it @magneticecstasy @missredherring @yorksgirl @inkededucatednnerdy

I take no responsibility for this fic. I didn't even proofread it.

Reed Richards x f!reader.

Warnings: Smut and powers and weird smut. Also, peer pressure. It's not in the fic. I'm just a sucker for it.

F is for...

The dirty bass line of Pony thunks through the thin walls of your changing room for what feels like the millionth time. It is a classic.

“Hey. That shady guy is back. How much does he pay you? It must be a lot, if he won't even take his hat and shades off in the club. You can't even see his face. Who knows what's under there.” Gina doesn't stop for an answer or stop picking through your things for the perfume of yours that she likes to steal.

Before you can process Gina is gone and all that is left in her place is a cloud of pilfered floral mist. The reflection in the mirror that looked so pleasing a few moments ago now is all wrong. Your hair needs to be tied back. The sequins and jewellery have to go. The high heels too. You don’t want to risk hurting your highest paying client. While you're at it, you remove the make up you'd layered on for the stage. He doesn't seem to go in for all that. He seems like he wants a girl he can take home to meet his folks. Which is probably why he ended up in here in the first place. It's the last place on earth you would find his type of girl, so it stands to reason it's the best place for him to hide.

“Hi. Did Gina tell you that you have someone waiting?” Adele fills the doorway of the dressing room.

Adele has been the manager for the past year. She's five foot nothing, all curved and attitude. She needs every ounce of it to keep the staff in check. Not one person here has a dad who didn't come back from buying milk or any substance abuse issues or any of those bullshit reasons to work the pole that people use to look down on dancers. They are here because they want to be. The pay is good for the hours. It fits around schooling and building other careers.

Days like this though you wonder if it's worth the pay. With Adele standing impatiently, you'd changed and made your way to room six, the one she'd told you, your regular was waiting in. He paid well and his request wasn't that weird considering his…situation. Slowly opening the door, the sleeve of his brown trench coat came into view. It always amused you that he thought that thing made him look less conspicuous. With the fedora and the shades he might as well have a neon sign about his head saying ‘I am hiding something.’

‘Hi, Reed.’ You greet him once the door is firmly closed behind him.

‘Hi.’ His posture relaxes once the door is locked and you two are alone, he even takes his hat and sunglasses off.

“How's your research going?” You hang up his hat and return for his coat.

“It's going.” You've learned that that's what passes for humour with Reed.

He's very straight laced even when things get…heated. It's all enjoyed with an under current of restraint.

“What would you like today? A regular dance…” you glance toward the pole “....or your special dance?” You come to sit beside him.

Reed was always a little timid at first. Once he was relaxed, he was confident and in control, he just needed a moment to acclimate.

“I'd like my dance, please, but…can I ask you something first?” His brown eyes study your for any hint of discomfort.

“Sure.” You shrug, you don't have to answer him. Besides, it's Reed, he'll probably just ask you about college.

“When you dance for me, do you feel that I appreciate it? That I'm present?” It's a genuine enough question. Only with your knowledge gleaned for Buzzfeed articles did you know that it was more than likely to do with his wife asking for a separation. If the rumours are true, he'd been even more obsessed with his research since that accident that gave them their powers.

Against your wishes, your heart clenches. “I do and you are very present, Reed.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Thank you. I try and I do. Appreciate you, I mean. Sometimes my brain just won't shut off and these powers make my body feel…I don't know…needy?”

Years of training your face to not get you in trouble snap in place and stop the smile that threatens of Reed feeling horny without his wife and his first logical solution is to buy some relief.

“Well, what do you need now, Reed?” You perch on the edge of the sofa with your legs crossed, making sure he gets a good view of everything you have to offer in your tiny cutout bathing suit. “The usual?”

Reed nods eagerly and his hands practically fly to his belt buckle. In fact they go so fast that they fly past his belt buckle and stretch out another couple of feet in front of him.

“Sorry.” His sheepish smile is endearing as he wills his hands to return to their normal size.

“It's alright. Why don't we skip the foreplay tonight? You seem ready to go.” You couldn't help but notice the tent in Reed’s pants before he’d even ‘let it out’.

“Yes, please.” Reed sighs as he tugs out his already impressive cock.

As it is, it's long, thick, cut with a slight curve. It makes your mouth water but there is no way you are taking it in your mouth, or anywhere else with Reed’s current predicament. Speaking of, his cock begins to stretch. The girth doesn't change but the length is slowly rising. Even with the extra weight of the new inches, Reed is still hard and standing to attention. Eventually, three foot of cock sways before him.

Remembering that you are supposed to be a professional, you snap out of your gawking to get the lube and press play on your track. The first notes of ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ play as you straddle Reed’s thighs and pour a generous amount of lube over your chest and torso. As the song really gets going you shuffle closer to him, pressing your barely clothed pussy against his balls and start to grind to the beat. Reed whimpered at the contact. Normally you would tease him for more of those sounds but today you take pity on him. Looking him straight in the eye you lean forward to run your tongue up a section of his shaft. He tastes clean yet musky. It makes you determined to catch as much of his cum as you can in your mouth even if it does prove difficult.

“Again, please?” Reed pants while his hands find your hips.

He really is worked up today. Usually he allows a bit of teasing. He understands the concept of delayed gratification. He usually only takes control near the end. “Reed? Do you want me to make you come quicker today?”

“Yes but only if you do too. I want to feel you.” Reed is not the only one of your regulars that insists on your pleasure. He is the only one that you feel would completely give up his own for yours.

“I will. This really works for me, too, remember.” Reed can feel your sincerity as you move the flimsy piece of material covering your pussy to the side.

Reed’s incredible length slots between your folds and the valley of your breast. His arms wrap around you to pull you close. The two of you bounce up and down in tandem. Reed’s cock is trapped between you as your body jerks it off. The slick slide of your clit across the veins of his thickness builds your own release. The viscose sounds of body fluids and lube almost rivals the powerful cords of the song. Reed gets more vocal the closer he gets to the edge. His babbled pleas are muffled against your neck. His plush lips against the skin there is the closest you've ever come to kissing. It feels nice and a small part of you dares to dream. Whether it's the dream of the lewdness of jerking off a huge cock with your whole body, you come, and you come, and you come. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over you after your initial climax like jumping into the ocean. A gasped groan at your neck is all the warning you get to tilt your head up and stick out your tongue. Reed’s angry red head is shooting ropes of cum above you like a perverted confetti cannon. This time you manage to catch some on your tongue. It tastes just as you imagined. More importantly since you managed to catch it shooting out of a three foot cock into the air, it tastes like victory.

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #reed richards #reason 13654 why i'm going to hell

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aziraphales-library · 1 year ago

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hello!! i love you all so much (platonic) and appreciate the work you do. do you have any recs where one/both of the ineffable husbands/wives is getting out of a relationship and goes to the other for comfort and maybe realizes they've been in love with them the whole time? thanks so much <333333

Here are some break-up friends-to-lovers fics for you...

I'm All Yours by FeralTuxedo (E)

Anthony J. Crowley knew he looked like a walking mid-life crisis. The tight jeans, half-up bun and sunglasses positively screamed ‘I left my wife for the babysitter and bought a vintage car just to feel alive again.’ In an adaptation of his life, he’d be played by Hugh Grant. He looked like a divorcee desperate for action, and it didn’t help that he was currently standing outside a nightclub surrounded by drunk twenty-year-olds. But Crowley wasn’t here for a good time tonight. He was on a rescue mission. Crowley has been rescuing his friend Aziraphale over and over again for a decade. Hopelessly in love, ready to jump at a moment’s notice when he was needed. When Aziraphale finally breaks up with his partner, Crowley is there to help him through what’s looking to be one hell of a mid-life crisis. Things could finally change. If he manages not to mess it up again. A human AU with a whole forest’s worth of pining squeezed into a single day.

…And They Were Roommates by Mimsynims (E)

“You know… I just remembered that Richard and I were going away for a few days next month.” Something devious came over him. “Richard paid for it, but the booking is in my name.” Crowley quickly caught on to what he was getting at. “Ooh, I see. That’s convenient.” He grinned. “For us." When Aziraphale's boyfriend Richard (Dick) breaks up with him, he and his roommate Crowley hijacks an intended couples' vacation and uses it for themselves. Lines that had started to blur even before their trip gets even more blurry - which perhaps isn't the best thing when both are hiding a crush on the other (and communication isn't their strong suit).

Ezra at the Wedding by tenandi (E)

Ezra's ex is moving on but he's determined to stop the wedding. With his handsome neighbor masquerading as his new love interest, will he win back his true love and rewrite the happy ending he deserves? - Crowley was leaning against the doorframe, obviously hungover and running on about two hours of sleep. A ripped t-shirt hung off one shoulder over a pair of boxers with devil ducks printed all over them. To top it all off, he was wearing black velvet slippers embroidered with his monogram. In any other instance, Ezra would have laughed but he was too busy being wrapped up in his anguish. “What do you want, Crowley?” Ezra fumed. “I am having a moment here!”

You are HoMe (Half of Me) by angelsnuffbox (T)

Aziraphale had gotten dumped, plain and simple. But that small detail wasn’t nearly as important as all the things that happened after he’d gotten dumped - such as coming to a few realisations about his best friend of sixteen years.

Hooped Earrings by OfEden (E)

After 29 years Azira comes out. While her family and ex boyfriend don't support her, her life long best friend is there by her side every step of the way.

Crawling Back To You by madrabbitwrites (NR)

College-age Aziraphale pushed his closest friend away and moved out of town with his married Literature professor in a panicked attempt at escaping his family’s rampant homophobia. Years later, devastated by a dreadful break-up, he’s returned to his small hometown to live with his brother and attempt to heal his broken heart (and broken life, if he were being honest with himself). What he didn’t count on was his old friend Crawley- now calling himself Crowley and looking dashing as ever- to have returned as well. Crawley’s wounds from their last argument are deep and Aziraphale may never be able to regain what they once had, but he’d certainly like to try. The two of them need to have an actual conversation, but that’s not really how these plots go, is it?

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #break up #friends to lovers #adult omens #human au #mod d

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 3 months ago

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Rule 4: Never meet anyone in his inner circle—no close friends, no family.

There were five rules to being a sugar baby—or so you’d heard.

If an opportunity falls into your lap, you take it.

Everything is purely transactional.

Don’t let the lines blur between your sugar daddy and your personal or professional life.

Never meet anyone in his inner circle—no close friends, no family.

Unless it’s in writing, underlined, signed by two lawyers, and you get a new Hermes handbag afterward, don’t fuck your sugar daddy.

So why was it so damn hard to keep these rules in place when it came to your CEO Remy LeBeau?

The sun beat down relentlessly, the bright light dancing off the water’s surface and reflecting off the gleaming white yacht that loomed before you. Its size was overwhelming, casting a shadow over the jetty, and you couldn’t help but let out a low, incredulous, “Holy shit,” under your breath. The sheer grandeur of it felt like something out of a dream, or perhaps more fittingly, something out of Remy’s world—this world of opulence and power that you still felt like an outsider in.

Remy’s low, amused laugh rang softly beside you, pulling you out of your daze. You glanced over at him, his easy grin already spreading across his face. “Thought y’d like this,” he teased, his voice warm and familiar, full of that smooth drawl that always seemed to disarm you. “We’re just waitin’ on someone—”

He cut himself off abruptly, his gaze shifting past you, something shifting in his posture. His grin widened, and there was a flicker of something genuine, something almost nostalgic, in his expression. “Well, speak o’ the devil,” he murmured, turning toward the approaching figures with that same casual confidence he wore like a second skin.

You followed his gaze, curiosity gnawing at you, and that’s when you saw her.

A blonde-haired woman, poised and graceful, was walking toward you, her long legs carrying her with the kind of effortless elegance that made it impossible not to notice her. Even from a distance, she radiated a kind of quiet authority, a regal confidence that seemed to command attention without her even trying. Every step she took was measured, deliberate, as if she was walking on a stage and the world was watching.

And in a way, they were. Because this wasn’t just any woman. This was Bella Donna Boudreaux.

Your stomach tightened as recognition hit you like a wave. Of course, you knew who she was. You’d seen her in passing before, at the office, her presence always leaving a ripple of whispers in her wake. Her name was spoken in the same breath as Remy’s, their past a topic of endless fascination for those who thrived on gossip. You had seen her in magazines, read articles about her—about her high-profile relationships, her business ventures, her life that seemed as perfectly polished as the image she presented to the world.

And she was Remy’s ex-wife.

Your pulse quickened as Bella Donna approached, her blonde hair catching the sunlight in a way that made her seem almost ethereal. Sunglasses perched atop her head like a crown, she was stunning—of course she was. She had that kind of beauty that felt out of reach, intimidating in its perfection. A mix of elegance and edge, of power and allure, that made you feel like you were on the outside looking in.

The man walking beside her—Richard, you would learn—was tall, his designer suit tailored to perfection, an effortless extension of his old-money status. But he was barely a blip on your radar, because all you could focus on was Bella Donna, and the way Remy’s smile grew just a little wider as she came closer.

“Bella Donna,” Remy greeted her, his voice wrapping around her name like something familiar and intimate. The warmth in his tone made something in your chest tighten, your breath catching ever so slightly. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful. It was that they were beautiful together—two people who knew each other in a way that only years of history could allow.

Bella Donna smiled, a perfect, polished smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Remy,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying that polished elegance you’d expected. She glanced at you briefly, almost like an afterthought, before turning her attention back to Remy. “I see you’re still making an entrance.”

Remy chuckled, his voice light, though there was an edge to it—something subtle, something you couldn’t quite place. “Y’ know me, chère,” he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Always gotta keep things excitin’.”

Bella Donna’s gaze flicked toward you again, but this time, it wasn’t an afterthought. Her pale blue eyes were sharp, assessing, as though she were sizing you up in the space of a single glance. You felt her take you in—the way you stood beside Remy, the way you were still an outsider in this world she knew so intimately. Her smile never faltered, but there was something underneath it—something cold, something calculated. “And this must be your… companion?” she said, the word dripping with just enough sweetness to make your stomach twist.

The word companion felt like a slap, and you had to force yourself to smile, to push down the sudden rush of insecurity that tightened in your chest. You extended your hand toward her, your voice steady despite the tension swirling in the air. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Bella Donna didn’t take your hand immediately. No—she let the moment hang in the air, her eyes still locked on yours, as though she were deciding whether or not you were worth her time. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she took your hand, her grip firm but not warm. “Likewise,” she said, her smile never quite reaching her eyes. “I imagine you have.”

The tension between the four of you was almost unbearable, an unspoken undercurrent of history and rivalry swirling between Remy, Bella Donna, and you. You could feel it—feel the weight of what she wasn’t saying, the way she was making it clear that, in her eyes, you didn’t belong.

The man beside her, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, stepped forward, extending his hand to Remy. “Richard,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth and confident, like someone who was used to being at the center of attention. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Remy, ever the charmer, shook his hand with his usual easy confidence, though you could still feel the tension in his posture, the way his body had subtly tensed the moment Bella Donna had arrived. Remy gave Richard a polite nod, but his attention quickly flicked back to Bella Donna, as if he were trying to gauge her mood, to see what she was thinking.

For a moment, you felt like a third wheel in a scene you weren’t meant to be part of, like you were intruding on something private, something that was still very much alive between them. And maybe you were. Maybe Bella Donna was a part of Remy’s life in a way you would never fully understand, and standing here, watching them interact, only made that more apparent.

“So,” Bella Donna said lightly, her tone deceptively casual as she looked back at Remy. “You’re taking her out on this?” She gestured toward the yacht, her smile sharp, her eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to him. “I see you’re still quite the showman.”

Remy chuckled, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Gotta keep things interestin’, chère. Y’ know how it is.”

Her lips curved into a smirk, and there was something in her eyes—something knowing, something that made your stomach churn. “Oh, I know,” she said softly. “I know you very well.”

The tension between them was palpable, thickening the air around you like a storm about to break. You could feel it—*feel* the weight of their history, the unspoken words hanging between them, the familiarity that made your chest tighten with something akin to jealousy.

You glanced at Remy, trying to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem rattled. If anything, he seemed amused, like he was playing along with some game that only he and Bella Donna knew the rules to. The easy smile was still there, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, something guarded.

For a moment, you wondered if you should say something, do something to break the tension, but before you could, Bella Donna’s gaze shifted back to you, her smile never faltering. “Enjoy yourself,” she said, her tone light but laced with something darker. “Remy has a way of making things... memorable.

You forced another smile, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. “I’m sure it will be,” you replied, your voice steady despite the unease gnawing at your stomach.

You stepped onto the yacht, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you just how massive the vessel was. It looked even more impressive up close—sleek lines, gleaming white against the deep blue of the water, with polished chrome fittings that caught the afternoon sun. The air was warm, the breeze carrying the salty scent of the sea, and everything about the moment felt surreal, like you’d stepped into a world you’d only ever glimpsed from afar.

Ahead of you, Bella Donna led the way, her long blonde hair cascading down her back, catching the sunlight with every step. She moved with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times, a light smile on her lips as she nodded at the crew, effortlessly commanding attention. The crew, dressed in crisp white uniforms, smiled back warmly, clearly familiar with her presence.

Remy walked close to you, his hand brushing lightly against your back in a gesture that was both protective and possessive, though casual enough that it didn’t draw attention. He nodded at the crew as you passed, his easy charm radiating from him as always. When the captain stepped forward, Remy extended his hand, shaking it with the kind of confidence that made it clear he wasn’t just a guest—he was someone used to being in charge, someone who commanded respect without asking for it.

“Captain,” Remy greeted with a nod. “Good t’ see you again.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. LeBeau,” the captain replied, his voice laced with familiarity.

As they exchanged pleasantries, you couldn’t help but let your gaze wander around the yacht’s deck. It was stunning—elegance woven into every detail. The teak wood beneath your feet was polished to a gleaming perfection, and the deck furniture was a mix of modern design and ultimate comfort, with plush, cream cushions spread across expansive lounging areas. The railing was a sleek combination of polished steel and glass, offering an uninterrupted view of the sparkling ocean stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

The yacht itself seemed to sprawl out in every direction, with multiple levels visible from where you stood. To your left, you could see an outdoor dining area shaded by a retractable awning, with a table large enough to host a small dinner party. Beyond that, a set of stairs led down to a lower deck, where you caught a glimpse of a hot tub bubbling away, surrounded by more sun loungers. The whole place exuded luxury and comfort, a floating sanctuary of indulgence.

As you and Richard followed behind, the crew quickly moved to take your bags, their professionalism seamless. You handed over your things with a polite smile, grateful for the reprieve from carrying anything, though the weight of the encounter with Bella Donna still lingered in the back of your mind. Richard, walking beside you, gave you a small, knowing look, as if to say, We’re in for quite the trip, huh?

You returned the look with a slight shrug, trying to shake off the tension that had wrapped itself around you since Bella Donna’s arrival. But as you glanced over to where she and Remy now stood, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—jealousy, maybe—as they fell into easy banter once again.

Bella Donna laughed, a soft, melodic sound, as she rested her hand lightly on Remy’s arm. “I see you’ve upgraded since our last trip,” she teased, glancing around the yacht with an approving smile. “Always knew you’d keep outdoing yourself.”

Remy chuckled, his grin easy, though you noticed the subtle shift in his tone—more relaxed, more familiar. “Gotta keep things fresh, Bella,” he replied, his voice warm. “Y’ know I like t’ make my trips memorable.”

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “Oh, you definitely have a talent for that.”

The exchange stung in a way you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t that they were overly flirtatious, but there was a history there—an easy intimacy that reminded you of how long they’d known each other, how much they’d shared. It was hard not to feel like an outsider in the face of it.

You tried to focus on the beauty of the yacht, the elegance of your surroundings, but the weight of their connection lingered in the air, making it harder to breathe. You glanced out at the water, trying to center yourself, to remind yourself that this was your trip with Remy, that whatever history lingered between them, it was just that—history.

After a few more moments of playful banter, Remy seemed to sense your silence. He glanced over at you, his eyes softening as he gently excused himself from Bella Donna’s side. She gave him a knowing smile, her gaze lingering on him for just a moment before she turned back to the crew, continuing her conversation with them as if nothing had happened.

Remy walked toward you, his presence instantly calming the unease that had settled in your chest. He stood beside you, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he leaned in, his voice low and familiar. “Y’ alright, chère?”

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach hadn’t quite loosened. “Yeah, it’s just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the strange mix of emotions swirling inside you.

Remy’s eyes softened, understanding flickering behind them. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on your arm, his touch reassuring. “Don’t let her get t’ you,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “She’s good at playin’ these games, but that’s all they are—games.”

You nodded slowly, grateful for his reassurance but still feeling the weight of Bella Donna’s presence hanging over you. “I know. It’s just… weird.”

Remy chuckled softly, his thumb brushing lightly against your arm. “It’s always weird when she’s involved. But y’ ain’t got nothin’ t’ worry about.”

His words sent a small ripple of warmth through you, easing the tension just a little. You smiled up at him, finally starting to feel a bit more grounded. “Thanks.”

Remy’s grin widened, that familiar glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “Now, how ‘bout I show y’ around? This place is a lot bigger than it looks.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing around at the already massive deck. “Bigger? How much more is there?”

He winked, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Y’d be surprised. C’mon.”

With that, he took your hand, gently tugging you toward the stairs that led to the upper deck. As you followed him, your earlier unease slowly began to melt away, replaced by a quiet excitement as you let yourself get lost in the luxury of the yacht—and in Remy’s presence. Remy led you through the yacht, weaving through elegantly decorated hallways that whispered luxury with every step. The walls were lined with soft wood paneling, sleek and modern, while the floors were carpeted in a plush, cream-colored material that was so soft it felt like walking on a cloud. You could smell the faintest hint of fresh flowers in the air, probably from the arrangements scattered throughout the yacht. Every detail, every corner of this place screamed wealth—comfort and elegance seamlessly intertwined.

He paused in front of a set of double doors, his hand resting on the sleek handle as he turned to you with a playful grin, “And this is the bedroom.”

With a flourish, Remy opened the doors and stepped inside, revealing the master bedroom. Your eyes widened as you took it all in. The room was massive, easily as large as most apartments, with a king-sized bed dominating the center of the space. The bed itself was a masterpiece—covered in silky, pristine white linens, with an abundance of impossibly soft-looking pillows stacked at the head. The duvet was thick and luxurious, the kind you could sink into and never want to leave.

To the right, floor-to-ceiling windows lined the wall, offering a breathtaking view of the endless ocean, the water glittering under the sunlight. The light flooded the room, illuminating every inch of the space, from the sleek, modern furniture to the soft, neutral tones that created an atmosphere of calm and indulgence.

Remy walked over to the ensuite bathroom, flicking on the light to reveal a space that was just as grand. A freestanding bathtub sat in the center, carved from marble, with sleek chrome fixtures and a rainfall shower that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel’s spa. The vanity was lined with small, elegant bottles of what you could only assume were high-end toiletries, and the entire space gleamed, every surface polished to perfection.

You leaned casually against the doorframe, your arms crossed as you took it all in. It was overwhelming in the best possible way—like stepping into a world that wasn’t quite real, a world where everything was designed to make you feel like you were living in the lap of luxury.

Remy turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned against the vanity. “Well?” he asked, his voice low and playful. “What d’ y’ think?”

You nodded a few times, pretending to be nonchalant, though the excitement was bubbling just beneath the surface. “Not bad,” you said, your tone casual as you glanced around the room.

But then, with a grin, you couldn’t help yourself. In a split second, you pushed off from the doorframe and took off running toward the bed, your laughter filling the room as you threw yourself onto the massive mattress, landing in a heap on top of the duvet. The bed seemed to swallow you whole, the pillows soft and enveloping as you lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling the luxurious comfort of it all surround you.

Remy let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound rich and warm as he walked over to the bed. He stood beside it for a moment, still grinning down at you, before he gave in and flopped down beside you, his head landing just inches from yours. The bed barely even moved under his weight—it was that large, that sturdy.

“We’ve all done it,” he said with a chuckle, his voice low and amused as he turned his head to look at you.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you shifted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Even you?”

Remy grinned, his eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Every time.”

You laughed, your body sinking further into the bed, the tension from earlier finally beginning to melt away. Laying there, surrounded by the soft pillows and the impossibly luxurious duvet, with Remy beside you, the weight of the world outside seemed to disappear. The yacht, Bella Donna, the whispers and questions that had gnawed at you earlier—it all faded into the background, leaving just this moment.

The sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax into the comfort of it all. You turned your head slightly, glancing at Remy, whose eyes were still shining with amusement as he lay beside you, his arm resting lazily on the duvet.

“You know,” you said softly, your voice filled with playful teasing, “this is a dangerous game. You give me a bed like this, and I might never leave.”

Remy chuckled, shifting slightly so he was leaning on his elbow, looking down at you with that familiar, roguish smile. “Chère, if y’ never wanna leave, y’ don’t have to. I’ll keep y’ here as long as y’ like.”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of his words settle over you like a blanket. There was something about the way he said it—light and teasing, yes, but with an underlying sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just about the yacht, or the luxury, or even the bed. It was about the fact that, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you belonged somewhere. With him.

As you lay there, sinking into the softness of the bed, you glanced over at Remy, who was now leaning on his elbow, watching you with that familiar, playful glint in his eyes. You smiled, feeling more at ease than you had all day, but then your mind wandered back to something.

“Wait…” you said, sitting up slightly as you gestured toward the wardrobe you’d passed earlier. “Considering all your stuff is in the wardrobe, I’m guessing this is your room?”

Remy tilted his head, that lazy grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Well,” he said, shrugging one shoulder with a casual ease, “correction: it’s our room. If that’s what y’ want.” His voice was low, measured, and though he kept his tone light, there was something deeper behind it, something more vulnerable hiding beneath the surface. “But if y’ prefer, I can move my stuff next door, and this place can be all yours.”

He was offering you a choice, a way out, as if he was giving you the space to decide how close you wanted him to be—both physically and emotionally. And for a moment, you considered it. You thought about the idea of having this sprawling, luxurious room all to yourself, the king-sized bed, the view, the privacy. It would be easy to take him up on that offer, to keep things simple, to keep that line drawn between you.

But as you looked at him—leaning casually beside you, his eyes watching you with that familiar warmth and mischief—you realized that you didn’t want the space. You didn’t want him in the room next door. You wanted him here, with you.

You let out a small breath, your decision settling over you like a quiet certainty. “You can stay,” you said, your voice soft but firm, “on one condition.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he shifted closer, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Oh? What’s that, chère?”

You smirked, leaning back into the pillows. “You don’t snore.”

He let out a deep, amused laugh, the sound filling the room as he shook his head. “No promises,” he replied, his voice full of teasing warmth.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “I’m serious. If you snore, I’m kicking you out.”

Remy’s grin softened, his expression turning more affectionate as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that always seemed to make your heart skip. “Guess I’ll just have t’ be on my best behavior then, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though beneath the playful banter, there was a weight to the moment—a quiet understanding that this was more than just about sharing a room. This was about sharing space, about letting him in, about acknowledging that whatever was between you wasn’t just casual anymore. It was real, and it was growing, and you were both standing at the edge of something deeper.

For a moment, the two of you just lay there, the sound of the waves outside and the gentle sway of the yacht creating a peaceful, almost surreal backdrop. Remy still had that teasing smile on his lips, but his eyes had softened, something unspoken simmering just beneath the surface.

“You know,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, “I wasn’t sure y’ would want this. To share the space.”

You turned your head to look at him, your heart beating a little faster at the honesty in his tone. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged, though there was a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “Y’r used to havin’ y’r own space. Didn’t wanna assume.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest as you reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his. “I can always make room for you.”

Remy’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth that always seemed to melt away any of your lingering doubts. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something that made your pulse quicken.

And just like that, the tension that had been simmering between you all day seemed to ease, replaced by a quiet understanding, a shared sense of something deeper, something more real. You weren’t just companions anymore. You weren’t just playing a game. You lay there in the soft comfort of the bed, the room bathed in golden light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The earlier tension had mostly melted away, but there was still something gnawing at the back of your mind, something you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried to focus on the here and now with Remy.

You glanced over at him, watching as he lay beside you, his arm casually draped over his chest, his eyes half-closed in that easy, relaxed way he always had. But you couldn’t let it go. Not yet.

“Why was Bella Donna here?” you asked, the question slipping out before you had fully decided to voice it. “And with Richard?”

Remy let out a quiet sigh, then, with a soft groan, flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His arm shifted to rest over his head, his fingers running lightly through his hair. For a moment, he didn’t speak, as if he was carefully picking out the right words.

“Believe it or not,” he started, his voice a little quieter than usual, “we’re still friends. Even after… everything.”

You raised an eyebrow, turning your head to look at him more fully. “Really? After all that history?”

He chuckled softly, though the sound wasn’t quite as lighthearted as usual. “Yeah. Crazy, huh? But it’s true. Once a year, we get together, catch up. Just like any other friend does. We’re not what we used t’ be, but we’ve both moved on. Shes with Richard.”

You let out a slow breath, trying to digest what he was saying. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—it was just that seeing them together, seeing how easy it was for them to fall back into old rhythms, had stirred up something you hadn’t expected. And then there was her, Bella Donna, with her sharp gaze and perfectly poised demeanor.

“She doesn’t like me,” you murmured, almost to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear.

Remy let out a loud laugh, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “That’s not it,” he said, shaking his head, his voice filled with amusement. “She’s just makin’ sure y’r right.”

You frowned, turning on your side so you could face him more fully, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Right? What does that mean?”

He finally glanced over at you, his expression softening as he saw the genuine confusion in your eyes. He shifted slightly, his arm moving from his head to rest beside him as he turned to face you. “She’s testin’ y’, chère. Bella’s got a way about her. She’s always been like that. She ain’t cold, she ain’t mean. She’s just… cautious. Protective, even.”

You blinked, still not entirely convinced. “But it felt like she was sizing me up.”

Remy chuckled again, shaking his head as he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “She is. But not ‘cause she doesn’t like y’. She’s just makin’ sure y’r good for me.”

“Good for you?” you repeated, still not sure you understood. “I didn’t realize I was being tested.”

His lips quirked into a small, knowing smile, his fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin. “That’s Bella Donna for y’. She’s always had a way of lookin’ out for me. Doesn’t mean she’s against y’. Trust me, if she didn’t like y’, y’d know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to gauge whether he was being serious or just trying to play it down. “How would I know?”

Remy’s grin widened, and he shifted closer, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that always made your heart skip a beat. “Bella’s got a way of lettin’ people know when they’re on her bad side. It ain’t subtle. If she didn’t like y’, y’d feel it in y’r bones.”

You let out a small breath, the weight on your chest easing slightly as you processed his words. “So… she’s not out to get me?”

He shook his head, his fingers still tracing those soft, lazy circles on your arm. “Not at all. She’s just seein’ what y’r made of. If y’r gonna stick around.”

You fell quiet for a moment, your mind turning over what he’d said. There was still a part of you that felt uneasy about Bella Donna—about the history they shared, about the way she seemed to move through Remy’s world so effortlessly. But if what he was saying was true, then maybe it wasn’t as hostile as you’d feared. Maybe it was just… complicated.

“Okay,” you said softly, finally letting out a long breath. “I guess that makes sense.”

Remy smiled, his eyes gleaming with that familiar warmth as he leaned in slightly, his face just inches from yours. “Good. ‘Cause I don’t plan on goin’ anywhere, and I don’t want y’ thinkin’ that she’s a threat. She’s part o’ my past, yeah.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way that was both comforting and overwhelming. You smiled softly, your fingers brushing lightly against his as you leaned into his touch. “I’m glad to hear that.”

He grinned, his face so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. “Good. Now, ‘bout that condition y’ gave me earlier…”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension between you easing completely as the playful banter returned. “Oh, the snoring?”

Remy’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Like I said, no promises.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your lips was genuine as you settled back into the pillows. There was still a lot to figure out, still so many questions lingering in the air about Bella Donna and the strange dynamic between them. But for now, with Remy lying beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, you let yourself relax into the moment.

After a few more playful exchanges and quiet moments between you and Remy in the luxurious master bedroom, he stood up, offering his hand to you. “C’mon, chère,” he said, his grin widening as he tugged you up from the bed. “Let’s head back out, see what kind o’ trouble we can get into.”

You followed him through the opulent halls of the yacht, your hand still loosely in his as he led you back toward the main deck. The gentle sway of the yacht beneath you, the sound of the waves lapping against the hull, and the warm ocean breeze through the open windows made the whole experience feel like something out of a dream.

As you stepped out onto the deck, you immediately spotted Bella Donna and Richard. They were seated comfortably on the plush outdoor couches near the railing, the ocean stretching out endlessly behind them. Bella was holding a martini glass, the condensation from the chilled drink shining in the sunlight as she raised it to her lips. Richard was lazily leaning back beside her, his posture relaxed as he sipped on what looked like a whiskey on the rocks.

Bella’s eyes flicked up as you and Remy approached, her gaze sharp and assessing, as always. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips as she watched the two of you together, but she didn’t say anything—at least not yet.

Remy gave her a brief nod before turning to Richard, grinning. “How ‘bout we check on those jet skis? See if they’re ready t’ go.”

Richard straightened slightly, his brow lifting in mild interest. “Sure. Sounds like a good time.” He stood, stretching languidly before patting Bella Donna lightly on the shoulder. “Won’t be long,” he said casually, his attention already shifting toward Remy and the promise of adrenaline-filled fun.

Your stomach dropped slightly. The last thing you wanted was to be left alone with Bella Donna just yet, especially after the tension of earlier. You glanced at Remy, silently pleading with him to stay, to not leave you here to fend off whatever subtle tests Bella might have in store.

But Remy, ever the charmer, either didn’t notice or was purposefully ignoring your silent plea. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Back soon, chère. Play nice.” There was a teasing edge to his tone, and before you could protest, he straightened with that familiar, confident grin, already walking away with Richard toward the far end of the deck.

You wanted to kill him. Or at least give him a hard nudge off the side of the yacht when no one was looking.

As the men walked off, their low voices fading into the background, you turned back toward Bella, who was now watching you with a curious, almost amused expression. She took a slow sip of her martini, her gaze never leaving yours.

You hesitated for a moment before moving to sit on the plush couch near the railing, the soft cushions sinking beneath you. The ocean sparkled in the distance, but you couldn’t focus on the beauty of the view, not with Bella’s eyes on you.

For a few moments, there was silence—only the sound of the waves and the gentle clink of ice in Bella’s glass as she set it down on the table between you. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice smooth but with an edge of curiosity.

As Remy and Richard walked off toward the far end of the deck, laughter trailing behind them, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach. The moment they disappeared from view, the tension that had been simmering between you and Bella Donna seemed to thicken, the yacht’s expansive, elegant deck suddenly feeling smaller.

Bella sat across from you, her long legs crossed, a martini glass balanced delicately in her hand. Her posture was casual, but there was something sharp in her gaze, something that made your pulse race a little faster. She took a slow sip of her drink, all the while watching you with the kind of scrutiny that felt both subtle and piercing. The ocean stretched out behind her, but all you could focus on was the woman in front of you—the woman who had shared so much history with Remy.

After a few moments of silence, Bella Donna broke it with a smooth, casual tone that felt almost disarming. “So,” she began, her eyes never leaving yours, “you and Remy. What’s the deal?”

You hesitated, your mind racing as you tried to find the right words. It wasn’t like you and Remy had ever really defined what was going on between you. Everything had just… happened. But sitting here, in front of Bella, the weight of the question felt heavier than it had before.

“We’re… spending time together,” you answered carefully, keeping your tone neutral. “It’s not anything official.”

Bella Donna tilted her head slightly, as if considering your words. Then she let out a soft hum, setting her martini glass down on the table between you with a quiet clink. “You know, there’ve been *a lot* of women in your position,” she said, her tone calm but laced with something deeper. “Women who thought they could change him. Women who thought they could keep up with him. Hell, I was one of them.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in the conversation. Bella Donna’s expression remained cool, collected, as if she were recounting something that was inevitable. “But in the end,” she continued, her voice soft but firm, “it all ends the same way.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You could feel the weight of her words pressing down on you, the unspoken warning hanging in the air. She wasn’t being cruel, but there was a quiet finality to her tone, like she’d seen this story play out too many times not to know how it ends.

She leaned back in her seat, her eyes never leaving yours as she spoke. “Remy’s… intense,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s unpredictable, charming, and completely impossible to pin down. Women fall for him all the time. They think they can handle his world, his lifestyle. But they never can. They think they can change him, but they can’t.”

You swallowed hard, her words striking a little too close to something you hadn’t fully processed. You didn’t want to think of yourself as just another woman in the long line of people who had tried—and failed—to keep up with Remy. But Bella spoke with the voice of experience, and it was hard not to feel the sting of her truth.

She paused, letting her words settle between you as she took another slow sip of her martini. Then, her gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing slightly. “But here’s the thing,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were confiding in you. “Remy doesn’t bring women here. Not like this.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your pulse quicken. “What do you mean?”

Bella Donna’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “What I mean is,” she said, her voice steady, “he’s never brought anyone to meet me. Not flings, not casual companions. Usually, it’s just women he met the night before, women who don’t matter.”

You felt a rush of heat rise to your cheeks, your mind spinning as you tried to process what she was saying. “We’re not… seeing each other like that,” you said quickly, the words falling out before you could really think about them. “It’s not serious.”

Bella raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting slightly as she took in your response. She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest as she studied you. “Not serious?” she repeated, almost amused. Then, after a beat, she let out a quiet laugh, like she had just realized something. “Okay, so you hold his hand, he buys you pretty things, and you follow him around on boats like this? We’ve all been there.”

Her words stung, and you felt your stomach twist. She wasn’t being cruel, but the casual way she dismissed your relationship with Remy—whatever it was—made it feel small, insignificant. Like you were just another woman swept up in his charm, another temporary connection that wouldn’t last.

“But,” Bella continued, her voice softening slightly, “the point stands even more now.”

You frowned, still trying to make sense of everything she was saying, but before you could respond, she leaned forward, her gaze locking onto yours with a sharper intensity. “You’re saying it’s not serious, but he’s brought you here. That’s serious enough.”

Her words hit you like a wave, crashing over you with a force you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t thought of it that way—hadn’t really considered what it meant for Remy to bring you here, to this yacht, to meet *her*. But Bella was right. This wasn’t casual. This wasn’t just another one of his flings. He had introduced you to the woman who knew him better than almost anyone else, the woman who had seen him at his best and his worst. And that meant something.

Bella took a long sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours. “So, let me ask you,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, almost empathetic. “Do you think you can handle him? Do you think you can keep up?”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. You weren’t sure if you could. Remy was a force of nature, unpredictable and intense, and being with him was like trying to keep up with a storm. But there was something about him that pulled you in, something that made you want to try, even if you weren’t sure you could handle everything that came with him.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

Bella Donna leaned back again, her gaze softening just a little as she watched you struggle with your response. “Just think about it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Because whatever this ‘not seeing each other’ thing is, it’s serious enough for him to bring you here. And if you can’t keep up, you’re going to get hurt.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling, and you found yourself staring out at the ocean, your mind racing with everything se had said. The sound of the waves, the gentle sway of the yacht, it all faded into the background as you tried to process what this all meant—what you meant to Remy, and what this trip was really about.

You didn’t know how long you sat there in silence, but eventually, the sound of footsteps approached. You turned to see Remy and Richard making their way back, both of them grinning, their energy light and easy, a stark contrast to the tension that had settled over you and Bella.

“Jet skis are ready,” Remy announced, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “Y’ comin’, chère?”

You forced a smile, nodding as you stood up from the couch, though your mind was still spinning with everything Bella had said. As you walked toward Remy, you glanced back at her one last time. She gave you a small, knowing smile, her eyes still holding that sharp edge, as though she knew you were still turning her words over in your mind.

And as Remy’s arm slipped around your waist, guiding you toward the jet skis, you couldn’t help but wonder if Bella was right. If this was something more. And if you were ready for it. <><><><><> The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the sky a deep indigo, flecked with stars that shimmered above the yacht. The warm glow of deck lights bathed the scene in a soft, golden hue, casting gentle shadows across the elegantly set dinner table. You were wrapped in a light sweater now, the cool evening breeze brushing against your skin as you sat with Remy, Bella Donna, and Richard, waiting for dinner to arrive.

The day had been full—hours spent jet skiing, lounging in the sun, and navigating the strange, unspoken dynamics of the group. But now, as night settled in, there was a certain calmness in the air. The soft clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the faint sound of the ocean lapping against the hull—it all created a peaceful ambiance, a stark contrast to the tension that had lingered earlier.

Remy and Bella were deep in conversation, their voices low as they spoke about something from their shared past—a trip they had taken years ago, a story about a storm that had nearly derailed their plans. Their laughter was easy, familiar, the kind that comes from years of shared history.

But you? You were laughing with Richard, your attention caught by his animated retelling of your first botched attempt at jet skiing earlier. You couldn’t help but laugh as he exaggerated every detail—the way you’d both fallen off within minutes, the ridiculousness of it all, the way the jet ski had spun in circles while you tried to figure out which way to steer.

“And then,” Richard was saying, choking on his own laughter, “I turn around, and you’re just—gone! Face-first into the water, like a cartoon character!”

You burst into laughter again, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you leaned back in your chair, unable to stop grinning. “I swear, I thought I had it,” you managed between laughs. “Turns out I’m just terrible at it.”

Richard shook his head, still grinning. “Hey, we all have our talents. Maybe jet skiing just isn’t one of them.”

As you laughed, you didn’t notice at first that Remy had fallen silent. But Bella did. She caught the way his conversation with her had trailed off, his attention quietly shifting away from their shared memories and toward you.

She watched as Remy’s gaze softened, his eyes lingering on you as you laughed with Richard. There was something in the way he was looking at you—something almost unguarded, uncharacteristically vulnerable. His usual playful smirk had faded, replaced by a quiet, almost tender smile, the kind you hadn’t seen him wear before. He wasn’t just watching you—he was *memorizing* you. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed, the way your smile spread across your face, the way you seemed so at ease in this moment.

Bella’s breath caught slightly, an unexpected pang of realization settling in her chest. She had been right. She had seen it earlier, the way Remy had brought you here, the way he had introduced you to her, something he had never done with anyone else. She had sensed that there was something different about you, something that set you apart from the endless string of women who had come and gone in Remy’s life. But now, watching him as he gazed at you, Bella saw what she hadn’t fully understood before.

He was falling in love with you.

It wasn’t just an arrangement, not anymore. Maybe it had started that way—maybe you were still under the assumption that this was just some temporary companionship, a relationship defined by boundaries and unspoken rules. But Remy had already changed the rules. He had crossed a line, whether he realized it yet or not. And Bella could see it, clear as day, in the softness of his gaze, in the quiet way he watched you, as if you were the only person in the world who mattered.

She looked away for a moment, her fingers curling around the stem of her glass as she processed the realization. It shouldn’t have surprised her, not really. Remy had always been unpredictable, always someone who defied expectations. But this? This was something else entirely.

When she glanced back at him, Remy still hadn’t turned his attention away from you. His smile was small, almost private, like he was lost in his own thoughts, watching you with a quiet fondness that Bella hadn’t seen in him for a long time. Maybe not ever.

She took a slow sip of her drink, her thoughts swirling. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Remy was capable of love—he had, after all, loved her once, in his own way. But this was different. This wasn’t the reckless, all-consuming passion that had defined their relationship. This was something softer, something deeper. Something that suggested he wasn’t just infatuated with you—he was falling for you. Slowly, steadily, without even realizing it.

And you? Bella watched you for a moment longer, noticing how you seemed unaware of what was unfolding. You laughed at something Richard said, your head tipped back slightly, your eyes bright with amusement. You were still under the assumption that this was just some casual arrangement, something fun and easy, something that would end when the time came. But Bella knew better now. She knew that for Remy, this wasn’t just another fling, another temporary connection. This was something real, something that was growing into something neither of you had anticipated.

And the question that lingered in her mind, as she watched you and Remy from across the table, was whether you were ready for that. Whether you knew what you were getting into. Because being with Remy wasn’t easy—loving him was even harder.

Bella’s gaze shifted back to Remy, who was finally turning his attention back to the table, though his smile lingered, a ghost of what it had been when he was watching you. She met his eyes briefly, and for a split second, she thought about saying something—about teasing him, pointing out what she had just realized. But she didn’t. Instead, she gave him a small, knowing smile, one that said I see what’s happening here, and turned back to her drink.

As the air around the table settled again, and the sounds of casual conversation resumed, Bella felt a strange mix of emotions stirring inside her. She had always known Remy was capable of great love—she had been on the receiving end of it once, after all. But seeing it unfold in front of her, with someone else, felt different. She didn’t feel jealousy, not exactly. But there was something bittersweet about it. Something that made her realize that while she and Remy would always share a history, they were no longer part of each other’s futures.

She glanced at you again, watching the way you smiled, the way your laugh seemed to light up the space around you. And in that moment, Bella found herself hoping that, when the time came, you would understand what you meant to him. Because it was clear now—Remy wasn’t just falling for you. He was already in deeper than either of you knew.

And the only question left was whether you would fall, too. Remy’s gaze kept drifting toward you, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you interact with Richard. That familiar, quiet warmth had settled in his chest—the same feeling that caught him off guard more often than he’d care to admit. You were still cracking jokes, still laughing, completely unaware of the way he was watching you, as though he were memorizing every detail.

Bella Donna let out a small sigh, tilting her head slightly as she turned her attention fully to him. “So,” she began, her voice low and casual as she swirled the drink in her glass, “why’d you decide to spend $48 million on a penthouse for her?”

Her question cut through the air like a knife, and for a moment, Remy froze. He didn’t respond right away, his fingers drumming quietly against the table as he kept his gaze fixed on you, still laughing with Richard. But Bella wasn’t fooled by his silence. She already knew the answer. She could see it written in the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, her tone both challenging and amused. “Say it. Say what I already know, LeBeau.”

Remy finally tore his gaze from you and looked at her, his expression shifting into something guarded, his lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned forward, matching her posture, his voice low and teasing. “No idea what y’r talkin’ about,” he whispered back, though there was something in his tone that betrayed him.

Bella raised an eyebrow, a soft laugh escaping her as she leaned back in her chair and took another sip of her drink. “No one does something like that for no reason,” she said, her voice calm but pointed. She wasn’t letting this go, and they both knew it.

Remy let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing the rim of his glass as he shifted in his seat. “It’s nothin’,” he muttered, his tone casual but unconvincing. “It was already mine. I wasn’t usin’ it—”

Bella scoffed, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “You bought it two days earlier,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing playfully. “You didn’t have time to use it, you idiot.”

Remy’s jaw clenched slightly, but his expression remained calm, though there was something in his eyes—something that flickered briefly, like he knew he was caught but was still trying to play it cool.

Bella leaned forward again, her voice softer this time, almost gentle. “Remy, come on. You don’t spend that kind of money on someone unless they mean something to you.”

He stayed quiet, his gaze dropping to the table for a moment before flicking back to you, watching as you smiled at something Richard said. That familiar warmth crept back into his chest, making it impossible to hide the truth from himself, let alone Bella. He knew the answer, even if he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Bella didn’t push him further, but she let her words hang in the air between them, a subtle reminder of what he was trying so hard to avoid. She took another sip of her drink, her eyes still on him, waiting for him to acknowledge what she already knew.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he finally spoke, his voice low and resigned. “Maybe I just wanted t’ make sure she had a place, y’ know? Somethin’ that’s hers.”

Bella tilted her head, her smile softening as she watched him. “Sure. But that’s not the whole story, is it?”

Remy didn’t respond right away, his eyes still on you, his thoughts swirling with everything he’d been avoiding. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he finally turned back to Bella, his voice barely above a whisper. “You always did know how t’ pull it outta me.”

Bella smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink before setting it down with a soft clink. “That’s what I’m here for.”

For a moment, they both sat in silence, the unspoken truth hanging between them. Remy wasn’t just buying you pretty things. He wasn’t just pulling you along on some casual, temporary arrangement. He was in deeper than that—deeper than he had been willing to admit, even to himself.

And as you laughed again, completely unaware of the conversation happening just a few feet away, Bella knew that things were about to get a lot more complicated. After a long evening of laughter and conversation, you and Remy finally said your goodnights to Richard and Bella. You stifled a loud yawn, blinking sleepily as the cool night air settled around you. The dinner had been delicious, the company more relaxed than you'd expected, and the day had left you pleasantly exhausted.

As you and Remy walked down the narrow staircase towards the bedroom, the sound of the ocean fading behind you, he glanced over at you with a smirk. “See, I told y’ Bella ain’t as scary as you thought.”

You gave him a sideways look, your lips curling into a small, tired smile. “Okay, okay, you’re right,” you admitted, feeling the weight of your own words. “Once again, you’re right. At this rate, we’re going to have to start keeping a jar.”

Remy chuckled, his deep, warm laugh filling the hallway as you both continued down toward the bedroom. “What, like a ‘Remy’s Always Right’ jar? I’d be rich.”

You rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully with your elbow, but couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. It’s bound to happen less often.”

“Sure, chère,” Remy drawled, his voice teasing. “Whatever you say.”

The banter between you flowed easily, that familiar push and pull of playful teasing that had become part of your dynamic. It was grounding, comforting, especially after the more serious conversations and realizations of the evening.

When you finally reached the bedroom, you kicked off your shoes without a second thought, your body heavy with exhaustion. The bed was calling to you, the luxurious comfort of the oversized mattress and soft pillows too tempting to resist. You fell into it with a contented sigh, not even bothering to get changed. You wiggled your way under the covers, feeling the cool sheets against your skin as you burrowed deeper into the duvet.

“God damn it,” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow. “I love this bed so much.”

You heard Remy laugh softly from across the room, the sound of fabric rustling catching your attention. You opened your eyes just in time to see him pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it casually onto the nearby chair.

And for a moment, you couldn’t help but stare.

Remy, standing there shirtless, looked like something out of a dream. His body was strong, lean, and sculpted—broad shoulders tapering down to a defined chest and abdomen, each muscle perfectly cut. His skin was smooth, with just the right amount of tan from days spent in the sun, and his arms looked powerful, the kind of arms that could hold you close and make you feel safe.

He caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, that familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. “Like what y’ see?”

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks flushed slightly as you tried to play it cool. “Just admiring the view,” you teased, quickly pulling the duvet up to your chin to hide your smirk. “No big deal.”

Remy’s grin widened as he climbed into bed beside you, the mattress barely shifting under his weight. He rolled over to face you, propping his head up with one arm as he looked at you, his expression softening into something more tender, more intimate.

“Y’ know,” he said, his voice low and lazy, “when we get back, y’ should go get yourself a bed like this if the one at the penthouse ain’t good enough.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the mention of the penthouse again. It still felt strange, the idea that Remy had gone out of his way to buy you a penthouse. Something so extravagant, so over the top, that you hadn’t fully wrapped your head around it yet.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you murmured, your voice quiet as you shifted slightly to face him, your eyes meeting his. “The penthouse, I mean.”

Remy’s gaze held yours, his expression soft but unreadable. “I know,” he said simply, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I wanted to.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your chest tighten, something that made the air between you feel heavier, more charged. He wasn’t just talking about the bed or the penthouse anymore—there was something else beneath the surface, something deeper that neither of you had fully acknowledged yet.

You stared at him for a moment longer, searching his face for the meaning behind his words. But before you could say anything more, Remy leaned in a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Y’ wanna know somethin’ else?”

You raised an eyebrow, your heart beating a little faster as you nodded. “What?”

He smiled, his eyes twinkling with that familiar playfulness. “I love this bed too.”

His words broke the tension, and you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and easy as you shook your head. “Of course you do.” The bedroom was dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon filtering through the sheer curtains. The sound of the ocean lapping gently against the yacht's hull filled the quiet space, a soothing backdrop to the intimacy of the moment. You and Remy lay side by side, both facing each other, the thick duvet pulled up around your bodies.

The earlier playful banter had faded into something quieter, something more intimate. His eyes, reflecting the soft light of the moon, were locked onto yours, as though he were searching for something there. You felt the weight of his gaze, the tension that had been simmering between you both for weeks now suddenly much more present in the stillness of the room.

Remy’s voice broke the silence, low and soft. “Where d’ y’ see yourself in ten years?”

The question caught you off guard, but the way he asked it was so gentle, so genuine, that you didn’t hesitate before answering. “I’ve always wanted to backpack across Europe,” you admitted quietly. “See the world, get lost in new places.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “Backpackin’? That’s not what I would’ve guessed. Why haven’t y’ done it yet?”

You shrugged, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of the duvet as you thought about your answer. “Finances, work, life. You know how it goes. There’s always something that gets in the way.”

Remy’s eyes softened as he listened, his expression thoughtful. “Y’ ever think about just… goin’? Leavin’ all that behind and doin’ what y’ really want?”

You smiled, a wistful look crossing your face. “Yeah. Sometimes. But it's easier said than done, right? There’s always something to stay for.”

He nodded, the quiet understanding between you deepening. But there was something else in the air now—something heavier, more charged. The space between you felt smaller, more intimate, like the weight of everything that had been left unsaid was pressing down on both of you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just lay there, facing each other, your bodies close but not quite touching. The tension—the kind that had been building since the day you met—was thick in the air, almost suffocating. Every glance, every breath felt like it was leading to something inevitable.

Remy’s eyes darkened slightly as they flicked down to your lips, his breath hitching just a little. You could feel it too—the pull, the magnetic force drawing you closer to him. Your heart raced, thudding in your chest as the silence stretched on, the weight of the moment pressing down harder with every second.

Remy’s gaze was locked on yours, his dark eyes searching your face, as though he was looking for permission, for some signal that you were feeling the same pull that he was. The flicker of something dangerous, something vulnerable passed through his expression, and then—without warning—he moved.

His lips crashed into yours, hot, insistent, filled with all the hunger and desire that had been simmering just beneath the surface for weeks. The kiss was more than just a meeting of lips—it was raw, desperate, as if all the tension between you had finally ignited into something neither of you could control. Every inch of your body responded to him instantly, heat flooding through you as his hands slid up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him even deeper into the kiss, your body arching up to meet his. The world outside the yacht vanished in an instant—there was no sound, no ocean, no moonlight—just the two of you, tangled together in the dark, the intensity of the moment swallowing everything else.

Remy’s hands were everywhere, one sliding down to grip your waist possessively, pulling your body flush against his, the heat of his skin searing through the thin fabric of your clothes. You could feel him, every hard line of his body pressed against yours, solid and strong, and it sent a shiver down your spine. His kiss grew more desperate by the second, as though he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every feeling, into that one heated connection.

He tasted like whiskey, like something dark and dangerous, something that was uniquely his. But beneath it was something else—something that made your head spin, something that made your chest tighten with want. It was intoxicating, addictive, overwhelming, and you couldn’t get enough. You pressed yourself closer to him, your hands sliding down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips.

Remy groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a wave of heat through your entire body. His grip on you tightened, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you even closer as he shifted his weight, rolling on top of you. His body covered yours, warm and solid, holding you in place as though you were the most precious thing in the world. His kiss grew fiercer, more urgent, and you gave in completely, your body burning under the intensity of his touch.

Your fingers slid down the smooth skin of his back, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he pressed against you. His weight was comforting, grounding, but at the same time, it made you feel like you were floating—caught in the rush of what was happening between you. Every nerve in your body was alight, electrified by the way his lips moved against yours, by the way his hands held you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

The kiss deepened further, your breaths mingling as you both lost yourselves in the moment. Your body arched into his, desperate for more, for everything, as the tension that had been building between you both finally snapped. You could feel the raw intensity of his desire in every touch, every movement, and it matched your own perfectly. It was like the two of you had been waiting for this—waiting for the floodgates to open, for the chance to finally give in to the fire that had been burning between you.

But just as the kiss grew even more heated, just as your body pressed harder against his, something shifted. Remy hesitated, his lips slowing against yours, his grip on your waist loosening. And then, with a soft, almost pained groan, he pulled away.

His breath was ragged, his body still hovering over yours as he pressed his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut as though he was trying to regain control. His chest rose and fell quickly, his breathing uneven, and you could feel the tremor in his hands as they stayed tangled in your hair, holding on like he didn’t want to let go.

You opened your eyes, still dazed, your heart racing in your chest as you tried to understand why he had stopped. The room was silent except for the sound of your breaths, mingling in the small space between you.

“Remy…” you whispered, your voice breathless and thick with confusion.

He shook his head, his forehead still resting against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice rough, filled with tension and something else—something that made your chest tighten. “I shouldn’t have…”

You stared up at him, your mind still spinning from the intensity of the kiss, from the way he had held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. “What are you talking about?” you whispered, your fingers still resting lightly on his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his expression tight, conflicted. “I’m gonna go sleep in the spare room tonight,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, like the words were painful for him to say.

Your heart sank, confusion and disappointment crashing over you in waves. “Why?” you asked, unable to keep the hurt from creeping into your voice. “Did I… did I do something wrong?”

Remy closed his eyes for a moment, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of your confusion, of the vulnerability in your voice. He let out a long breath, his hand brushing gently across your cheek before he pulled back completely, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“No, chère,” he said quietly, his back to you now. “It’s not you.”

You stared at his back, your chest tightening at his words, at the weight of what he was saying. He wasn’t just talking about the kiss—he was talking about everything. About the way he felt, about the way he was trying so hard to hold himself back, even though you both knew he was already too far gone.

“Remy…” you whispered again, your voice thick with the emotion that had been building between you for so long.

But he shook his head, standing up from the bed and turning to face you, his expression soft but resolute. “Get some sleep,” he said quietly, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “I’ll see y’ in the morning.”

And then, before you could say anything else, before you could stop him, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you alone in the darkness, your heart still racing, your mind spinning with everything that had just happened—and everything that hadn’t.

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definitelynotindecisive · 11 months ago

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So I found you through your batfam/Spiderman fic and I was wondering if you could make a rec list?

Hey there! Thank you for checking out my blog and for reading my fic! I love seeing that you've commented on a chapter in my inbox.

As far as a rec list goes, I've never actually written one before. But I assume you want ones that are specifically spider-man/batman crossovers?

It's a whole new way of looking at [daddy issues] by spaghettiash: This a series of two little one-shots that I absolutely loved. It's another Peter gets transported to the DC universe with Dick Grayson looking exactly like Richard Parker. Love this one.

Help Me, I Don't Feel Like Myself Anymore by Astra_Nova_Kat: This fic was amazing, this was my bookmark comment exactly "I need this, I need this like I need oxygen, like I need love. This is so well written, I could cry. I need it injected into my veins and tattooed on the inside of my eyelids, omg." Again, much like the one above, Peter is transported into the DCU and stumbles across alternate versions of Richard Parker and Ben Parker. I loved it.

Aunt May and the Justice League by Anonymous: This fic is great, if you love the idea of Aunt May being kick ass and -fade to black- sleeping her way through the Justice League in a super classy way, and being such a supportive mum to her dear nephew Peter in the DCU. Very much open relationships, though the main plot doesn't really start to kick in until a few chapters in.

Green, through and through by another_fucking_robin: I love this one, particularly because it's trans Peter Parker. There just aren't enough of them, and when it's well written, it plucks at my heart strings. Plus, the Lazarus Pit is an ally, and I love that for them. This fic just starts off so good, I was in love with it from chapter one.

rot with all the burnouts in the cell by magnuschases: This fic is really entertaining. Like, Dick Grayson, you are the father! And Peter's responses were just great. Awkward grandpa!Bruce will always have my heart.

Singing In My Blood by LialeeEderian: This one is cute. Peter literally falls into Dick Grayson's life. Dick Grayson is clearly his alternate universe dad, and everyone can see it.

a shining spider web by Selador: an alternate spin off of Dark Matter by mysterycyclone. In this fic, the nice guy on the subway that gives him sunglasses during his migraine, clearly Jason Todd, takes him home and adopts him. Very cute and sweet.

Homesick by NotSoSweetHeh: I adore this fic. Peter convinces the Batfam that he's actually an alien, rather than a dimension traveller. Seems easier to him, that way. And it is very easy for him to pull off.

Harry Potter and the Great Custody Battle by dajgen: Okay, say what you will about JKR, she's TERF piece of shit and I hate her. However, I do not hate Dajgen and their work (that would make me a hypocrite, considering my work Wildflowers in the Spring, with is also a HP/DC crossover). Controversial to add a HP related fic, but I feel like I should add it anyway, because I genuinely enjoyed it. It's basically a fic where Harry is related to both Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne. Harry needs them to get out of the Triwizard Tournament. So, a threeway crossover. I won't give anymore spoilers, should you choose to read it.

I hope you liked my picks, I've never actually made one of these before, so I hope I did it right 😅 feel free to hit me up if you want to share your thoughts about my recommendations. I tried to pick fics that were in a similar vein to mine, since I wasn't sure exactly what you were looking for. Thank you for this ask, it was really fun putting this list together! Shout out to all these very talented writers. There's plenty more, but I don't want to inundate you. If you want more recommendations at a later date, feel free to ask me again 💕💕

#definitely-not-indecisive #theneonghosts #fanfic rec #my recs #Spider-Man/DC crossover list

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thiccpersonality · 9 months ago

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Do you, mayhaps, mean Ramadan?

It was a beautiful morning in Gotham, surprising every individual of the usually smoggy and dull city. Today the weather decided to treat all Gothamites kindly with a very spring feeling day! The sun was out, the weather was warm enough to feel comfortable and not too hot while the breeze blew just enough to feel a pleasant kind of cool, and the Wayne family has decided to take advantage of such gorgeous weather.

Bruce and his cousin Kate Kane sit under a large umbrella, the woman sipping on her ice cold lemonade while she gets Stephanie to slather some sunscreen on her.

Bruce himself sipping on his strawberry lemonade while watching his children have fun, his youngest child curled up next to his chair while sitting on his pool towel and finishing up homework so he can-in his own words-"demolish his siblings in pool games."

Bruce sighs in contentment while situating his sunglasses on his nose and reaching a hand down to gently pat Damian's head, the boy unconsciously leaning up into his hand while writing down more stuff into his workbook. Bruce is just glad that his youngest was able to enjoy himself today, the young boy was disappointed at not being able to go to boxing classes today, his two teachers couldn't make it today.

The small, peaceful moment is interrupted by Damian gasping softly as if he's remembered something. The boy sending a quick glare Jason and Richard's way when they start splashing water the youngest boy's way. Bruce quickly lowers his glasses so he can look at his baby son properly and look at him curiously, "What's wrong? Is everything alright?"

Damian finishes up the last of his homework and looks up at his dad while nodding. "Oh, yes father. Everything is just fine. I just realized the reason my two boxing teachers couldn't teach me today."

Kate sips at her drink and waves her hand at Stephanie, signaling to the girl that she can finally leave to play in the pool, the redhead ignoring Bruce's small glare at her for using his kids as personal servants. The woman focuses her eyes on Damian and smiles, "Oh, yeah? And what reason is that?"

Damian looks up in intense thought, "It's because they are celebrating Muhammad-uh...Muhammadan? Muhammad Ali day!"

A loud burst of laughter comes from the edge of the pool, the three turning to look at Tim-who has leaned over the edge of the pool-curiously. "Damian, do you mean Ramadan?"

Damian blushes and looks down embarrassed while his siblings bust out laughing at his cute mistake. Bruce holding in his laughter long enough to wait for his baby son to dive into the pool and out of hearing range with the threats of drowning his siblings for daring to mock him.

(I totally head cannon that Kate Kane uses Bruce's many children to help her as personal servants 😂. Not in a mean way, but she takes advantage of the free help since he has so many, she gets annoyed at how he keeps such good track on them though...it makes it more difficult to steal them away lol.

And this was based off of something me and my twin's baby brother said. He was trying to think of and say Ramadan, but he said "Muhammadan" and "Muhammad Ali Day" instead. We had a good laugh at that one.

You darlings please stay safe, happy, healthy and of course lovely as always and I hope all and any were able to enjoy this short and simple mini-fic thing? 💛)

#dc comics #dc universe #dcu #dc batman #bruce wayne #damian wayne #kate kane #tim drake #timothy drake #cuteness #cute kids #funny #bruce loves his kids #bruce wayne is a good dad #batfamily shenanigans #batfamily #batfam #gremlin damian wayne

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dk-thrive · 5 months ago

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I’ve walked the edge, tipped over it briefly, and found my way back.

These days, it feels like my brain notices too much and too little at the same time. I notice descending rings of coffee on the inside of my cup and the clink of porcelain and plates and a spoon falls and bounces. Sounds are a bit louder now and all the edges of the world seem sharper. I attribute it to a renewed sense of appreciation for everything because I’ve walked the edge, tipped over it briefly, and found my way back. It is that. It’s also something more. There are other, more subtle things shifting in me that I don’t immediately see. My short-term memory feels fragile and I walk into a room and don’t know why I’m there. I’m looking for the keys in my hand. I’m looking for the sunglasses on my face and holding the phone as it rings but can’t remember whom I’m calling… little grains of sand falling out through cracks. But I sweep it under the rugs in the living room and forget about it because I don’t remember doing it. I just hope whatever I’m feeling will fade. Maybe the light shining on me will fill in the cracks. And the light is bright.

— Cory Richards, The Color of Everything: A Journey to Quiet the Chaos Within (Random House, July 9, 2024)

#Cory Richards #The color of everything #thoughts #mind #bipolar #mental health

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marimayscarlett · 7 months ago

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How are we feeling about Richard in sunglasses today? For me, personally I'm OBSESSED, he looks so damn sexy 🥵

Hi 👋🏻

The weather yesterday was a stark contrast to the rain the day before, and while I love wet! Richard, I was glad the guys could spend a concert bone dry 😅☀️ and it gave us sunglasses!Richard again 😎 He looks so good with it, and is feeling himself too as it seems 😌🤌🏻

📽️ by conny_tanzlehrerin, 📷 by mgroot

Some more sunglasses 😎 for your enjoyment (and to at least somewhat capture the feeling of summer, since in my country it's currently ✨non-existent✨):

#rammstein #richard kruspe #ask #first wet richard now summer richard #we are BLESSED #Kruspe fashion

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notafraidofredyellowandblue · 7 months ago

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Rammblings Nijmegen 2024-06-19

Now this was good weather for being outdoors 😊

a lot different from the day before

so i took my time checking out all the merch, food, drink etc stuff at the venue 😊

The sun was very bright, straight at the stage, so i'm not surprised most of them wore sunglasses, i see Richard squinting in clips from the first few songs, i think he's like me in not liking that much sun in the face. As the sun was setting and shadows were growing larger, the shadow of one tower was exactly near Richard's spot, and i think he moved there for a song. Sun also made it difficult to see the big screens for the first part of the show, which was a shame, this really is the time of year when the sunset is quite late, when i was in the shuttle to the station afterwards (about 23:15) it was still somewhat light out. In that aspect yesterday's dark skies were better.

This time i was on the other tribune, right next to the stairs (woohoo!). Still a bit behind a tower, which unfortunately meant i couldn't see Olli's spot 🥺 but i could see the others quite well, Till and Schneider too

Everybody seemed in a great mood, Paul very playful stomping around his part of the stage. Flake and Till having a cosy walk (and Paul chasing after Flake on the way back). I think on one of the first songs Richard went to Flake's station and Flake came down his stairs briefly to him 🥰

my 2nd show in a row, now i'm sure there were some sound issues on tuesday, because this time i could very clearly hear Richard's 'Links' solo (loves his solo, Ausländer too, at the end he went to Schneider's drumkit, to have a little eye contact 🥰 I think there also was more pyro and/or lights than yesterday, wonder if stuff didn't work because of the rain (don't remember). Also still very much love Richard's Puppe backing vocals, don't be surprised if i'll be posting on that more often in the next days 🥰

Also think i saw Flake and Richard get together at the final salut, don't know if there was a hug, i hope so 🥰 but i couldn't tell.

Personally didn't move or dance like the day before (when we were a bit like that 'aristocats meet rammstein' cartoon) i was a few rows from the top and people behind me stayed in their seats so i figured i shouldn't stand up and block their views, which made it a little less fun for me personally (maybe i should have just stood up anyway, don't know). So although it was a textbook Rammstein show, everybody in great spirits, everything working fine (afaik), i am happy that i did both shows, because the first one with all it's imperfections was a bit more fun for me personally 😊 (what can i say, i like the imperfections)

Radio and Ausländer again worked great live, isn't it funny how some songs may be better on an album, but don't translate to the stage, and these, that may be not as spectacular on record, just have "it" on stage 🥰 Loved all the great bangers like Sonne, Du Hast, and Wiener Blut sounds soooo good live. I had hoped to see the silliness of Mein Teil cheering squad, but unfortunately that didn't happen. I admire the piano ladies for their enthusiasm, it's quite difficult to get the crowd excited, kudos to Richard for getting them a bit of extra applause on b stage 🥰

Saw Schneider pick up a passenger again in the boats, and although i normally don't like when he does that, this girl was so cute in her snowwhite outfit, Till got her to wave to the camera and everybody cheered for her 🌺 (Till also headbutted Paul's mic when it was left unguarded, but i don't think he was injured)

So all in all, great show, with even greater music 🥰 And i finally got to see my fave band live 🥰

and on a personal note, i had some anxiety up front about getting there and back with such a large crowd, but i took enough time before (was already there at least an hour before the show started which with seats is absolutely not necessary, many people only came to their seat when Rammstein started, but it was quite relaxed that way) and on the way outi let everybpdy sort of flood down the seats and the field and then got down, and because i was by myself, i could zigzag around the crowds and get to the shuttles quite easily. All friendly people, everyone in a good mood 😊 Even the linesat the toilets were very quick (yes that is important) 😊

So now on to the journey back home after two great days 😊 but i admire fans who do several shows and venues back-to-back, i couldn't do it (and that's not just because my age being 'younger than most of Rammstein') 😄

#nijmegen 2024 #rammstein #my fan experience

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eco-lite · 9 months ago

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Volume 7 babyyy let’s go!

(But CW: sexual assault. I do include some quotes related to the assault here since I was recording my thoughts on it at the time.)

First of all, how gorgeous is this cover art?! They looks so good. This might be my favorite cover so far.

“Even now, twenty years later, I still haven’t found my ‘rightful place’” (6). Okay so we going Richard introspection hours. Love it!

“Prologue”

* Blogger!Seigi omg.

* I guess “Iggy” is pretty close in pronunciation to “Seigi” but it seems wild to call him that lol. Also, who is reading this blog???

* Lotus is Seigi’s favorite flower. Got it.

* I wish the blog posts had a different format or typeface than the main text. That would be really fun and easier to distinguish.

* For fuck’s sake, just call him!

* For real though, it is really easy to sympathize with Seigi’s doubts right now. Being in such a foreign place, just waiting around for things to happen. That would make anyone anxious and doubtful of their choice. “When you had too much time on your hands, your anxieties loomed bigger, like shadow puppets hit by the light” (23). Fr fr.

* Jeffrey is ultra-dramatic and mysterious as usual. This is going to be quite an experience.

“Day 1”

* It’s so wild to me that Seigi thinks Richard would tell him to quit his internship if he’s not settling in well. That’s not how I see Richard at all. Shouldn’t Seigi know that Richard would tell him a long story with a message about perseverance, likely with illusions to Richard’s own life that would fly right over Seigi’s head? Because that’s pretty clearly the standard. As always, Seigi is way too in his head.

* Ah, so the mentorship wasn’t supposed to be like this after all. It’s really cute to see Richard getting so indignant and protective of Seigi like this.

* The rapid shift in Richard’s tone once he thinks Seigi is distracted/being disingenuous gave me fucking whiplash.

* NOT Seigi blocking Richard from view of the staff guy who’s giving interested glances at him. 🫢

* Bro this is crazy. Who is this mysterious other British man? What’s his past with Richard? It’s so bad that Richard is drinking alcohol?? Living for the drama.

“Day 2”

* Richard wearing sunglasses inside? Uh oh, he got fucked up last night.

* Seigi once again defending Richard from the male cruise staff. At least Richard seemed to appreciate it.

* “Richard chuckled when he saw the fraught look on my face. I always thought he sounded a bit like a pigeon when he laughed like that” (77). Wtf why is that adorable?

* Ooh a rare Richard swear!

* Okay so whatever Richard doesn’t want Seigi to see at the jewelry showcase has to do with the darker sides of the world of gemstones. What have you gotten yourself into, Richard?

* I actually feel physically ill. Now it’s very clear why Richard didn’t want Seigi to be here. I didn’t think the “dark” aspects were going to hit quite so close to home. Seigi is focusing only on Karlsbrook because he’s filled with rage, but I really need to get a check in Richard rn please. OKAY SHIT, Richard keeps brushing Karlsbrook’s arm off his waist but he is not getting the hint. What a CREEP.

* This is genuinely so hard to read. I am right there with Seigi, struggling to restrain myself from doing something rash to (metaphorically) destroy this man. And there are so many bystanders doing nothing. God, this is painful.

* “‘I love beautiful things. I want beautiful things. I don’t want anything but beautiful things. And in that respect, nothing could be more desirable to a collector like myself than you’” (98). I’m going to fucking throw up. This is explaining so much about Richard’s trauma around compliments of his beauty. This blatant objectification is vile.

* What the fuck is this Karlsbrook guy’s deal? He clearly would have harassed Richard even if Seigi wasn’t there, but he seemed to do it more gleefully because it was in front of Seigi. What does he know about Seigi and Richard’s relationship? He marveled at the fact that Seigi actually showed up earlier. How did he know that there was a possibility he would? And how does he even know who Seigi is in the first place? This is so fucked up!

* And they’re distantly related?! Bro…

* Okay so if Jeffrey didn’t send Seigi those emails, it was definitely Karlsbrook. Why does he want Seigi there so badly?

* Anddd now he’s being framed for stealing a priceless ring. Okie dokie then.

* “Kindly uncle” is not the vibe I’m getting, my guy. “Stupid, elderly baby doll” is a much more apt description.

* Vince is a great character. He just seems like a nice, chill dude you’d want to hang out with. And I love when a character’s appearance doesn’t match their personality. It gets me every time.

* After Vince goes on a lecture about anime and manga figure 3D modeling: “I cautiously asked Vince if he liked anime and manga, and he politely ignored me. Got it” (151). This guy. What a kuudere.

* This story was just tough. Looking forward to the conclusion tomorrow.

“Day 3”

* Ooh, detective Seigi!

* I’m loving Seigi’s absolute audacity in this one.

* Seigi is so adhd-coded.

* “‘…What happened with that creep?’ ‘Just shut up for a bit.’ ‘Okay’” (190). I love their rapport. 😂

* Richard showing up looking gorgeous to kick ass at poker while subtly roasting the VP is so !! He’s truly serving here.

* “The man presenting his merciless flush of hearts had such a beautiful yet indifferent look in his eyes as he stared intently at the man across from him. ‘Shall we continue?’ (193). So cunty!

* “Richard always had fire in his eyes when he got angry. The melanin in his irises gave their blue a sort of undulating wave pattern, and when I looked at him, I got goosebumps. It made me feel like I’d laid eyes on something no mortal should ever see” (193-194). Seigi is in so deep, bro.

* “‘Thank you, Ricky. Not even Raphael’s Madonna is a match for the beauty of your fingers manipulating those cards. I wish you would use those fingers to toy with me.’ ‘My apologies, I’ve been suffering from some temporary hearing loss and did not catch what you just said.’ After replying with the most refined ‘Like hell I will,’ in history, Richard stepped back and left the two men at the table” (199). 🤮🤮🤮 Karlsbrook is literally a mustache-twirling villain, this is crazy. Great clapback though, Richard. Also, is anybody else so uncomfortable when people call Richard “Ricky?” It feels infantalizing and like such a violation of the image Richard wants to present himself as.

* I just looked up what happened to the Colonel Sanders statue in Dotonbori. Wow… Seigi is not fucking around.

* Why are Vince and Richard having slightly hostile banter right now?? This is hilarious but I feel like I missed something behind the scenes.

* VINCE WAS HIS ASSISTANT????? This is blowing my mind omg.

* AND IT WAS VINCE IN THE BAR THAT FIRST NIGHT??? Wild. Can’t believe Seigi suspected that from hearing his purposefully bad english. Seigi actually is a good detective, and he’s more observant than I give him credit for. How rude to hold out on the readers like that though!

* “‘That was the first time I’d ever felt that strongly that I wasn’t needed somewhere… I’ve never felt such heartache like the moment I realized that I could offer nothing of value to this person who was such a huge presence in my life’” (231). Ouchies. Boy, do I know that feeling. Poor Vince. It’s unfortunate that Vince felt his relationship with Richard was so one-sided. I hope he won’t always be bitter about their relationship. Even if he had said something to Richard back then, I think Richard would have gotten very closed off and defensive, since they didn’t have a super close personal relationship. They’ve both improved in their communication skills since then. And it seems like things are going quite well for Vince now. I wish that funky little guy the best, and I hope he and Seigi end up staying in touch.

* “The beautiful man threw off his jacket about 30 percent more aggressively than normal, rolled up his sleeves, and stood in front of the punching bag. He gave it a fierce one-two punch. Sometimes, humans just get the urge to suddenly practice boxing, and this seemed to be one such time for Richard” (245). I love that we’re getting to see Richard like this. Seigi clearly has seen Richard be more casual around him since he knows how Richard normally takes off his jacket, but I doubt Richard has let Seigi see this side of him before. And I also really relate to getting the urge to “suddenly practice boxing.”

* And then he just leaves looking disheveled?! Bruh. At least stick around to cool off first. 😏

* Thank god the rest of the cruise was peaceful. I’m glad Seigi and Richard got to just hang out after all that drama.

* Ewww Seigi had to endure a hug from Karlsbrook. But I’m so glad that creep got exposed. Hopefully Gargantua actually does good after the investigation into their culture of sexual misconduct.

“Epilogue”

* “But as you might expect if a food for celebrations, it opened with ‘twenty-five eggs,’ so I think I’ll try scaling it down” (251). I just love cute little comments Seigi makes like this. Also very relatable to anybody who follows Pinterest recipes. Who needs to make that much food??

* Richard reads about “unfamiliar grammatical constructions” for fun. This man…

* “There were words that I wanted to say in Japanese and others that felt easier to express in English, but they were both becoming mine. For example, this was something that I wanted to say in Engish. I wish you were here. I wish you were here to eat the food I made. I don’t know if you’ll like it, but I’d be happy if you have it a try. And if I say something ridiculous again, I wouldn’t mind if you got frustrated and scolded me” (263). 😌😌😌 But for real, can we talk about the romance of wanting to tell someone you miss them in their native language?

* Richard being so giddy that he pulled off this prank of showing up unannounced is adorable.

* Seigi’s idea of heaven is sitting in a beautiful garden drinking royal milk tea and eating delicious snacks while talking to Richard. 😌😌😌

* Okayyy and right back into the drama. I guess we’re going to have a teenage girl nemesis now. Not at all what I was expecting. But as always, I’m excited to learn more about Richard’s past!

Although this volume had many tough moments, we actually got a lot of smiley Richard. He seems a lot more comfortable around Seigi than even at the end of the last volume. I’m really looking forward to seeing how their relationship progresses from here. Especially if they’re staying in Sri Lanka together like was suggested at the end of Vol 6!

#the case files of jeweler richard #jeweler richard #tsujimura nanako #nanako tsujimura #richard ranasinghe de vulpian #seigi nakata

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tenderhooked · 8 months ago

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Rosé, I think, if you want to get technical, but close enough!

she's beautiful.......

for you, my love, a wee bit of a brand-new wip (!) that i'm working on for the whump bingo card i received (!!!!!!):

“I think I’d rather walk over hot coals from here to France than do this,” Colin informs the occupants of the first car as they slather sunscreen onto each others’ backs and wait for the second car to arrive. It’s Roy driving that one, and Sam is convinced that he refused to let Jamie touch the GPS, or Moe the radio. He imagines all of them sitting there in silence as Roy becomes steadily more aware of his mistakes, and shudders. Alhamdulillah he got assigned to Isaac’s van. “But then you would have to be in France,” says Jan Maas, a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He’s standing at the edge of the forest, looking for all the world like a cryptid that crawled its way free of the trees and then immediately realized its mistakes. Colin’s mouth screws up in disgust. “Damn.” “I take enormous offense to this,” says Richard, huffily. Then, pinching the spot where he’s applying sunscreen to Zoreaux’s upper bicep, “Quit moving.” “Sorry,” Zoreaux says. “I don’t want to be here.”

#ask #bluestone-dragon #thank youuuu for the rose my love MWAH <3 #yes this is a team bonding activity via hiking in the middle of summer. no this won't go horribly wrong. obviously.............#sid speaks #ted lasso

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bijouxcarys · 1 year ago

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𝐓𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐨 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 (𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧)

Masterlist

Robert Plant x fem!OC

Description: Sometimes the pain of what should have never been, opens your eyes to what can be.

Tags: @celestial-dragoness @whothefuckisanja @callmethehunter @ourshadowstallerthanoursoul @strsmn @firethatgrewsolow @chromations @brownskinsugarplum76 @angrychicksposts (if you'd like to be added, just let me know!)

Elena practically flew forwards, her hand only just managing to stop the rest of her from slamming into the dashboard. She blinked once and slowly looked to her right.

“Are you joking?” she asked monotonously. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Don’t blame me, blame the fucking pigeon on the road!” John pointed ahead of him, one hand gripping onto the steering wheel. Elena followed his pointed finger and sighed.

“Bon…” she began. “That’s a fucking badger.”

“Huh?” He squinted, struggling to see a thing through the persistent sun. “Gah!” he grunted, waving his hand relatively in the same direction of the sun as he started the car up again, continuing their drive. “El, will you pass me my sunnies from my bag?”

Elena looked at John as if he was speaking an unfounded language. “You’re such a diva now,” she huffed, but smirked to let him know she wasn’t serious. Though she was certain he knew her enough to know she could never be snarky to him.

With an exaggerated sigh, she turned and stretched over in between the two car seats, reaching for John’s bag. She pulled it over to her and got to unzipping it, just as he made quite a sharp turn, causing her to fall sideways into him.

“My God, get your arse out of my face.”

“Stop making stupid driving decisions, then!”

“Why don’t you bloody drive? You’re old enough now.”

“I’ll end up killing someone, mate.” Elena rummaged through his bag, looking for his sunglasses. She snorted when she came across handfuls upon handfuls of spare drumsticks. “You got enough sticks in here, Bon-Bon?” she asked rhetorically, finally finding his sunglasses and retrieving them.

“Here y’are,” she plopped back down into the passenger seat, holding the shades out for John.

“Cheers,” he thanked her, clumsily putting them on his face with one hand, poking his eye in the process. “We’re almost there, by the way.”

Elena nodded, taking in the more urban character of their surroundings. It was a contrast to where she and John had grown up and spent most of their time. Sure, they weren’t all the way out in the countryside, but everything was within walking distance from each other. The closer into Birmingham you got, the more bus stops and taxi ports came into view, and the more reclusive passers-by seemed to be.

John had learned the ins and outs of Birmingham for the most part, ever since he started to pursue drumming full time and had to make these journeys in and out of the city. His recent endeavour, a band eccentrically named Crawling King Snakes, had inspired new confidence in him. The colourful landscape of musicians he had come across had never been more vibrant than the one he found himself in the middle of now. More than anything, hope was peeking over the horizon.

“So, what should I expect from your new bandmates?” Elena asked, resting her legs on the dashboard and tracing her finger across the grooves on her brown corduroy trousers.

“Nothing too crazy. Expect a lot of Welsh from Dave. Paul’s quiet… Dunno, they’re just chilled out guys.” He shrugged.

“Not really giving too much away, are you?”

“They’re hard to describe, to be honest with you. You just have to meet them,” John chuckled.

Elena left it at that and sat back, enjoying the rest of the car ride. The radio had treated them nicely that day, feeding them with the slick tunes of Little Richard and The Drifters, to Elvis and The Everly Brothers. All music the two friends enjoyed throughout the years. Elena had taken a recent interest in The Rolling Stones, a sharp turn from what she was used to listening to. Growing up, she found her place in the Blues, and Soul. She could listen to the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole for hours and never tire of their silky vocals; the pure emotion and heart that went into each stave and syllable rang deep within her, and she felt every word like kitten kisses upon her ears.

Since John decided to become a full-time drummer, she’d been exposed to a wider variety of music that seeped from the essence of da blues to form a complete musical revolution that had quickly grown on her. The first time she heard the Stones was during her late night shift at work. Minimal pay for a 17-year-old, but the pub’s great company and tunes cancelled out the meesely wage. Satisfaction stuck with her all night. I can’t get no…neh neh neh nene neh neh… All. Night.

The flood gates were swung open once she stepped foot into the record shop in search of more Stones. That’s when she first came across Bay City Rollers, Cream, The Yardbirds… it was a whole different world and Elena hoped with her entire being that there would be more of it to come—that it wasn’t a mere diversion in the chaotic lineage of music evolution.

Bag over his shoulder, John led Elena inside the building, where Crawling King Snakes had booked out a small space for a couple of hours in exchange for £100. Dave was somewhat peeved that they had to spend that much on a couple of hours, but was easily convinced nonetheless.

“Ayy, there he is!” Paul exclaimed, raising his arms in the air as he spotted John at the door with his female companion.

“Ayy, y’alright, mate?” John greeted him with a manly hug, slapping each other’s backs in the process. It amused Elena greatly when she witnessed John in the presence of other guys; his entire demeanour toughened and he gave the facade of a sharp-tongued lad’s lad. Yes, he had it in him. But the correlation between that and his surroundings was too coincidental for it not to be causational.

The room really was small for a jamming session. Four yellow strip lights hung above, and the carpet was worn and colourless, as though waiting to be quenched by the kaleidoscopic symphonies of talented musicians.

“Dave, get your arse over ‘ere,” Paul waved his hand over to the other male in the room, long-haired and lost in thought with a blue bass guitar slung over his shoulder.

“El,” John began, slinging his arm around Elena and bringing her beside him. “This is Paul Martinez and Dave Edmunds—guitar and bass. They’re mental. Beware.”

Elena laughed and shook her head, holding out her hand to greet the two men politely. They reciprocated the greeting with friendly smiles, one accompanied by a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“This is Elena. She’s my best friend, partner in crime, and primary critic. If anyone knows what sounds good, it’s this girl, here,” he proudly introduced with a squeeze of her shoulders against him.

“Good to meet you,” Paul said through the muffle of his cigarette.

“Right, El, I need to set up properly, you’re alright just hanging about, yeah?” John checked, putting his bag down on a nearby chair.

“Mhm,” Elena nodded with a smile. “I’ll be here.” She watched as John made his way over to the drum riser to get to work on tightening the drum skins and double checking placements.

With her arms folded comfortably, she took a small step backwards, only to collide with something, or someone, coming through the door behind her. She turned her head and moved out of the way immediately. “Oh, sorry…” she instinctively apologised before looking up at the person in question.

“Nah, yer alright, luv, I was just gunna skim past you.”

Her chestnut eyes fell in line with two striking orbs of blue—expressive and welcoming. He had thick, curly hair that traced the fine line of dirty blonde. It looked like it could easily switch up in the glare of the sun, with how delicate it seemed. It fell into strong sideburns that stopped just short of his chin, framing a dimpled grin that dismissed her apology.

“Ah, Bobby!” Paul called in the midst of lighting a cigarette. The blonde grunted and looked over at him with a dissatisfied glare.

“Will you stop calling me that?”

“Bobby Bobby Bobby Bobbehhhh,” John joined in, in a crouched position by one of the snares. With a boisterous laugh, he popped his head up, gesturing a drumstick at Elena. “Elena, Robert, Robert, Elena.”

Robert’s brows lifted in realisation, a smile once again taking over his features as he turned back to Elena with his hand held out. “Ah, you’re the one he’s been talkin’ about, then.” Clasping his hand in hers, he leaned in to give her a welcoming peck on the cheek, as he did with all the women he came across.

“Great to know he’s been talking about me,” Elena responded loud enough for the drummer to hear, earning a distracted middle finger from him in retaliation.

“Oh, he’s mentioned you a fair bit, yeah,” Robert nodded.

“That’s disconcerting…”

“No, all good things, luv, don’t worry.” Robert waved his hand in dismissal.

They naturally drifted further into the room as everyone hooked themselves up to the few amps they had lying around. Robert was itching to get started. He’d been looking for other strong musicians with a similar zest for life to jive with for a while, and hoped that Crawling King Snakes could at the very least lead to something magnificent. It made him all the more nervous to test out new material, though, now that he had an audience. Not just any audience, either. The presence of John’s female companion, who Robert wasn’t blind enough to recognise as physically stunning.

Even though this was simply an opportunity to jam and test out different sounds, he knew he had to get it right. Whatever it was. Early on, he learned that leaving a not-so-impactful impression on the ladies was the last thing anyone should do when performing. It would be a notch on his ego, an ego he was subconsciously trying to craft around the slightly sensitive, yet lively, 18-year-old boy that he was.

Little did he know he had already made a lasting impression, simply by the way he greeted Elena at the door. There was something extremely European about his way of saying ‘hello,’ in a sense that it held the weight of a respectful, gallant gentleman. To Elena, that was extremely comforting and unique; exactly the kind of person she’d enjoy surrounding herself with.

The way he chose to dress himself… wow. She’d very rarely seen men adorn their bodies with such delicate material, bohemian and Eastern-inspired all at once. If there was one thing Robert was, it was remarkable, exceptional… abnormal—everything the world was missing but didn’t know it needed. And that was just by the way he dressed.

It was fair to say Elena’s interest in this eccentric boy was piqued.

Incidentally, the feeling was mutual. Robert was instantly caught up in the way her deep brown hair fell in natural waves down her back, tamed, yet allowed to sway freely with every movement she made. And her eyes, fuck, they were so big and captivating. He’d already picked up on her accent, always one to take note of such things. Alluring, unapologetically informal. So care-free. He only hoped that his first impressions of her were accurate. It would be a shame to see something so beautiful turn out to be the complete opposite.

“Bonzo’s a great drummer, isn’t he?”

Elena, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, cocked her head in Robert’s direction. “Bonzo?”

“John.” He nodded his head towards him.

“He’s a fantastic drummer. Always thought that of him.” Elena’s voice was soft as she admired him from afar.

“How long have you two been together?”

The brunette had to steal a minute to confirm she had heard correctly. She had paused amid her smile in John’s direction. “Who?” she checked, glancing at Robert.

“You and John.”

“Oh God, no,” she was quick to shake her head, face falling flat. “No, no…”

Robert’s light smile fell slightly, and a soft shade of pink infiltrated his cheeks. “No?”

“Yeah, no.”

“No, what?”

“We aren’t together,” she insisted with a gesturing finger between herself and her best friend. “Hasn’t he told you he’s married?”

Robert’s eyebrows scrunched up, sending a curious glance over at John. “It’s never come up in conversation, I guess.”

“It was recent, to be fair.” Elena watched Robert’s analytical observation. “He’s got a one-month old son, as well.”

“Well, shit,” Robert breathed, running a hand over his face. “Sorry, I just assumed ‘cause of how close you two seem to be…” Behind the comfort of his hand, he scrunched up his face in embarrassment and shook his head. “Fuckin’ Bonzo…” he muttered. Crawling King Snakes hadn’t been together for longer than a couple of months, and none of the eight sessions they'd had thus far consisted of private-life talk. Each of them were too preoccupied with the music and forming a cohesive combination of personalities to delve into the lives of one another.

Elena’s swift dismissal may have translated as abrasive, and she became quickly aware of that as soon as Robert hid his face behind his hand, inaudibly scolding himself. She didn’t jump to reassure him, however. His sensitivity to the smallest misunderstanding was captivating. Rare. There was no need to maintain emphasis on something that clearly left him unwillingly flustered.

So, she changed the topic, focusing on the nickname Robert had used twice now.

“You call him Bonzo?” Elena smiled, not only at the name, but the way it sounded on a Black Country tongue.

“Yeah, well,” Robert chuckled, showing an off-centre slant in his smile that emphasised the dimple on his right cheek. “He was insistent on calling me Bobby, so I thought I’d call him something that would piss him off even more, but…” He shook his head, watching his bandmate test out each drum to perfection. “He actually didn’t mind it, so it’s stuck.”

“Bonzo…” Elena tested the name in her own mouth, the cadence different in her Lancashire drawl. “It fits him, dunnit?” She said through a grin. “I’ve always called him Bon-Bon.”

“Like the sweet?” Robert looked down at her, resting his hand on the wall beside her head casually, the small blip in their conversation fading into obscurity.

She nodded, still looking at John. “Mhm. It was actually an accident,” she pointed out, glancing at Robert. “I guess I struggled to say ‘Bonham’ when I was 4.”

“Blimey, you’ve known him for that long?”

Elena turned her head to him fully, her mouth dropping open a bit. “Alright, calm down, how old do you think I am?”

“I-I didn’t mean it as in ‘you’re old’!” Robert laughed. “You can’t be much older than us!”

“I’m actually younger than John by a year, so…”

“Well, I’m younger than him by a few months.”

“So, there you go, I’m not old.”

“Listen, luv, I was simply shocked by how long you’ve known him,” Robert incessantly defended himself, much to Elena’s amusement. She smiled at him, looking back at John.

“Nah, I bloody wish I was older.”

“And why’s that?”

“Can’t drink yet, can I?” She gave Robert a pointed look.

“That’s right, you can’t.” He feigned distress, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “The struggles of being 17 in England.”

“Oh, I know, it’s torture,” she played along, resting her head back against the wall.

He smirked. “So, you’re a drinker, then, eh?”

“Well…” she shrugged, “A bit, yeah. I work in a pub as a waitress, so sometimes I can have half a pint at the end of the shift if there aren’t that many people in. Which hardly ever happens.” She rolled her eyes.

“I’ve only recently turned 18, so I’m still trying to get used to buying alcohol in the shops without worrying about being caught,” Robert chided. “What pub d’you work in?”

“The George Inn. It’s like slam in between here and up in Walsall.”

“I see…” Robert nodded, chewing his lip in thought.

“That being said, I want to move a bit closer to here, eventually. Not entirely in the city centre, though, I like the countryside a bit too much.”

Robert just smiled as she spoke. He took in every piece of information, enjoying the way she’d speak in her hometown slang every now and then. She definitely spoke a lot, but Robert didn’t mind. He admired it.

“Like, closer to the city, but not completely in the city… d’ya get what I mean?” She looked up at Robert, completely unashamed of her rambling.

“I get what you mean, luv,” he reassured.

“I know this might be weird, but I just love being surrounded by nature. It’s how I grew up—how both of us grew up,” she gestured between herself and John, who was almost done. “And I have a thing for plants. Being in the city doesn’t really reward you with that stuff, does it?”

Elena watched as Robert’s smile widened, seemingly proud of himself. She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that look for?”

“You have a thing for plants?” he asked.

“Alright, I know it’s a bit… nerdy, or whatever, but yeah, I do. I like the smell of them when you’ve just watered them, and the reflections they make when the sun hits them in the right spot. They brighten up a room. There’s just something… comforting about them.”

“You really don’t need to defend yourself, Elena.” She liked the way he said her name. It was almost like he was testing it out for the first time. “I’m a bit like that with nature. My parents used to take me over to Wales every year on holiday, and we’d stay right in the heart of nature. Right on the coast. It was great.” He folded his arms, glancing over at John. “Aren’t you bloody done, yet?”

“You’re the one yappin’ on over there ‘bout God knows what, don’t have a chomp at Bonz!” Dave scolded, punctuated with a funky run of notes from his bass.

“Oh, shit,” Robert snorted, his face flushing where his sideburns faded out into a light beard. “Guess that’s me cue,” he said to Elena, a small boost of confidence overtaking him in the dawn of stepping in front of a band. “Oh, by the way, my last name is Plant. And I’ve been known to brighten up any room,” he teased with a boyish wink.

Elena couldn’t help but grin, as much as she tried to resist looking silly, as she watched him walk up to the mic stand.

If Robert didn’t feel some kind of pressure before, he certainly did now. He’d just bigged himself up in the most pretentious way possible, in his mind, by using his name. His bloody name! If he could, he would have slapped himself, right in the face. As he stood there, right in between his bandmates and the inquisitive gaze of Elena, he felt it brewing in the pit of his stomach. A certain drive. A metaphorical shove to let go. To show off. To submerge himself in the euphoria he called music. To do everything he’d admired his idols for for so long now.

In this moment, he finally caught the essence by a fleeting blink of an eye, and he grasped it as firmly as he did the microphone, determined to never let it go.

Unsure of what she was expecting from the seemingly delicate, unruly-haired, sapphire-eyed young man in front of her, Elena sat on the edge of her seat as Robert exorcised such visceral sounds from his mouth. Unlike anything she’d ever heard. She watched as he got completely lost in the rhythm, shaking his curls around in time with each riff.

The perfect combination of what she’d grown up on and what she’d recently ventured into.

It left her speechless; a big deal for someone like Elena, who rarely managed to keep her mouth shut. She had to distract herself, keep herself from acting like a babbling idiot before Robert even thought about asking her for feedback. So, whilst Robert helped John with some wires at the end of their session, Elena struck up a conversation with Paul, eager to know about his influences. But as much as she tried to focus on what Paul was saying, her eyes betrayed her mind, and made brief but definite glances at the singer on the drum-riser.

Robert bit onto his tongue as he concentrated on winding up one of the wires that had previously been connected to his microphone. John was busy complaining about how they had to make sure they left the room the way they found it, despite the state they found it in. They’d be blamed for it either way. Young, aspiring musicians were blamed for everything these days.

He made sure to nod along, but stayed entirely fascinated by Elena, making hidden glances over at her as she chatted with Paul. Her hair that struck him upon impact now became an accomplice to the rest of her; the two hours he’d been in her presence was enough for him to know he wanted to see more. He wanted to know her, learn from her.

“Uh, Bonz’,” he interrupted John’s rant. He took another moment to succumb to the temptation Elena unknowingly laid out for him, her own cheeks adorned with faint dimples when she laughed. Finally able to tear his eyes from her, he looked at John. “Is, uh…” He nodded his head in the relative direction of Elena. “Is Elena gunna be around a lot, d’you think?” He tried to make his inquisition as casual as possible, nonchalantly hanging the wire in his hands up on one of the hooks behind the drumset.

Whilst John Bonham enjoyed his off-peak ramblings, he wasn’t naive, and he most certainly wasn’t an idiot. This wasn’t the first time another guy had come up to him with a question about his childhood best friend, wondering if she was single, if they were a couple, or anything of that nature. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but it happened enough for him to recognise that tone and look in the eye of any man who asked about a woman with an underlying interest in getting to know her.

He stood from his seat, stretching his back out with an exaggerated groan to cover up the smirk on his face. “If she’s not working, I should imagine she’ll be around us a lot,” he responded, watching intently at Robert’s reaction. But Robert knew he was being watched, and tilted his head in an attempt to cover his expressions with the curls atop his head. This’d be fuckin’ easier if my hair was long…

“You don’t have an issue with her bein’ around, do you?”

“No,” Robert answered immediately, lifting his head up to meet amused eyes. “Just… it was just a question,” he sighed, giving up as Elena appeared at the bottom of the drum-riser, smiling at John.

“Yep, almost done, El,” he responded to a silent question he knew she was about to ask. “What time you s’pposed to start your shift?”

“Five,” she answered, folding her arms and sending a comfortable smile over to Robert.

“What’d’ya think?” Robert asked, jumping down from the riser.

Elena’s smile widened, but her response was cut off before she could even begin.

“What do you mean, ‘what’d’ya think’?” John chuckled. “El loves anything I do, isn’t that right?”

“‘Ar Bon-Bon is clearly very modest,” Elena teased, sending John a wry grin before turning her attention back to Robert. She considered him for a second, the earlier elation settled in her chest for now, and she was able to respond with a coherent elegance. “Not bad, Plant.”

Robert answered with an equally elegant nod of appreciation.

“Right, all done, love,” John huffed, joining them. “Ready to go?” he asked Elena. She nodded with a hum of approval. “Same time next week, yeah?” John turned to Robert, offering a manly hug once again, which consisted of a half-hug and a slap on the back. Receiving confirmation, John fished out his cigarettes in preparation for the ride to Elena’s work.

Before leaving, Robert made sure to give Elena another gallant kiss on the cheek, letting her know it was nice to meet her. She responded in kind, giving his arm a small squeeze in the process.

And as he watched the dynamic duo leave, Robert found himself already restless for next week’s session, where he’d hopefully get to see Elena again.

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