Berryblupie - Blub
More Posts from Berryblupie and Others
Hi everyone
I’m fatma from Gaza Strip and I really need your help
We need you now more than ever- please donate what you can even if 1$ it will be a big help & share my GoFundMe widely. I'm depending on you. Thank you🙏🇵🇸
If you can’t donate help me share it widely like comment and reblog this post!
Bigender goes to the bathroom
Reblog if Black Lives Matter to you
Where are those woke white people at!?
Keeping Up With the Leclercs
mafia!Charles Leclerc x bratva! Reader
Summary: ever wondered what it would be like if Morticia and Gomez Addams were in the mafia? There’s nothing quite like a dangerous couple who are (literally) crazy for each other
Warnings: arranged marriage and kidnapping
You stand in your father’s study, arms crossed defiantly as he delivers the news that will change your life forever. The plush Persian rug beneath your feet feels like quicksand, threatening to swallow you whole.
“You can’t be serious,” you spit out, glaring at the man who raised you. “An arranged marriage? What century do you think we’re living in?”
Your father, Nikolai, the most feared man in the Bratva, doesn’t flinch. He merely raises an eyebrow, his steely gaze unwavering. “It’s not up for discussion, Y/N. This alliance with the Monegasque Mafia will secure our position for generations to come.”
You scoff, pacing the room like a caged tigress. “And I’m just supposed to be the sacrificial lamb? How convenient.”
“Watch your tone,” Nikolai warns, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t a request. It’s an order.”
The door to the study swings open, and in walks the very man you’re meant to marry. Charles Leclerc, heir to the Monegasque Mafia, saunters in with an air of arrogance that makes your blood boil.
“Ah, there’s my blushing bride,” Charles drawls, a smirk playing on his lips. “I hope I’m not interrupting a touching father-daughter moment.”
You spin to face him, eyes blazing. “You. This is your fault, isn’t it? What, couldn’t find a woman willing to marry you voluntarily?”
Charles chuckles, seemingly amused by your outburst. “Feisty. I like that in a woman.”
“I’m not your woman,” you snarl, taking a step towards him. “And I never will be.”
Your father clears his throat, reminding you of his presence. “Y/N, Charles, please sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Reluctantly, you take a seat on the leather sofa, as far from Charles as possible. He, on the other hand, sprawls out comfortably, looking for all the world like he owns the place.
“Now,” Nikolai begins, “the wedding will take place in three months. Until then, I expect you both to get to know each other and present a united front to our associates.”
You can’t help but laugh bitterly. “Three months? Why the rush? Afraid I’ll come to my senses and run away?”
Charles leans forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Don’t worry, mon chérie. I’ll make sure you’re thoroughly ... distracted.”
“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, refusing to meet his gaze.
Your father sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Enough. You two will learn to get along, for the sake of both our families.”
“And if we don’t?” You challenge, raising your chin defiantly.
Nikolai’s expression darkens. “Then you’ll face the consequences. Both of you.”
The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air. You know better than anyone what your father is capable of when crossed.
Charles, seemingly unfazed, stands up and stretches. “Well, this has been delightful, but I think Y/N and I could use some ... alone time to get acquainted.”
You jump to your feet, ready to protest, but your father beats you to it. “An excellent idea. Y/N, why don’t you show Charles the gardens?”
It’s not a suggestion, and you know it. Gritting your teeth, you storm out of the study, not bothering to check if Charles is following.
The moment you’re in the hallway, Charles catches up, matching your brisk pace. “So, tell me about yourself, future Mrs. Leclerc. What makes you tick?”
You whirl around, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Listen here, you smug bastard. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I want no part of it. This marriage? It’s never going to happen.”
Charles catches your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “Oh, it’s happening alright. But who says we can’t have a little fun along the way?”
You yank your hand away, your skin tingling where he touched you. “Fun? You think this is fun?”
“It could be,” he shrugs, his eyes roaming over you appreciatively. “If you’d let that stick out of your ass for five minutes.”
“Charming,” you deadpan. “Is this how you usually woo women? Insults and forced marriages?”
Charles laughs, the sound rich and oddly melodic. “Only the special ones. Come on, Y/N. Give me a chance. I might surprise you.”
You pause, studying him for a moment. Despite your anger, you can’t deny there’s something intriguing about Charles. A dangerous allure that both excites and terrifies you.
“Fine,” you concede grudgingly. “One chance. But if you so much as look at me wrong, I’ll make you regret it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Charles grins, offering you his arm. “Shall we explore these famous gardens of yours?”
Ignoring his outstretched arm, you lead the way outside. The sun is setting, casting a golden glow over the meticulously manicured grounds.
“It’s beautiful,” Charles murmurs, genuine appreciation in his voice.
You nod, allowing yourself to relax slightly. “It’s my favorite place on the estate. I used to hide here as a child when things got ... intense inside.”
Charles turns to you, his expression softening. “It can’t have been easy, growing up in this world.”
“Like you’d know anything about it,” you scoff, but there’s less venom in your words now.
“You’d be surprised,” he says quietly. “The gilded cage of Monaco isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. “Oh? Do tell.”
Charles shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “Another time, perhaps. For now, I’d rather hear about you. What do you do when you’re not busy being the Bratva princess?”
“I’m not a princess,” you retort automatically. “And I ... I paint, actually.”
“Really?” Charles seems genuinely interested. “What kind of art?”
You hesitate, unused to sharing this part of yourself. “Mostly abstracts. Emotions translated into color and form.”
“I’d love to see them sometime,” Charles says softly. “If you’d let me.”
You study him, trying to detect any hint of mockery. Finding none, you nod slowly. “Maybe. If you behave yourself.”
Charles clutches his chest dramatically. “Me? Misbehave? I’m wounded by the very suggestion.”
Despite yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
As you continue walking, a comfortable silence falls between you. The tension from earlier hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it’s shifted into something ... different. Something charged with possibility.
“You know,” Charles says suddenly, breaking the quiet, “this arranged marriage thing doesn’t have to be a death sentence.”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Says the man who’s not being forced to give up his freedom.”
“Who says you have to give up anything?” Charles counters. “We could make our own rules, create our own version of this marriage.”
You stop walking, turning to face him fully. “What are you suggesting?”
Charles steps closer, his voice low and intense. “A partnership. Equal footing. We present a united front to the world, secure our families’ alliance, but behind closed doors? We live our lives how we want.”
“And what about love?” You ask, hating how vulnerable you sound. “What about building a real relationship?”
Charles reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The gentle touch sends shivers down your spine. “Who says that can’t happen naturally? We have time. We can take things slow, get to know each other properly.”
You swallow hard, your heart racing. “And if we end up hating each other?”
“Then we’ll still be the most dangerous power couple the mafia world has ever seen,” Charles grins. “Think about it. With your fire and my charm, we could rule this entire underworld.”
You can’t help but laugh, the tension finally breaking. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer to think of myself as irresistible,” Charles winks.
Rolling your eyes, you start walking again. “Don’t push your luck, Leclerc.”
As you near the house, Charles suddenly stops, turning to face you. His expression is more serious now, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes.
“Listen, Y/N,” he says softly. “I know this isn’t ideal for either of us. But I meant what I said about making it work. I respect you, and I want us to build something real, even if it starts from an arrangement.”
You study him, searching for any sign of deception. Finding none, you nod slowly. “Okay. I’m willing to try if you are.”
Charles breaks into a genuine smile, one that transforms his entire face. “That’s all I ask.”
As you stand there, bathed in the dying light of the day, you feel something shift between you. It’s not love, not yet, but it’s a beginning. A spark of possibility that could, with time and nurturing, grow into something beautiful.
Charles takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips. The touch is electric, sending a jolt through your entire body.
Pulling back slightly, Charles looks you up and down, a wicked glint in his eye. “You know what, Y/N? I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy everything you have to offer.”
And despite yourself, despite all your reservations and fears, you find yourself looking forward to proving him right.
***
Three months have passed in a whirlwind of preparations, negotiations, and stolen moments. Now, as the clock strikes midnight, you find yourself in the opulent bridal suite of the Leclerc compound, face to face with your new husband.
Charles stands before you, his tuxedo jacket discarded, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes, dark with desire, never leave yours as he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.
“Well, Mrs. Leclerc,” he drawls, a smirk playing on his lips. “Shall we consummate this union of ours?”
You roll your eyes, but can’t quite suppress the flutter in your stomach. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Charles. I’m still not convinced this wasn’t a terrible idea.”
He chuckles, stepping closer. “Always so prickly. It’s one of the things I love about you, you know.”
“Love?” You scoff, trying to ignore the way your heart skips at the word. “We’ve known each other for three months.”
Charles reaches out, his fingers trailing along your jawline. “Sometimes, that’s all it takes.”
You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lean into his touch. “Just ... help me out of this dress, will you? I can hardly breathe in this thing.”
“With pleasure,” Charles grins, moving behind you.
As he slowly lowers the zipper, his breath hot on your neck, you can’t help but shiver. The tension between you has been building for weeks, and now, alone at last, it threatens to consume you both.
The dress pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your undergarments and ...
Charles lets out a low whistle. “Well, well. What do we have here?”
You turn to face him, a wicked glint in your eye. Strapped to various parts of your body are an impressive array of weapons — daggers, throwing stars, even a small pistol holstered to your thigh.
“A girl’s got to be prepared,” you shrug, trying to appear nonchalant despite the heat rising to your cheeks.
Charles’ eyes roam over you, a mix of admiration and desire in his gaze. “I must say, I’m impressed. And more than a little turned on.”
You can’t help but laugh, some of the tension dissipating. “Is that all it takes? A few knives and you’re ready to go?”
“What can I say?” Charles grins, stepping closer. “I like a woman who can handle herself.”
His hands come to rest on your waist, fingers brushing against the hilt of a dagger. “Though I have to ask, were you planning to assassinate me on our wedding night?”
You smirk, trailing a finger down his chest. “The night’s still young, Mr. Leclerc. Don’t get too comfortable.”
Charles laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Oh, mon amour. What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things,” you murmur, surprising yourself with your boldness.
Charles’ eyes darken, his grip on your waist tightening. “Care to elaborate?”
Instead of answering, you reach up and pull him down for a kiss. It’s fierce and passionate, months of pent-up tension finally finding release. Charles responds eagerly, his hands roaming your body, carefully avoiding the various weapons still strapped to your skin.
When you finally break apart, both panting, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “As much as I’m enjoying this little arsenal of yours, perhaps we should disarm you before things get too ... heated.”
You nod, slightly dazed from the intensity of the kiss. “Probably a good idea. Wouldn’t want any unfortunate accidents.”
Charles steps back, his eyes never leaving yours as you begin to remove the weapons one by one. With each knife that clatters to the ground, the air between you grows thicker with anticipation.
“You know,” Charles muses, watching as you unholster the pistol from your thigh, “most brides wear a garter. You went for a whole armory.”
You smirk, setting the gun carefully on a nearby table. “I’m not most brides.”
“No,” Charles agrees, his voice low and husky. “You certainly aren’t.”
As you remove the last dagger, Charles closes the distance between you once more. His hands, warm and calloused, cup your face gently.
“Y/N,” he murmurs, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. “I know this isn’t how either of us imagined getting married. But I want you to know, I’m glad it’s you.”
You swallow hard, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes. “Charles, I-”
He silences you with a soft kiss, so different from the passionate one you shared earlier. This one is tender, almost reverent, and it makes your knees weak.
When he pulls back, you’re both breathing heavily. “You don’t have to say anything,” Charles whispers. “Just ... be here with me. In this moment.”
You nod, unable to form words. Instead, you reach for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers trembling slightly as you undo them one by one.
Charles watches you, his eyes dark with desire. As you push the shirt off his shoulders, revealing his toned chest, he lets out a shaky breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips.
You blush, unused to such open admiration. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage to quip, trying to regain some of your usual bravado.
Charles chuckles, pulling you closer. “Always with the sharp tongue. I wonder what else it can do.”
Before you can retort, his lips are on yours again, hot and demanding. You melt into the kiss, your hands exploring the planes of his chest, tracing old scars and feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
Charles’ fingers find the clasp of your bra, and he pauses, looking at you questioningly. You nod, giving him permission, and he deftly unhooks it, letting it fall to the floor.
“Gorgeous,” he breathes, his eyes roaming over your newly exposed skin. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
You fight the urge to cover yourself, instead meeting his gaze defiantly. “Your turn,” you say, your hands moving to his belt.
Charles grins, helping you undo the buckle. “Eager, are we?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.
As you both finish undressing, the air between you crackles with anticipation. Charles takes your hand, leading you towards the massive four-poster bed that dominates the room.
“Last chance to back out,” he says softly, his thumb tracing circles on your palm.
You look up at him, taking in the mixture of desire and vulnerability in his eyes. Despite everything, despite the arranged nature of your marriage and the complexities of your world, you find yourself wanting this.
Wanting him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, pulling him down onto the bed with you.
What follows is a dance of passion and discovery. Charles’ hands and lips seem to be everywhere at once, mapping out every inch of your skin. You’re not passive either, giving as good as you get, reveling in the way he gasps and moans under your touch.
It’s not perfect — there are moments of awkwardness, of fumbling and laughter. But it’s real, and raw, and more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced.
As you both near the edge, Charles looks down at you, his eyes filled with an emotion you’re not quite ready to name. “Y/N,” he pants, his movements becoming more erratic. “God, Y/N ...”
You arch against him, your nails digging into his back. “Charles,” you gasp, teetering on the brink. “I’m ... I’m ...”
He captures your lips in a searing kiss as you both tumble over the edge together, waves of pleasure washing over you.
Afterwards, you lie tangled together, both struggling to catch your breath. Charles props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a mixture of satisfaction and wonder.
“Well,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “I’d say that was a successful consummation, wouldn’t you?”
You can’t help but laugh, swatting at his chest playfully. “It wasn’t terrible,” you concede, trying to maintain some semblance of your usual sass.
Charles raises an eyebrow, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “Not terrible? I seem to recall you being quite ... vocal in your appreciation.”
You blush, burying your face in his chest to hide your embarrassment. “Shut up,” you mutter, your words muffled against his skin.
Charles chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Never,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I plan on making you that vocal every night for the rest of our lives.”
You pull back, looking up at him with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“It’s part of my charm,” he winks, leaning down to steal another kiss.
As you settle into each other’s arms, a comfortable silence falls between you. Charles’ fingers continue their gentle exploration of your skin, occasionally brushing against the spots where your weapons had been strapped earlier.
“I have to say,” he murmurs after a while, “I’m looking forward to discovering what other surprises you have in store for me, Mrs. Leclerc.”
You tense slightly at the name, reality crashing back in. “About that,” you say, sitting up and pulling the sheet around you. “This ... what just happened... it doesn’t change anything.”
Charles frowns, propping himself up on his elbows. “What do you mean?”
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. “I mean, this was ... enjoyable. But it doesn’t change the fact that we were forced into this marriage. That our lives are being dictated by our families and their alliances.”
“Y/N,” Charles says softly, reaching out to touch your arm. “I thought ... I thought we were past that. That we were building something real here.”
You close your eyes, fighting back the conflicting emotions swirling inside you. “We are. I think. But it doesn’t erase the circumstances that brought us together. I just ... I need you to understand that.”
Charles is quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on your arm. When he speaks, his voice is low and intense. “I understand. But, mon cœur, look at me.”
Reluctantly, you meet his gaze. The depth of emotion you see there takes your breath away.
“Yes, our marriage was arranged,” he says. “But what’s happening between us? That’s real. That’s ours. And I’m not going to let anyone, not our families, not the entire damn underworld, take that away from us. Okay?”
You swallow hard, fighting back tears you didn’t even realize were threatening to fall. “Okay,” you whisper.
Charles pulls you back down into his arms, holding you close. You let yourself relax against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“For what it’s worth,” you murmur after a while, your fingers tracing the lines of a scar on his abdomen, “I’m glad it’s you too.”
But you’re still going to give him hell every step of the way. After all, where would be the fun in making it easy?
***
The gala is in full swing, crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over the ballroom of the Leclerc compound. You stand by Charles’ side, both of you the picture of mafia royalty in your evening wear. Your hand rests on his arm, a gesture that has become natural over the past few months.
“Smile, mon chérie,” Charles murmurs, his lips barely moving. “The Woking representative is watching.”
You plaster on your most charming smile, leaning into Charles slightly. “How long do we have to keep this up?” You whisper back.
Charles chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Until we’ve sufficiently convinced everyone that we’re madly in love. So … forever.”
You roll your eyes, but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” he winks, before turning to greet an approaching guest.
As Charles engages in small talk, you let your gaze wander around the room. Something feels off, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. Years of growing up in the Bratva have honed your instincts, and right now, they’re screaming danger.
“Charles,” you murmur, interrupting his conversation. “Something’s wrong.”
He looks at you sharply, instantly alert. “What is it?”
Before you can answer, the lights go out. The room erupts into chaos, shouts of confusion and fear filling the air.
Charles’ arm wraps around you protectively. “Stay close,” he orders, his voice tense.
Suddenly, gunshots ring out. Glass shatters, and screams pierce the darkness. You feel Charles being torn away from you, and panic sets in.
“Charles!” You shout, reaching for him blindly.
A hand grabs your arm, but you know instantly it’s not Charles. You react on instinct, twisting and striking out with your elbow. There’s a grunt of pain, and the grip loosens.
The emergency lights flicker on, casting an eerie red glow over the scene. Bodies litter the floor, some moving, others disturbingly still. You scan the room frantically for Charles, your heart pounding.
A movement catches your eye, and you turn to see a man in a black mask aiming a gun at you. Time seems to slow down as you reach for the knife strapped to your thigh, cursing yourself for not being more heavily armed.
Just as the man’s finger tightens on the trigger, a blur of motion tackles him to the ground. Charles. Relief floods through you, quickly replaced by fear as you see them grappling on the floor.
You rush forward, knife in hand, but more masked figures appear, surrounding you. You fight with everything you have, your knife flashing in the dim light, but you’re outnumbered.
A sharp pain explodes in the back of your head, and the world goes dark.
When you come to, you’re tied to a chair in what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Your head throbs, and you can taste blood in your mouth. As your vision clears, you see Charles tied to another chair a few feet away, his face bruised and bloody.
“Y/N,” he breathes when he sees you’re awake. “Are you alright?”
You nod, wincing at the movement. “I’m fine. What happened? Where are we?”
Before Charles can answer, a door slams open. A man strolls in, his expensive suit at odds with the grimy surroundings. You recognize him immediately — Zak Brown, head of the Woking Crime Family.
“Well, well,” Brown drawls, a cruel smile on his face. “The newlyweds are finally awake. How touching.”
Charles strains against his bonds, his eyes blazing with fury. “Brown, you bastard. What do you want?”
Brown chuckles, circling your chairs like a shark. “What do I want? Oh, nothing much. Just the complete destruction of the Bratva and Monegasque Mafia. And you two are going to help me achieve that.”
You spit blood at his feet. “Go to hell.”
“Feisty,” Brown grins, stopping in front of you. “I can see why Leclerc here is so taken with you.”
He reaches out, grabbing your chin roughly. You try to jerk away, but his grip is like iron.
“Don’t touch her!” Charles roars, his chair scraping against the concrete as he struggles.
Brown ignores him, his eyes locked on yours. “You know, I’ve always had a thing for Bratva princesses. Maybe once this is all over, I’ll keep you for myself.”
Charles’ voice is low and dangerous when he speaks. “If you so much as lay another finger on my wife, I will tear you apart with my bare hands.”
Brown turns to him, eyebrow raised. “My, my. Such passion. And here I thought this was just a marriage of convenience.”
You look at Charles, surprised by the intensity of his reaction. His eyes meet yours, and the emotion you see there takes your breath away.
Brown claps his hands, breaking the moment. “As touching as this is, we have business to attend to. You’re going to call your fathers and tell them to surrender control of their organizations to me. If you don’t, well ...” He pulls out a gun, pointing it at your head. “I’m sure you can imagine the consequences.”
Charles laughs, the sound harsh and bitter. “You’re delusional if you think that will work. Our fathers would sacrifice us in a heartbeat to maintain control.”
“Perhaps,” Brown shrugs. “But are you willing to take that chance?” He cocks the gun, pressing it against your temple.
You close your eyes, steeling yourself. “Do it,” you spit out. “I’d rather die than betray my family.”
“Y/N, no,” Charles says, his voice breaking.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. “It’s okay, Charles. We always knew this could happen.”
Brown looks between you, frustration evident on his face. “Enough of this noble sacrifice bullshit. You have one hour to make your decision. I’ll be back.”
He storms out, slamming the door behind him.
The moment he’s gone, you start working on your bonds. “Charles, can you reach the knife in my hair?”
He blinks, momentarily confused. “You have a knife in your hair?”
You roll your eyes. “Of course I do. Now hurry, before they come back.”
Charles manages to scoot his chair closer, awkwardly fumbling with your elaborate updo. After a few tense moments, he lets out a triumphant “Aha!” As he extracts a small, razor-sharp blade using nothing but his mouth.
“You never cease to amaze me,” he murmurs, a hint of pride in his voice.
Working together, you manage to cut through your ropes. Once free, you make quick work of Charles’ bonds.
“Okay,” you whisper, rubbing your wrists. “We need a plan.”
Charles nods, his eyes scanning the room. “There’s probably guards outside. We’ll need a distraction.”
You grin, reaching into your dress and pulling out a small explosive device. “Will this do?”
Charles stares at you in disbelief. “Where did you ... you know what, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
You approach the door, setting the device. “Ready?”
Charles takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “Y/N, wait. Before we do this, I need you to know something.”
You turn to him, confused by the intensity in his eyes. “What is it?”
“I love you,” he says simply. “Not because of our families, not because of the arrangement. I love you, Y/N, for everything that you are.”
Your heart skips a beat, emotions swirling inside you. “Charles, I-”
The door bursts open, cutting you off. Brown stands there, gun raised, flanked by two guards.
“Well, isn’t this romantic,” he sneers. “I hate to interrupt, but-”
He doesn’t get to finish. Charles moves with lightning speed, tackling Brown to the ground. You react instantly, throwing your knife at one guard while launching yourself at the other.
The room erupts into chaos. Gunshots ring out, and you hear Charles grunt in pain. Fear grips your heart as you dispatch your opponent, turning to see Charles and Brown grappling on the floor, both bloodied.
Brown gains the upper hand, pinning Charles down and reaching for his discarded gun. Without thinking, you throw yourself at him, knocking him off Charles.
You end up on your back, Brown looming over you, his hands around your throat. Your vision starts to blur as you struggle for air.
Suddenly, the pressure is gone. You gasp, air flooding your lungs, and look up to see Charles standing over Brown’s crumpled form, a bloody pipe in his hand.
“That’s my fucking wife,” Charles snarls, his eyes blazing with a fury you’ve never seen before. “I’m going to kill you for touching her.”
As Charles raises the pipe again, you struggle to your feet. “Charles, wait!”
He pauses, looking at you with wild eyes. You place a hand on his arm, feeling the tremors running through his body.
“He’s not worth wasting more time,” you say softly. “Let’s just get out of here. The explosive will deal with him.”
For a moment, you think he might not listen. Then, slowly, he lowers the pipe. “You’re right,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Let’s go home.”
You make your way out of the warehouse, supporting each other. As you stumble into the cool night air, sirens wailing in the distance, Charles pulls you close.
“I meant what I said in there,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead. “I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible.”
You look up at him, seeing the truth of his words in his eyes. In that moment, all your doubts and reservations melt away. You realize that somewhere along the way, despite the arranged marriage, despite the danger and complexity of your lives, you’ve fallen in love with Charles Leclerc.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the words feeling right on your tongue. “God help me, but I do.”
Charles’ face breaks into a radiant smile, and he leans down to kiss you. It’s not the most comfortable kiss — you’re both battered and bloody, adrenaline still coursing through your veins — but it’s real and raw and perfect.
As you break apart, breathless, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “What do you say we get out of here, Mrs. Leclerc? I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
You can’t help but laugh, the sound slightly hysterical with relief and lingering fear. “Lead the way, Mr. Leclerc. But don’t think this means I’m going to start following your orders.”
Charles grins, taking your hand as you start walking. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Your stubbornness is one of the things I love most about you.”
***
The Leclerc mansion buzzes with activity as you and Charles prepare for an event you never quite imagined would be part of your lives: your son’s first parent-teacher conference. The past decade has been a whirlwind of change, love, and unexpected joy, with little Jules at the center of it all.
You stand before the full-length mirror in your bedroom, smoothing down your sleek pantsuit. It’s a far cry from the weapons-laden wedding dress of years past, but old habits die hard — there’s still a small knife concealed in your boot.
Charles appears behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “You look beautiful, mon cœur. Though I must say, I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t opt for your thigh holster.”
You roll your eyes, but can’t suppress a smile. “Very funny. I’m trying to make a good impression here.”
“Ah yes,” Charles grins, pressing a kiss to your neck. “The fearsome Y/N Leclerc, terror of the underworld, now fretting over a parent-teacher conference. How the mighty have fallen.”
You elbow him playfully in the ribs. “Watch it, or you’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.”
Charles spins you around to face him, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You wouldn’t dare. You’d miss me too much.”
“Try me,” you challenge, but there’s no heat in your words. After all these years, the banter between you is as natural as breathing.
A small voice pipes up from the doorway. “Mama, Papa, are you fighting again?”
You both turn to see Jules standing there, his mop of dark curls a mess and his school uniform slightly rumpled. At six years old, he’s the perfect blend of you and Charles — your fierce determination and Charles’ charm wrapped up in one precocious package.
Charles scoops him up, tossing him in the air and eliciting a squeal of delight. “Fighting? Us? Never. Your mother and I were just discussing the finer points of marital bliss.”
You snort, reaching out to smooth Jules’ hair. “What your father means is that he was being an idiot, as usual.”
Jules giggles, looking between the two of you with adoration. “Are you excited to meet Ms. Thompson? She’s really nice, I promise!”
You exchange a glance with Charles, a mixture of pride and apprehension in both your eyes. Sending Jules to a normal school had been a controversial decision among your families, but you were determined to give him as normal a childhood as possible — or at least, as normal as the son of two mafia leaders could have.
“Of course we’re excited, baby,” you say, tweaking Jules’ nose. “Now, why don’t you go make sure you have all your things ready? We’ll be leaving soon.”
As Jules scampers off, Charles pulls you close again. “You know,” he murmurs, “I’m actually a bit nervous about this.”
You look up at him, surprised. “You? Nervous? I never thought I’d see the day.”
Charles shrugs, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s different when it’s about Jules. I just ... I want everything to be perfect for him.”
You soften, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I know. Me too. But we’ve faced down rival mafia families, corrupt politicians, and your mother’s infamous Christmas dinners. I think we can handle one teacher.”
Charles laughs, the tension easing from his shoulders. “You’re right, as always. Though I do have one request.”
“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
He leans in close, his breath tickling your ear. “Try not to kill any teachers if you don’t like what they say, okay?”
You pull back, swatting his arm. “Charles Leclerc! I would never!”
“Uh-huh,” he grins, clearly unconvinced. “Need I remind you of the incident with Jules’ preschool teacher?”
You flush, crossing your arms defensively. “That was different. She suggested Jules might have behavior issues. I merely ... expressed my disagreement.”
“You threatened to feed her to the sharks in Monaco Harbor,” Charles deadpans.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” You huff. “She never brought it up again.”
Charles shakes his head, chuckling. “Just ... try to restrain yourself this time, okay? We’re trying to give Jules a normal life, remember?”
You sigh dramatically. “Fine. I promise not to threaten, maim, or otherwise harm any of Jules’ teachers. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Charles grins, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Now, shall we go face the music?”
As you make your way downstairs, Jules is waiting by the door, bouncing on his toes with excitement. “Come on, come on!” He urges. “We don’t want to be late!”
You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Alright, little man. Let’s go.”
The drive to the school is filled with Jules’ chatter about his friends, his favorite subjects, and how he’s sure Ms. Thompson will have only good things to say. You and Charles listen attentively, exchanging fond glances over Jules’ head.
As you pull into the school parking lot, you feel a flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve faced down countless dangerous situations without breaking a sweat, but somehow, this feels more daunting.
Charles seems to sense your unease. He takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs. “Just remember — no death threats.”
You roll your eyes but squeeze his hand back. “I’ll do my best.”
Jules leads the way into the school, practically skipping down the hallway. You and Charles follow, hand-in-hand, drawing curious glances from other parents and teachers. It’s not every day that two of the most powerful figures in the criminal underworld show up for a parent-teacher conference.
As you approach Ms. Thompson’s classroom, Jules turns to you both. “Best behavior, okay?” He says seriously, wagging a finger at you. “No fighting, no threatening, and absolutely no talk about the family business.”
You and Charles exchange an amused glance. “Yes, sir,” Charles says solemnly. “We promise to be on our best behavior.”
Jules nods, satisfied, then knocks on the classroom door before scurrying away to meet up with his friends.
Ms. Thompson, a kind-faced woman in her forties, opens the door with a warm smile. “Ah, the Leclercs! Please, come in.”
As you enter the classroom, you can’t help but scan for potential threats — an old habit that’s hard to break. Charles notices and gives you a gentle nudge, a silent reminder to relax.
“Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” Ms. Thompson says, gesturing for you to sit. “Jules talks about you all the time.”
You exchange a slightly worried glance with Charles. “All good things, I hope,” you say, trying to keep your tone light.
Ms. Thompson laughs. “Oh, mostly. Though I must admit, some of his stories are quite ... imaginative.”
Charles leans forward, curiosity piqued. “Oh? Like what?”
“Well,” Ms. Thompson says, a twinkle in her eye, “there was the time he told the class that his parents once fought off a rival family with nothing but a butter knife and a bottle of expensive champagne.”
You cough, trying to hide your surprise. That particular story wasn’t as exaggerated as Ms. Thompson probably believed. Charles, meanwhile, looks entirely too amused.
“Kids and their imaginations,” he says smoothly. “Though I must say, that does sound like an exciting dinner party.”
Ms. Thompson chuckles. “Indeed. But let’s focus on Jules’ academic progress, shall we?”
As she begins to go through Jules’ work, showing you his assignments and discussing his strengths and areas for improvement, you find yourself relaxing. Jules is doing well — excelling, even — and Ms. Thompson seems genuinely fond of him.
“He’s a bright boy,” she says warmly. “Very curious and always eager to learn. He does have a tendency to ... embellish his stories during show and tell, but his creativity is truly remarkable.”
You nod, a surge of pride washing over you. “That’s our Jules,” you say softly, glancing at Charles. His eyes are shining with the same pride and love you feel.
Ms. Thompson hesitates for a moment, then continues. “There is one small concern I wanted to discuss with you both.”
You tense immediately, your hand instinctively moving towards your concealed knife. Charles notices and quickly places his hand over yours, shooting you a warning look.
“What kind of concern?” He asks smoothly, while keeping a firm grip on your hand.
Ms. Thompson looks slightly nervous, but presses on. “Well, Jules has been ... rather interested in weapons lately. He’s been drawing quite detailed pictures of various firearms and knives. While his artistic skills are impressive, I’m a bit worried about the subject matter.”
You and Charles exchange a look. This is exactly the kind of situation you’d been afraid of — how do you explain that weapons are simply a part of your daily life without revealing too much?
Charles clears his throat. “Ah, yes. Well, you see, my wife and I are ... collectors. Of antique weapons. It’s a family hobby, you might say. Jules must have seen some of our pieces.”
You nod quickly, grateful for Charles’ quick thinking. “Exactly. We’ll have a talk with him about appropriate subjects for school, of course.”
Ms. Thompson looks relieved. “Oh, I see. That explains it. Yes, a talk about school-appropriate topics would be wonderful. Other than that, Jules is a joy to have in class.”
As the conference wraps up, you feel a weight lift off your shoulders. You managed to get through it without any threats or revelations about your true profession. Charles seems equally relieved as you say your goodbyes and head out to collect Jules from the playground.
Once you’re back in the car, Jules in the backseat, he leans forward eagerly. “Well? How did it go? Did I do okay?”
You turn in your seat to face him, your heart swelling with love. “You did more than okay, sweetheart. We’re so proud of you.”
Charles nods in agreement. “That’s right, mon chou. Though we do need to have a little chat about those weapon drawings ...”
Jules has the grace to look sheepish. “Oops. Sorry about that. I just thought they were cool.”
You can’t help but laugh. “It’s alright. Just ... maybe stick to drawing cars or dinosaurs at school, okay?”
As you drive home, Jules chattering away in the backseat, you reach over and take Charles’ hand. He glances at you, a soft smile on his face.
“We did it,” you murmur. “No threats, no violence, not even a single mention of sleeping with the fishes.”
Charles chuckles, bringing your hand to his lips for a kiss. “I’m impressed. Though I have to say, I was a little disappointed. I was looking forward to seeing you go all mama bear.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “There’s always next time,” you say with a wink.
As you pull into the driveway of your home, you can’t help but marvel at how much your life has changed. From reluctant bride to devoted wife and mother, from cold-hearted mafia princess to ... well, an only slightly less cold-hearted mafia queen.
But looking at Charles and Jules, you wouldn’t have it any other way. This beautiful, chaotic, sometimes dangerous life you’ve built together — it’s more than you ever dared to dream of.
And if anyone tries to threaten this happiness? Well, you still know how to use that knife in your boot. Some things never change, after all.
***
Sarah Dumas nervously adjusts her cardigan as she enters the school gymnasium for the monthly PTA meeting. Even after three years, she still feels out of place among the other parents. Her eyes scan the room, landing on the couple that always draws everyone’s attention: Charles and Y/N Leclerc.
They stand near the refreshment table, an island of elegance and barely contained danger in a sea of suburban normalcy. Charles, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, laughs at something you’ve said, his hand resting casually on the small of your back. You, for your part, look like you’ve just stepped off a runway, your designer outfit a stark contrast to the mom jeans and polos that dominate the room.
Sarah edges closer, trying to catch snippets of the conversation.
“Mon amour,” Charles is saying, a mischievous glint in his eye, “I still think my idea for the fundraiser was brilliant.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s fondness in your expression. “Charles, we’ve been over this. We can’t auction off ‘A Day in the Life of a Mafia Boss’ as a school fundraiser.”
“Why not?” Charles pouts playfully. “I’d even throw in a complimentary lesson in money laundering. Think of the educational value!”
Sarah’s eyes widen. Surely they must be joking. Right?
Before she can ponder it further, the PTA president, Marie Fournier, calls the meeting to order. As everyone takes their seats, Sarah finds herself next to Beth, another mom she’s friendly with.
“Can you believe them?” Beth whispers, nodding towards the Leclercs. “They always act like they own the place.”
Sarah shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “They’re ... certainly unique.”
Beth snorts. “That’s one way to put it. Did you hear about what happened at the last bake sale?”
Sarah shakes her head, leaning in eagerly.
“Well,” Beth continues, her voice low, “apparently, Mrs. Leclerc’s lemon bars were so good that Mr. Peterson from the school board accused her of cheating. Next thing you know, Mr. Leclerc has him cornered, whispering something about ‘sleeping with the fishes’ if he ever insulted his wife’s baking again!”
Sarah gasps. “No! What happened?”
Beth grins. “Mr. Peterson went white as a sheet and bought every single lemon bar. Paid triple the asking price, too.”
Their gossip is interrupted as Marie starts discussing the upcoming spring carnival. “Now, we still need volunteers for the dunk tank ...”
To everyone’s surprise, Charles’ hand shoots up. “I’ll do it,” he says, flashing a charming smile.
Marie blinks, clearly taken aback. “Oh, um, thank you, Mr. Leclerc. That’s very ... generous of you.”
You lean over to Charles, whispering something that makes him chuckle. Sarah strains to hear, catching only fragments: “... better than the time in Majorca ... at least this time you’ll be expecting the water ...”
The meeting continues, with discussions about budget allocation, new playground equipment, and the eternal debate over chocolate versus vanilla for the ice cream social. Throughout it all, Sarah can’t help but notice how the Leclercs seem to operate on a different wavelength from everyone else.
When the topic of security for the carnival comes up, you speak up for the first time. “I have some ... associates who would be happy to help out. Free of charge, of course.”
Marie looks both relieved and slightly terrified. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Leclerc. Are these associates ... qualified?”
You smile, a predatory gleam in your eye. “Oh, trust me. They’re very qualified in handling ... difficult situations.”
Charles coughs, poorly disguising a laugh. “What my wife means is that they’re experienced in crowd control and conflict resolution.”
The other parents exchange nervous glances, but no one dares to question further.
As the meeting wraps up, Sarah finds herself lingering, oddly fascinated by the Leclercs. She watches as they approach Marie, speaking in low tones. Marie’s eyes widen, and she nods vigorously before scurrying away.
Curiosity gets the better of Sarah, and she edges closer, pretending to study the snack table.
“... really, mon cœur,” Charles is saying, “you didn’t have to threaten her kneecaps.”
You shrug, a small smirk playing on your lips. “It worked, didn’t it? Now Jules’ class will get that field trip to the science museum he’s been asking for.”
Charles shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re a menace. What am I going to do with you?”
“You love it,” you reply, leaning in for a quick kiss.
Sarah fumbles with a paper cup, causing it to clatter to the floor. The Leclercs turn, fixing her with twin looks of amusement.
“Enjoying the refreshments, Mrs. Dumas?” Charles asks smoothly.
Sarah feels her face heat up. “I, um, yes. The cookies are lovely.”
You step forward, your movements graceful and somehow predatory. “Sarah, isn’t it? Jules has mentioned your daughter, Emma. They’re in the same class, right?”
Sarah nods, surprised and a little flattered that you know this. “Yes, that’s right. Emma talks about Jules all the time. He seems like a wonderful boy.”
Charles beams with pride. “He takes after his mother,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist.
You roll your eyes but lean into his touch. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Leclerc.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Sarah realizes she should probably say something. “So, um, how are you finding the PTA? It must be quite different from ... well, from what you’re used to.”
The moment the words leave her mouth, Sarah wants to kick herself. What was she thinking?
To her relief, the Leclercs just laugh. “Oh, you’d be surprised,” you say, a twinkle in your eye. “Managing a group of passionate parents isn’t all that different from managing our ... family businesses.”
Charles nods sagely. “Though I must say, the stakes here can be even higher. You should have seen the great Cupcake Debacle of 2032.”
Sarah finds herself relaxing, drawn in by their easy charm. “Oh? What happened?”
You lean in conspiratorially. “Let’s just say it involved three kinds of frosting, a rogue flamingo, and a very creative use for a fire extinguisher.”
Sarah bursts out laughing, surprising herself. As intimidating as the Leclercs can be, there’s something undeniably magnetic about them.
Just then, Beth appears at Sarah’s elbow. “Sarah, we should get going. Carpool, remember?”
Sarah nods, feeling a strange reluctance to leave. “Of course. It was nice talking to you, Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc.”
Charles flashes that devastating smile again. “The pleasure was all ours. Oh, and Sarah?”
She turns back, curious. “Yes?”
“Do make sure to bring Emma to the carnival. I have a feeling the dunk tank is going to be ... quite the spectacle this year.”
As Sarah walks away with Beth, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s just had a brush with something both thrilling and dangerous.
Beth, meanwhile, is practically vibrating with curiosity. “What were you talking about with them? Did they say anything ... weird?”
Sarah considers for a moment. “Not really. They seem ... nice, actually. A bit eccentric, maybe, but nice.”
Beth looks skeptical. “Nice? Sarah, last week Mr. Leclerc showed up to career day and gave a presentation on ‘The Art of Negotiation’. Half the kids looked terrified, and the other half wanted to sign up for internships!”
Sarah can’t help but laugh. “Well, at least it was memorable. And you have to admit, they’ve done wonders for the school’s fundraising efforts.”
Beth nods grudgingly. “True. Though I’m not entirely sure where all that money is coming from ...”
As they reach Beth’s minivan, Sarah glances back at the school. She catches a glimpse of the Leclercs through a window, heads bent close together, clearly deep in conversation. There’s an intensity to their body language that makes Sarah’s breath catch.
For a moment, she allows herself to imagine what their life must be like outside of PTA meetings and school functions. The glamor, the danger, the passion ... it’s all so far removed from her own suburban existence.
But then Beth honks the horn, jolting Sarah back to reality. With a small sigh, she climbs into the van, ready to return to her normal life of carpools and casseroles.
As they drive away, Sarah can’t help but think that the spring carnival is going to be very interesting indeed. And despite herself, she’s looking forward to it more than she’d care to admit.
Over the next few weeks, preparations for the carnival kick into high gear. Sarah finds herself volunteering more than usual, partly out of genuine enthusiasm and partly (though she would never admit it) to catch more glimpses of the enigmatic Leclercs.
The day of the carnival dawns bright and clear. Sarah arrives early to help set up, her arms full of homemade cupcakes. As she approaches the school grounds, she nearly drops her baked goods in shock.
The usually modest school field has been transformed into something out of a movie. There are professional-grade rides, gourmet food stalls, and even a small Ferris wheel. And is that ... a chocolate fountain?
“Impressive, isn’t it?” A familiar voice says behind her.
Sarah turns to see Charles Leclerc, looking impossibly dashing in casual wear that probably costs more than her monthly mortgage payment.
“Mr. Leclerc! This is ... wow. How did you manage all this?”
Charles winks conspiratorially. “Let’s just say I called in a few favors. And please, call me Charles.”
Before Sarah can respond, you appear at Charles’ side, looking stunning in a sundress that’s both elegant and practical. “Darling, everything’s set up. Oh, hello Sarah. Those cupcakes look delicious.”
Sarah blushes under your scrutiny. “Thank you, Mrs. Lecl- I mean, Y/N. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
You smile, and for a moment, Sarah forgets to breathe. “I’m sure they’re wonderful. Why don’t you bring them over to the bake sale table? I hear Mr. Peterson has already reserved half of them.”
As Sarah walks away, she overhears Charles murmuring to you, “Did you really have to station Dmitri and the boys at every entrance?”
“Better safe than sorry,” you reply. “Besides, they’re under strict orders. No weapons, no intimidation, and absolutely no business talk around the children.”
Sarah shakes her head, convincing herself she must have misheard. Surely you’re talking about regular security guards. Right?
The carnival is a roaring success. Children laugh and scream with delight on the rides, parents chat over gourmet hors d’oeuvres, and there’s a general air of festivity that Sarah has never seen at a school event before.
But the real highlight, as promised, is the dunk tank. Charles takes his place on the seat, looking for all the world like he’s about to attend a board meeting rather than be dunked in water. You stand nearby, a mischievous glint in your eye as you buy a stack of balls.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!” Charles calls out, his voice carrying across the field. “Who wants to dunk the dashing Mr. Leclerc? All proceeds go to the school’s new science lab!”
A crowd gathers, equal parts amused and intimidated. Sarah watches as you take aim, a look of intense concentration on your face.
“Come on, mon chèrie,” Charles taunts playfully. “Surely the feared Y/N Leclerc can hit a simple target?”
Your eyes narrow. “Oh, it’s on.”
The ball flies true, hitting the target dead center. Charles barely has time to look surprised before he plunges into the water. The crowd erupts in cheers and laughter.
When Charles resurfaces, he’s laughing too. “Well played. Well played indeed.”
As the day winds down, Sarah finds herself helping with clean-up, still buzzing from the excitement. She overhears snippets of conversation from other parents, all marveling at the success of the event.
“I heard they quadrupled the fundraising goal ...”
“Did you see those security guards? They looked like they could bench-press a car ...”
“I swear I saw Mrs. Leclerc talking to the Mayor. Since when do we have connections like that?”
Sarah smiles to herself, realizing that while the Leclercs may not fit the typical PTA mold, they’ve brought something special to their little community. Something exciting, glamorous, and yes, maybe a little dangerous.
As she’s about to leave, she spots the Leclercs by their sleek Ferrari. They’re wrapped in each other’s arms, oblivious to the world around them. The look they share is so full of love and passion that Sarah has to look away, feeling like she’s intruding on a private moment.
Driving home, Sarah reflects on the day. She still can’t quite put her finger on what makes the Leclercs so different, so intriguing. But she knows one thing for certain: life has become a lot more interesting since their son joined the school.
And as she pulls into her driveway, Sarah finds herself looking forward to the next PTA meeting more than she ever thought possible. After all, who knows what the Leclercs will come up with next?
***
Nurse Marion Bouchard has seen her fair share of unusual deliveries in her 15 years at the Princess Grace Hospital Centre, but nothing could have prepared her for the arrival of the Leclerc baby.
It starts with the mysterious men in dark suits who seem to materialize out of nowhere, clearing out an entire wing of the maternity ward. Marion watches, wide-eyed, as they sweep the rooms for ... something. Bugs? Bombs? She isn’t sure she wants to know.
“Excuse me,” she finally musters the courage to approach one of them. “What’s going on here?”
The man turns, his expression impassive behind dark sunglasses. “Security measures. The Leclercs are arriving.”
Before Marion can ask more, a commotion at the end of the hall catches her attention. A striking couple bursts through the doors, surrounded by more suited men. The woman is clearly in labor, but looks more annoyed than pained.
“I swear to God, Charles,” you are saying through gritted teeth, “when this is over, I’m going to make you regret ever looking at me without a condom.”
The man looks both terrified and amused. “Mon amour, you say the sweetest things.”
Dr. Evans, the head of obstetrics, rushes forward. “Mr. and Mrs. Leclerc, welcome. We have everything prepared-”
You cut him off with a glare that could melt steel. “Less talking, more drugs. Now.”
Marion finds herself assigned to your care team, helping you into a private suite that looks more like a five-star hotel room than a hospital. As she hooks up the fetal monitor, she can’t help but notice the way Charles hovers, his eyes constantly scanning the room for threats.
“Is this your first child?” Marion asks, trying to break the tension.
You laugh, a sound somewhere between amusement and pain. “Second. Our son, Jules, is at home with his grandfather. Probably learning how to properly strangle someone as we speak.”
Marion’s eyes widen, and she lets out a nervous chuckle, unsure if you are joking.
Charles steps in smoothly. “What my lovely wife means is that Jules is likely being spoiled rotten with ice cream and cartoons.”
You roll your eyes. “Sure, let’s go with that. Now, where are those damn drugs?”
As if on cue, the anesthesiologist enters. Marion notices how one of the suited men outside tenses, hand moving to his jacket, before relaxing at a subtle nod from Charles.
Hours pass, and Marion finds herself more and more fascinated by the Leclercs. Despite the pain of labor, you maintain a razor-sharp wit, alternating between threats to Charles’ manhood and startlingly accurate assessments of hospital security protocols.
“You know,” you pant during a particularly strong contraction, “if you really loved me, you’d let me stab you just a little. It’s only fair.”
Charles, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. He just strokes your hair and says, “How about we save the stabbing for our anniversary? As is tradition.”
Marion’s head whips around, but both of you are grinning at each other like it’s some private joke.
As the labor progresses, Marion can’t shake the feeling that something is ... off about the Leclercs. It isn’t just the excessive security or the luxurious accommodations. There is an undercurrent of danger, of barely contained power, that both thrills and terrifies her.
During a quiet moment, while you doze between contractions, Marion’s curiosity gets the better of her. “Mr. Leclerc,” she whispers, “if you don’t mind me asking, what is it that you do?”
Charles smiles enigmatically. “Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. Mainly, I specialize in ... problem-solving.”
Before Marion can probe further, you jolt awake with a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
“Charles,” you growl, “I swear on all that is holy, if you don’t get this baby out of me in the next five minutes, I will personally ensure that there will be no more little Leclercs.”
Charles pales slightly but maintains his composure. “Now, mon ange, let’s not be hasty. Remember São Paulo? This is nothing compared to that.”
You glare at him. “São Paulo didn’t involve pushing a human being out of my-”
“Okay!” Marion interjects quickly. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”
As she examines you, Marion can’t help but wonder what on earth had happened in São Paulo. She has a feeling she is better off not knowing.
The next few hours are a blur of activity. You prove to be as fierce in childbirth as you apparently are in ... whatever it is you do outside the hospital. Marion loses count of the creative threats and punishments you devise for Charles, each more outlandish than the last.
“When this is over,” you pant, pushing with all your might, “I’m going to tie you to a chair and make you listen to Baby Shark on repeat for 24 hours straight.”
Charles winces. “Isn’t that a bit extreme? What happened to the good old days of cement shoes and sleeping with the fishes?”
Dr. Evans, who is positioned at the foot of the bed, looks up with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Mr. Leclerc, I’m not sure-”
“It’s a joke,” Charles says quickly. “An inside joke. From our ... cooking class.”
Marion exchanges a glance with Dr. Evans. Cooking class? Sure.
Finally, with one last heroic push and a string of curses that Marion is certain are in at least five different languages, your daughter enters the world.
The room falls silent for a moment, then fills with the strong, angry cries of a newborn who seems to have inherited her mother’s spirit.
“She’s beautiful,” Charles whispers, tears in his eyes as he cuts the umbilical cord.
You collapse back onto the pillows, exhausted but triumphant. “Of course she is. She’s ours.”
As Marion helps clean and weigh the baby, she can’t help but notice how the atmosphere in the room has changed. The danger and tension that had been simmering beneath the surface all day seem to evaporate, replaced by a bubble of pure love and joy.
Charles cradles his daughter gently, looking at her with a mixture of awe and terror. “Hello, little one,” he murmurs. “I’m your papa. I promise to always protect you, even if it means hiding bodies in the- I mean, even if it means staying up all night to chase away the monsters under your bed.”
You roll your eyes but smile softly. “Nice save. Now, give me my daughter before I have to get up and take her from you.”
As Charles places the baby in your arms, Marion feels like she is intruding on something incredibly intimate and precious. The way you look at each other, at your child, speaks of a bond that goes far beyond anything she’s ever witnessed.
“So,” Marion ventures, unable to contain her curiosity any longer, “have you decided on a name?”
You and Charles share a look, having one of those silent conversations that only couples who are completely in sync can have.
“Vittoria,” you say finally. “Vittoria Leclerc.”
“It means victory in Italian,” Charles explains, his voice filled with pride. “Because she’s already conquered our hearts.”
Marion smiles, charmed despite herself. “That’s beautiful. And very fitting, considering how fiercely she entered the world.”
You grin, a hint of your earlier fire returning. “Just wait until she’s older. She’ll be ruling the family busi- I mean, family game night in no time.”
As Marion finishes up her duties and prepares to leave the new family alone, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s just been part of something extraordinary. The Leclercs are unlike any couple she’s ever met, a whirlwind of passion, danger, and now, an overwhelming love for their children.
Just as she is about to exit, Charles calls out to her. “Nurse Bouchard?”
She turns, curious. “Yes, Mr. Leclerc?”
He fixes her with a penetrating gaze that makes her feel like he can see right through her. “We appreciate your discretion in this matter. The Leclerc family values privacy above all else.”
Marion swallows hard, suddenly very aware of the armed men still stationed outside the door. “Of course, Mr. Leclerc. Patient confidentiality is paramount in our profession.”
You chime in, your voice deceptively sweet. “And we’re so grateful for that. It would be such a shame if anything were to ... compromise that confidentiality. Don’t you agree, Charles?”
Charles nods, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Absolutely, mon cœur. A real tragedy.”
Marion feels a chill run down her spine. “I ... I understand. You can trust me completely.”
As Marion leaves the room, her head spinning, she can’t help but wonder what she’s gotten herself into. The Leclercs are clearly more than they appear, your world so far removed from her own that she can barely comprehend it.
But as she glances back one last time, seeing Charles press a tender kiss to your forehead while you cradle little Vittoria, she realizes that at your core, you are just like any other family. Loving, protective, and perhaps a little bit dangerous.
***
Stefan Wheeler wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans for the hundredth time as he stands before the imposing gates of the Leclerc estate. At 17, he thought he was prepared for anything, but meeting his girlfriend Vittoria’s family is proving to be more nerve-wracking than he’d anticipated.
“Relax,” Vittoria says, squeezing his hand. “They’re going to love you.”
Stefan nods, not entirely convinced. “Right. It’s just ... your family seems ... intense.”
Vittoria laughs, a sound that usually makes Stefan’s heart soar but now only heightens his anxiety. “Oh, you have no idea.”
As they approach the front door, it swings open before they can knock. A tall, imposing man with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing eyes stands there, his gaze immediately zeroing in on Stefan.
“Ah, you must be the boy,” he says, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of... something Stefan can’t quite place.
Vittoria rolls her eyes. “Papa, be nice. This is Stefan. Stefan, this is my father, Charles Leclerc.”
Stefan extends his hand, hoping it isn’t visibly shaking. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leclerc.”
Charles takes Stefan’s hand, his grip firm to the point of being painful. “Charmed, I’m sure. Please, come in. The family is eager to meet you.”
As they enter the foyer, Stefan’s eyes widen. The interior of the house is a strange blend of opulent luxury and what looks like ... medieval weaponry? He could have sworn he saw a battle axe mounted on one wall.
Before he can process this, a whirlwind of energy enters the room. You sweep in with a grace that seems almost predatory.
“So this is the famous Stefan,” you say, your smile not quite reaching your eyes. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
Stefan swallows hard. “All good things, I hope.”
You tilt your head, studying him intently. “Oh, Vittoria’s been very ... discreet. But we have our ways of finding out information.”
Charles chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Don’t terrify the boy just yet. We haven’t even made it to the dining room.”
Stefan laughs nervously, unsure if that is meant to be a joke.
Just then, a young man who could only be Vittoria’s older brother, Jules, saunters in. He is the spitting image of Charles, with an air of danger that makes Stefan want to take a step back.
“Well, well,” Jules drawls, circling Stefan like a shark. “So you’re the one who thinks he’s good enough for our Vittoria.”
Vittoria groans. “Jules, knock it off. You promised to behave.”
Jules grins, all teeth. “I am behaving. I haven’t even shown him my knife collection yet.”
Stefan’s eyes widen. “Knife ... collection?”
Charles claps his hands together. “Shall we move to the dining room? I’m sure our guest is hungry after his ... journey here.”
As they walk, Stefan can’t shake the feeling that he is being herded like prey. The dining room is as impressive as the rest of the house, with a table that could easily seat twenty.
“Please, sit,” Charles says, gesturing to a chair. Stefan notices it is positioned so that his back is to the door, while the Leclercs have clear sightlines to all exits.
As they settle in, you ring a small bell. Almost instantly, servers appear with plates of food that look and smell incredible.
“I hope you like Italian,” you say, your tone making it clear that not liking it isn’t an option.
Stefan nods enthusiastically. “Oh yes, I love it. This looks amazing, Mrs. Leclerc.”
You wave a hand dismissively. “Please, call me Y/N. Mrs. Leclerc makes me sound so ... old.”
Charles smirks. “You’re as youthful and deadly as the day I met you, mon cœur.”
Stefan blinks, sure he must have misheard. Deadly?
As they begin to eat, the interrogation starts in earnest.
“So, Stefan,” Charles says, twirling pasta around his fork with practiced ease. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
Stefan nearly chokes on his food. “I ... uh ... we’re just dating, sir. Getting to know each other.”
Jules leans forward, his eyes glinting. “And how exactly are you getting to know her?”
“Jules!” Vittoria hisses, her cheeks flushing.
You interject smoothly. “What my son means is, what do you two do for fun?”
Stefan relaxes slightly. This, he can handle. “Oh, we go to the movies, hang out at the mall, normal stuff. Vittoria’s been teaching me how to play chess.”
Charles raises an eyebrow. “Chess? Interesting choice. Tell me, Stefan, do you know the importance of strategy? Of always being three moves ahead of your opponent?”
Stefan nods, confused by the intensity of Charles’ gaze. “Uh, yes. Vittoria’s been explaining that to me.”
“Good,” Charles says, leaning back. “That’s a valuable skill in ... many areas of life.”
The conversation continues, with each question feeling more like a trap than casual dinner talk. Stefan finds himself constantly on edge, trying to decipher the hidden meanings behind each seemingly innocent inquiry.
“What do your parents do, Stefan?” You ask, sipping what Stefan is pretty sure isn’t just water.
“My dad is an accountant and my mom’s a teacher,” Stefan replies.
Jules snorts. “How quaint. And what do you want to do with your life?”
Stefan straightens, feeling a bit more confident. “I’m actually really interested in law enforcement. I’m thinking of applying to the police academy after college.”
The room goes eerily silent. Stefan looks around, confused by the sudden tension.
Charles breaks the silence with a laugh that sounds only slightly forced. “Law enforcement? How ... admirable. You know, Stefan, there are many ways to uphold justice in this world. Some more effective than others.”
You nod, a strange glint in your eye. “Indeed. Sometimes the law needs a little ... help to get things done.”
Stefan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I ... I’m not sure I understand.”
Vittoria jumps in, clearly trying to change the subject. “Stefan’s also really into martial arts, Papa. He’s been teaching me some self-defense moves.”
This seems to pique Charles’ interest. “Is that so? Perhaps you’d like to demonstrate after dinner, Stefan. I’m always interested in ... new techniques.”
The way Charles says it makes Stefan feel like he is missing some crucial subtext.
As the meal progresses, Stefan can’t shake the feeling that he is being tested. Every question, every glance exchanged between family members, seems loaded with hidden meaning.
When dessert is served — a delicious tiramisu that Stefan is almost too nervous to enjoy — Jules leans forward with a predatory grin.
“So, Stefan,” he says, his voice deceptively casual. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to make someone ... disappear?”
Stefan blinks, sure he must have misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
Vittoria groans. “Jules, stop it.”
You intervene smoothly. “What my son means is, have you ever thought about the complexities of witness protection programs? It’s fascinating how someone can just ... vanish and start a new life.”
Charles nods sagely. “Indeed. The ability to reinvent oneself is a valuable skill in today’s world.”
Stefan nods slowly, feeling like he is missing some crucial piece of information. “I ... suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
As the meal winds down, Stefan feels like he’s run a mental marathon. Every interaction with the Leclercs leaves him slightly off-balance, as if there were entire conversations happening just beneath the surface that he can’t quite grasp.
Charles stands, clapping his hands together. “Well, this has been delightful. Stefan, why don’t you join me in my study for a nightcap?”
Vittoria starts to protest, but you cut her off with a look. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Jules, why don’t you help me and Vittoria clear the table?”
As Stefan follows Charles down a long hallway, he can’t shake the feeling that he is walking into the lion’s den. The study, when they enter, is a mix of old-world charm and modern technology. Bookshelves line the walls, but Stefan notices some titles that seem ... unusual for a family library. “Advanced Interrogation Techniques?” “Undetectable Poisons Throughout History?”
Charles gestures for Stefan to sit in a plush leather chair, then pours two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter.
“Now, Stefan,” Charles says, his voice low and intense. “Let’s talk about what it really means to be part of the Leclerc family.”
Stefan swallows hard, suddenly very aware of how alone he is with this imposing man. “Sir?”
Charles leans forward, his eyes boring into Stefan’s. “Our family has ... certain traditions. Certain expectations. Dating a Leclerc isn’t like dating any other girl. Do you understand?”
Stefan nods slowly, though he isn’t sure he understands at all. “I ... I really care about Vittoria, Mr. Leclerc. I would never do anything to hurt her.”
Charles’ smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that. Because if you did ...” He lets the sentence hang in the air, the threat clear even if unspoken.
Just then, the door bursts open, and you stride in, looking exasperated. “Charles, are you terrorizing the poor boy?”
Charles leans back, the picture of innocence. “Not at all, mon amour. We were just having a friendly chat.”
You roll your eyes, but there is fondness in your expression. “Well, I think Stefan’s had enough friendly chats for one evening. Vittoria’s waiting to say goodnight.”
As you walk Stefan to the door, he feels like he’s survived some sort of elaborate test. The Leclercs gather around, their smiles a mix of warmth and warning.
“It was lovely to meet you, Stefan,” you say, your tone making it clear that lovely might be an overstatement.
Jules claps him on the back, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. “Yeah, kid. You’re not half bad. For a civilian.”
Stefan blinks, confused. “Civilian?”
Charles steps in smoothly. “What my son means is, for someone outside our ... close-knit family circle. We look forward to seeing more of you, Stefan.”
As Vittoria walks him to his car, Stefan’s head is spinning. “Your family is ... intense,” he manages.
Vittoria laughs. “I know. They can be a lot. But they mean well. Mostly.”
Stefan nods, still trying to process everything. “They’re not ... I mean, they don’t actually ...”
Vittoria raises an eyebrow. “Don’t actually what?”
Stefan shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s crazy. I just ... for a minute there, I almost thought ...” He trails off, laughing nervously.
Vittoria’s smile is enigmatic. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably best not to say it out loud. Plausible deniability and all that.”
As Stefan drives home, his mind races with questions. What has he gotten himself into? Who are the Leclercs, really? And why does he have the unsettling feeling that dating Vittoria might be the most dangerous thing he’s ever done?
One thing is certain: the Leclercs are unlike any family he’s ever met.
Please reblog if you think that “they/them/theirs” is a valid set of pronouns.
Anyone who does not reblog this is an idiot.
I don't know much about Friday Night Fever but Taki is amazing, and this is canon according to the creator.
Don't ever hesitate. Reblog this. TUMBLR RULE. When you see it, REBLOG IT.
The original post only has US helplines. I’ve added UK helplines underneath. It would be great if people could add numbers from everywhere in the world.
Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
Child Abuse: 1-800-422-4453
UK Helplines:
Samaritans (for any problem): 08457909090 e-mail jo@samaritans.org
Childline (for anyone under 18 with any problem): 08001111
Mind infoline (mental health information): 0300 123 3393 e-mail: info@mind.org.uk
Mind legal advice (for people who need mental-health related legal advice): 0300 466 6463 legal@mind.org.uk
b-eat eating disorder support: 0845 634 14 14 (only open Mon-Fri 10.30am-8.30pm and Saturday 1pm-4.30pm) e-mail: help@b-eat.co.uk
b-eat youthline (for under 25’s with eating disorders): 08456347650 (open Mon-Fri 4.30pm - 8.30pm, Saturday 1pm-4.30pm)
Cruse Bereavement Care: 08444779400 e-mail: helpline@cruse.org.uk
Frank (information and advice on drugs): 0800776600
Drinkline: 0800 9178282
Rape Crisis England & Wales: 0808 802 9999 1(open 2 - 2.30pm 7 - 9.30pm) e-mail info@rapecrisis.org.uk
Rape Crisis Scotland: 08088 01 03 02 every day, 6pm to midnight
India Self Harm Hotline: 00 08001006614
India Suicide Helpline: 022-27546669
Kids Help Phone (Canada): 1-800-668-6868, Free and available 24/7
suicide hotlines;
Argentina: 54-0223-493-0430
Australia: 13-11-14
Austria: 01-713-3374
Barbados: 429-9999
Belgium: 106
Botswana: 391-1270
Brazil: 21-233-9191
China: 852-2382-0000
(Hong Kong: 2389-2222)
Costa Rica: 606-253-5439
Croatia: 01-4833-888
Cyprus: 357-77-77-72-67
Czech Republic: 222-580-697, 476-701-908
Denmark: 70-201-201
Egypt: 762-1602
Estonia: 6-558-088
Finland: 040-5032199
France: 01-45-39-4000
Germany: 0800-181-0721
Greece: 1018
Guatemala: 502-234-1239
Holland: 0900-0767
Honduras: 504-237-3623
Hungary: 06-80-820-111
Iceland: 44-0-8457-90-90-90
Israel: 09-8892333
Italy: 06-705-4444
Japan: 3-5286-9090
Latvia: 6722-2922, 2772-2292
Malaysia: 03-756-8144
(Singapore: 1-800-221-4444)
Mexico: 525-510-2550
Netherlands: 0900-0767
New Zealand: 4-473-9739
New Guinea: 675-326-0011
Nicaragua: 505-268-6171
Norway: 47-815-33-300
Philippines: 02-896-9191
Poland: 52-70-000
Portugal: 239-72-10-10
Russia: 8-20-222-82-10
Spain: 91-459-00-50
South Africa: 0861-322-322
South Korea: 2-715-8600
Sweden: 031-711-2400
Switzerland: 143
Taiwan: 0800-788-995
Thailand: 02-249-9977
Trinidad and Tobago: 868-645-2800
Ukraine: 0487-327715
Amidst the Battle
jacaerys velaryon x healer!reader
words: 8k
notes: non-canon events! not following the show's timeline. warnings: kissing, talk of war and wounds (i think that's all) feedback is appreciated!!
The acrid smell of smoke and blood hung heavy in the air as you made your way through the aftermath of the battle. Your eyes scanned the field, searching for survivors amidst the carnage. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the war-torn landscape, when you spotted him.
A young man, barely clinging to life, his curled hair matted with blood and dirt. You approached cautiously, your heart racing as you realized who he was – Jacaerys Velaryon, the dragon rider, prince, and heir to the throne of Rhaenyra.
You knelt beside him, your trained hands quickly assessing his injuries. Multiple lacerations, a deep gash across his abdomen, and what appeared to be a broken arm. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle. Without immediate care, he wouldn’t survive the night.
“Hold on,” you whispered, though you were unsure if he could hear you. “I've got you.”
With a strength born of necessity, you managed to lift him onto your cart. Your cottage wasn't far, and you prayed to the gods, old and new, that he would make it there alive. As you guided your horse along the bumpy path, your mind raced. Treating a Velaryon, especially one as prominent as Jacaerys, could have been seen as an act of treason depending on who emerged victorious in this war. But as you glanced back at his pale face, you knew you couldn't live with yourself if you left him to die.
The journey felt endless, but finally, your modest cottage came into view. With great effort, you managed to bring Jacaerys inside and lay him on your bed. You worked tirelessly through the night, cleaning his wounds, stitching gashes, and setting his broken arm. Your stores of herbs were nearly depleted by the time you finished, but as dawn broke, his breathing had steadied, and some color had returned to his face.
Exhausted, you slumped into a chair by the bedside. You allowed yourself a moment of rest, watching the rise and fall of his chest. In sleep, the hardness of battle faded from his features, revealing a young man not much older than yourself. With a wet cloth, you gently cleaned his face, wiping away the stains of dry blood and dirt from the battle.
As you continued to clean his face, you couldn't help but study his features more closely. His curled hair, now free from the grime of battle, fell in soft waves across your pillow. You noticed a small scar near his left eyebrow, wondering what tale it might tell. His strong jaw was softened in sleep, and you found yourself tracing the line of it with your eyes.
A sudden twitch of his hand startled you from your reverie. You held your breath, watching intently, but he didn't wake. Releasing a sigh, you realized how dangerous this situation truly was. Housing and healing the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen could have cost you your life if the wrong people found out.
Despite the dangers, you couldn't bring yourself to abandon Jacaerys to the impersonal care of a volunteer center. The prince's injuries were severe, and his condition delicate. Each day was a delicate dance of tending wounds, easing fevers, and ensuring he had enough nourishment to sustain his weakened body. The thought of him being at the mercy of soldiers or opportunistic enemies made your decision clear – his safety was worth the risk.
In the quiet moments between changing bandages and preparing meals, you wrestled with guilt and anxiety. Every noise outside your cottage, every unfamiliar visitor passing by, sent a jolt of fear through you. Would they discover him? Would someone recognize him?
You rarely left Jacaerys' side, tending to his wounds and watching for any signs of fever or infection. His condition remained precarious, teetering on the edge between life and death.
On the third day, as you were changing the dressing on his abdominal wound, Jacaerys stirred. His eyelids fluttered, and a low groan escaped his lips. You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as his eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You could see the confusion in his eyes, followed quickly by a flash of fear and suspicion. His body tensed, and he tried to move away from you, only to grimace in pain at the sudden movement.
“Don't,” you said softly, holding up your hands to show you meant no harm. “You're badly injured. Any sudden movements could reopen your wounds.”
Jacaerys' eyes darted around the room, taking in his surroundings. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and weak. “Where am I? Who are you?”
His voice, while weak, sounded accusing, almost too sharp for it to match his tired expression. He could feel his throat dry and raw, each word an effort to push out. You reached for a cup of water nearby, offering it to him cautiously.
“Here,” you said, your voice gentle. “You need to drink.”
Jacaerys eyed the cup suspiciously, his gaze flickering between it and your face. You could see the internal struggle playing out in his eyes - the desperate thirst warring with his ingrained mistrust.
“It's just water,” you assured him, taking a small sip yourself to prove it. “You've been unconscious for days. Your body needs hydration to heal.”
After a moment's hesitation, he nodded slightly. You carefully supported his head, helping him take small sips. As the cool water touched his lips, his eyes closed briefly in relief. When he'd had enough, you set the cup aside and settled back into your chair. Jacaerys watched your every move, his body still tense despite the obvious pain it caused him.
“You didn't answer my questions,” he said, his voice a little clearer now. He ignored the grumbling of his stomach, having gotten used to being hungry because of the war.
You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully. The Prince's wariness was palpable, and you couldn't blame him given the circumstances.
“You're in my cottage,” you explained softly. “I found you on the battlefield three days ago, gravely wounded. I brought you here to treat your injuries.”
Jacaerys' eyes narrowed, suspicion evident in every line of his face. “And you just happened to stumble upon me? Why would you risk treating an enemy soldier?”
You met his gaze steadily. “I don't see enemies on the battlefield, my Prince. Only people in need of help. It's my duty to heal, regardless of allegiances.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face at your use of his title, but it was quickly replaced by a guarded expression. “How do I know you're not holding me for ransom? Or waiting to turn me over to my enemies?”
You sighed, feeling a mixture of frustration and understanding. “If that were my intention, I wouldn't have spent the last three days fighting to keep you alive. Your wounds were severe, my Prince. You very nearly died.”
He seemed to consider this, his eyes roaming over the bandages covering his body. A grimace of pain crossed his face as he shifted slightly. “And what do you expect in return for your... kindness?” he asked, the last word tinged with sarcasm.
“Nothing,” you replied simply. “Your recovery is payment enough.”
Jacaerys scoffed, wincing at the movement. “No one does anything for nothing in this world.”
You stood, moving to a small table where you'd prepared a simple broth. “Believe what you will, my Prince.”
He stayed silent, his eyes scanning your features. As you turned back to Jacaerys with the bowl of broth, you noticed his eyes following your every move. The suspicion in his gaze hadn't lessened, but there was a hint of something else now - perhaps curiosity, or simply the weariness of a man too exhausted to maintain his guard fully.
“You should eat,” you said, approaching the bed slowly. “Your body needs nourishment to heal.”
Jacaerys eyed the bowl warily. “And how do I know it's not poisoned?” he asked, his voice still rough.
You resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, you took a small sip of the broth yourself. “See? Not poisoned. Though I suppose if you're determined to believe the worst of me, you could argue I've built up an immunity.”
A flicker of something - maybe amusement? - passed across Jacaerys' face, but it was gone in an instant. He took the bowl from you with his good hand, careful not to let his fingers brush against yours. As you turned to take his glass, with the intention of getting him more water, you noticed him trying to push himself up into a sitting position. His face paled with the effort, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“Please,” you said, setting the bowl aside and moving to help him. “Let me-”
“Don't touch me,” he snapped, his voice strained. “I can manage on my own.”
“But-”
Jacaerys ignored you, gritting his teeth as he finally managed to prop himself up against the headboard. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, his good hand pressed against his bandaged abdomen.
You waited patiently for him to recover, then offered the bowl of broth once more. This time, he took it with a curt nod, though his hand trembled slightly as he brought the spoon to his lips.
As he ate, you busied yourself around the small room, straightening things and gathering fresh bandages. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking your movements.
“What's your name?” he asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence.
You turned to face him, surprised by the question. “It's Y/n,” you replied.
Jacaerys nodded slightly, his face unreadable. “You will be compensated, once I am fully healed.”
You shook your head gently, a small smile playing on your lips. “That's not necessary, my Prince. As I said before, your recovery is payment enough.”
Jacaerys frowned, his brow furrowing. “I insist. I won't be indebted to anyone, especially not...” He trailed off, seemingly catching himself before saying something potentially offensive.
“Especially not a commoner?” you finished for him, your tone mild but with a hint of challenge. “Or perhaps you meant to say 'especially not someone who could be an enemy'?”
The prince had the grace to look slightly abashed, though he quickly masked it with a scowl. “You can't blame me for being cautious. These are dangerous times.”
You nodded, acknowledging his point. “Indeed they are. Which is why I hope you can understand my reluctance to accept payment. I have no desire to be seen as profiting from this war, regardless of which side emerges victorious.”
Jacaerys studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face. “You're either very noble or very foolish,” he said finally.
“Perhaps a bit of both,” you replied with a wry smile. “Now, if you've finished eating, I need to change your bandages again.”
As you gathered the necessary supplies, Jacaerys watched you warily. “You never answered my question about where we are,” he said.
You paused, “We're in a small village near the God's Eye,” you said finally.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't press further. As you began to work on his bandages, he remained tense, flinching slightly at your touch despite your efforts to be gentle.
You could see him squirm from the corner of your eye as your hands removed the bandage that covered the gash on his abdomen, he moved his hand to the sheets, tightly clasping them as an attempt of relief at the pain.
As you carefully peeled away the bandage, Jacaerys inhaled sharply, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. You paused, looking up at him with concern.
“I'm sorry,” you said softly. “I know it hurts. I'll try to be as gentle as possible.”
Jacaerys clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head. “Just get on with it,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
You nodded, returning your attention to the wound. The gash was deep, running from just below his ribs to his hip. The stitches you'd placed held firm, but the skin around them was angry and red. You frowned, silently starting to clean it gently with a herb-infused solution, feeling Jacaerys flinch and hold back a pained grunt with each touch.
“How long might this take?” he broke the silence after you’d adjusted his posture on the bed to wrap the new bandage around his torso.
“I am almost done, my Prince.”
“No, how long until I can fight again?”
You paused, your hands stilling on the bandage. Looking up at Jacaerys, you saw determination burning in his eyes, mixed with a hint of desperation. You took a deep breath, considering your words carefully.
“My Prince,” you began gently, “your injuries are severe. The gash on your abdomen alone will take weeks, if not months, to heal completely. And that's not considering your broken arm or the other lacerations.”
Jacaerys' face darkened, his good hand clenching into a fist. “Weeks? Months? I don't have that kind of time. The war-”
“Will still be there when you're healed,” you interrupted, your voice firm but kind. “Fighting in your current condition would be a death sentence, my Prince. You'd be more of a liability than an asset on the battlefield.”
His eyes flashed with anger, but you held his gaze steadily. After a moment, he looked away, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“You don't understand,” he said, his voice low and tense. He didn’t say anything else, lifting his arms so you could start to wrap the clean bandage.
The silence that followed Jacaerys' words was heavy with unspoken thoughts and shared tension. His frustration was palpable, each breath he took a reminder of the pain he was in and the urgency he felt. As you continued to wrap the bandage around his torso, your fingers worked with practiced precision, yet you could feel the tight coil of tension in every muscle beneath your touch.
His skin was warm, the heat of fever not entirely gone, and as you wound the clean linen around his abdomen, you could see the fine lines of strain on his face, the way his jaw clenched against the discomfort. You tried to be as gentle as possible, but each movement seemed to draw a wince from him, a reminder of the toll the battle had taken.
“It’s not too tight, is it?” you asked, breaking the silence.
As you finished wrapping the bandage, Jacaerys gave a curt nod. “It's fine,” he said, his voice tight.
You could see the strain in his eyes, the way he held himself rigidly to avoid showing any sign of weakness. Gently, you helped him lean back against the pillows, ignoring his mumbled protests.
“You need to rest,” you said softly. “Your body has been through a tremendous ordeal.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. When he opened them again, the anger had faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. “How am I supposed to rest when my family, my people, are out there fighting and dying?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Your heart ached at the pain in his words. Carefully, you sat on the edge of the bed, making sure to give him space. “By remembering that you're no use to them dead,” you replied gently.
“I do not wish to rest,” he struggled to push himself onto a sitting position, trying to get his legs off of the bed. He let out a grunt and a small whine at the pain, immediately stopping to place his good hand over the newly placed bandage.
“See?” you said, “You can’t even sit without hurting yourself.”
Jacaerys clenched his jaw, frustration evident in every line of his face. “I've endured worse,” he said through gritted teeth, but he made no further attempt to move.
You sighed softly, understanding his determination but worried about the toll it was taking on his body. You stood, settling yourself before him and placing your hands on his shoulders. “You need to rest.”
“I’ve been resting for days!”
You gave him a look which made him shut his mouth. Before he could protest any further, you applied pressure on his shoulders, making his body follow suit to your moves, and you laid him back down on the bed. “I will get you more supper, my Prince.”
As you gently guided Jacaerys back onto the bed, you could feel the tension in his muscles, the reluctance in every inch of his body. His eyes, dark with frustration and pain, followed you as you moved away.
“I don't need more food,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I need to be out there, fighting alongside my family.”
You paused at the door, turning back to face him. The sight of him, pale and drawn against the pillows, made your heart ache. “My Prince,” you said softly, “I understand your desire to rejoin the fight. But right now, the best thing you can do for your family is to heal.”
Jacaerys let out a bitter laugh that turned into a wince of pain. As you busied yourself preparing the simple meal, you could hear Jacaerys shifting restlessly on the bed. His impatience was palpable, filling the small room with an almost tangible energy. When you returned with a steaming bowl and a chunk of crusty bread, you found him staring at the ceiling, his good hand clenched into a fist at his side.
Jacaerys allowed you to adjust the pillows behind him, wincing slightly as he leaned back. “I can feed myself,” he said quickly as you reached for the spoon.
You nodded, stepping back to give him space. “Of course, my Prince. Just... take it slowly. Your body is still healing.”
He shot you a look that was part irritation, part grudging acceptance. As he began to eat, you busied yourself tidying the room, keeping a watchful eye on him without being too obvious about it.
“Tell me about the war,” Jacaerys said suddenly, breaking the silence. “What news have you heard?”
You hesitated, unsure how much to share. “I... I don't know much, My Prince. We're quite isolated here, and news travels slowly.”
His eyes narrowed, sensing your reluctance. “But you must have heard something. Please, I need to know what's happening out there.”
Sighing softly, you perched on the edge of the bed. “The last I heard, the fighting had spread to the Riverlands. There were rumors of a great battle near Harrenhal, but I don't know the outcome.”
Jacaerys' face tightened, his spoon clattering against the bowl as his hand shook slightly. “What’s wrong?” you immediately asked. He shook his head.
Your hand quickly moved to his forehead, seeing that his fever had gone up since you last checked. Jacaerys' skin was warm to the touch, a worrying sign that the fever, which had seemed to abate, was now surging again. You frowned, your healer's instincts kicking in. He swatted your hand away weakly, but you persisted, feeling the heat radiating from him.
“You're burning up,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “I need to bring your fever down before it gets any worse.”
He sighed, relaxing onto the pillow, finally giving up trying to convince you to let him get up. You left the room to get herbal medicine and a wet towel, lowering yourself to the edge of the bed to place the cloth over his forehead. He shut his eyes at the contact.
The cloth felt cool against Jacaerys' fevered skin, and he let out a slow, shaky breath as his eyes closed. You could see the tension gradually easing from his body, though his brow remained furrowed with discomfort.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, barely audible, his voice thick with weariness.
Without thinking, you reached out, placing your hand over his. Jacaerys looked down at your hand, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might pull away, but instead, he took a deep breath, some of the tension leaving his body.
He swallowed the thick medicine, making a sour face before picking up his spoon again. As he resumed eating, you noticed a slight tremor in his hand, fatigue already setting in from the simple act of feeding himself. But you knew better than to offer help again, recognizing his need to maintain some sense of independence. Your hand was still in his, you tried not to pay much mind to it, he was wounded after all.
You watched Jacaerys closely as he struggled to finish his meal, concern etching lines on your face. The renewed fever worried you, a sign that his body was still fighting hard against infection. As he set the spoon down, his hand shaking with the effort, you gently took the bowl from him.
“That's enough for now,” you said softly. “You need to rest.”
Jacaerys opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it, nodding weakly. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that tugged at your heart.
“I'm sorry,” he murmured, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I thought I was getting stronger.”
You shook your head, adjusting the cool cloth on his forehead. “Get some sleep.” His fingers tightened around yours, a small gesture of acknowledgment. You sat there in silence, holding his hand as his breathing gradually evened out into sleep.
As dawn broke, you stirred from your uncomfortable position in the chair by Jacaerys' bedside. You hadn't meant to fall asleep there, but exhaustion had finally claimed you. Your hand was still entwined with his, and you gently extricated yourself, hoping not to wake him.
Jacaerys' face was peaceful in sleep, the lines of pain and worry smoothed away. His curls were tousled against the pillow, and you resisted the urge to brush them back from his forehead. Instead, you carefully checked his temperature, relieved to find the fever had broken during the night.
Jacaerys stirred slightly, a soft murmur escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake. You noticed the lines of tension easing from his face, his breathing steady and deep. It was a small victory, but in times of war, even the smallest victories mattered.
Leaving the room quietly, you headed to the small kitchen area to prepare breakfast. You moved with practiced ease, gathering the few ingredients you had. The war had made supplies scarce, and you’d been careful to ration what little you had left.
When you returned with a simple meal of bread, cheese, and a few herbs, Jacaerys was awake, propped up against the pillows, looking slightly less tense than the night before. His eyes followed you as you set the food down on a small table beside the bed.
“Good morrow,” he mumbled, reaching for the bread like a starved man.
You offered him a small smile, relieved to see him awake and seemingly better. “Good morrow, my Prince. How are you feeling?”
Jacaerys didn't answer immediately, instead taking a small bite of the bread and chewing thoughtfully. “Better,” he finally admitted, though his voice was still hoarse and weak. “Thank you.”
You nodded, pouring him a cup of water and placing it within easy reach. “You're welcome. Your fever broke during the night, which is a good sign.”
He grunted in response, focusing on finishing the bread. After a few moments of silence, during which you busied yourself tidying up, he spoke again.
“Do you live by yourself?”
“Yes, my Prince.” you nodded.
He furrowed his brows, making a face and stopping his chewing to shake his head. “Enough with the formalities, you’re not my servant,” he took a sip of the water, “Simply call me by my name.”
“Jacaerys,” you said softly, testing the name on your tongue. It felt strange yet oddly comforting to address him so casually. “And yes, I live alone here.”
He nodded slightly, seeming to relax marginally at the use of his name. “Why did you become such a good healer?” he asked after a moment, his voice still rough but curious.
You considered his question, moving to sit on the edge of the bed opposite him. “I suppose it was a calling of sorts,” you began, your gaze thoughtful. “I grew up in a small village not far from here. My mother was a healer herself, and she taught me everything she knew.”
Jacaerys listened quietly, his eyes fixed on your face. As you gazed at each other, something shifted in the air between you. Jacaerys' eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again.
There was a vulnerability in his eyes that belied the prince he was supposed to be, a young man laid low by wounds and circumstance. You found yourself drawn to him in a way that surprised you, a healer's compassion mixing with something deeper, something unbidden.
“My mother always believed healing was a gift,” you continued, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “She taught me that every life saved was a victory against darkness and despair.”
Jacaerys nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “And you chose to follow in her footsteps,” he murmured, more a statement than a question.
“No... I-,” you replied softly. “I am simply a commoner,”
“You’re not spoken for?”
The question took you by surprise, it must’ve shown on your face by the way Jacaerys scurried to clarify. “I was just curious-”
“I... no, I’m not,” you replied, caught off guard by his sudden inquiry.
Jacaerys hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. “It’s just... unusual, for someone like you,” he said carefully.
“Someone like me?”
He seemed to panic for a second, eyes widening for a beat before he cleared his throat, “I mean, you’re very kind.” he clarified, though his gaze remained steady on yours.
You felt a slight flush rise to your cheeks at Jacaerys' words. The idea of being courted had always felt distant and almost foreign to you. Life in a small village near the God's Eye had been quiet and isolated, focused on survival rather than romance or social niceties. Most of the men you knew had gone off to fight in the war, leaving little time or opportunity for such things.
“I... thank you,” you managed to reply, your voice a touch quieter than before.
As he finished the last of the bread, Jacaerys set the plate aside, his fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the table. His eyes, still heavy with fatigue but clearer than they had been in days, studied you with a mixture of curiosity and something else you couldn't quite identify.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between you. “How did you come to live here, alone?”
You hesitated, caught off guard by his sudden interest. “It's not a very exciting tale, I'm afraid,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. “After my mother passed, I inherited this cottage. It's been my home ever since.”
Jacaerys nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “I am sorry, she sounds like a very kind woman,”
“It’s alright, it was years ago.” you paused, his chest heaved, lost in thought he bit the inside of his lip.
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he smiled. It was a small thing, just a slight upturn of his lips, but it transformed his face, softening the hard lines of battle and pain. “Thank you.”
Over the next few weeks, as Jacaerys' strength slowly returned, you fell into a comfortable routine. You would bring him meals, change his bandages, and help him with gentle exercises to regain his mobility. And in between these tasks, you talked.
Jacaerys, you discovered, was insatiably curious. He asked you about your life, your work, your thoughts on everything from the changing seasons to the intricacies of herbal remedies. At first, you were hesitant, unused to someone taking such an interest in your opinions. But gradually, you found yourself opening up, sharing stories of your childhood, your mother's teachings, the quiet joys and sorrows of your solitary life.
In turn, Jacaerys spoke of his own experiences, though he was careful to avoid mentioning anything too specific about the ongoing war. He told you of his love for flying, the exhilaration of soaring through the clouds on dragonback. He described the beauty of Driftmark, his family's ancestral home, with its shimmering waters and grand halls.
As the days passed, you found yourself looking forward to these conversations more and more. There was something about Jacaerys that put you at ease, despite his royal status. His quick wit and genuine interest in your thoughts made you feel seen in a way you never had before.
His arm had healed, the gash on his stomach still required careful tending, but it was gradually mending.
One day, as you were tending to the herb garden outside your cottage, you heard the sound of footsteps behind you. Turning, you saw Jacaerys standing in the doorway, leaning heavily on a makeshift cane you had fashioned for him so it wouldn’t hurt to walk. He looked stronger, more resolute, though still pale and somewhat fragile.
“You're up,” you said, a hint of surprise in your voice. “I didn't hear you come out.”
Jacaerys offered a small smile, his gaze sweeping over the garden. “I didn't want to disturb you,” he replied. “You looked... peaceful. I thought you might need some company,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in days.
You smiled warmly, gesturing for him to join you. “I could always use an extra pair of hands,”
He nodded, making his way slowly to where you were kneeling among the herbs. He grunted as he joined your position, hand cradling his bandage in discomfort, “What shall I do?”
As Jacaerys settled beside you in the herb garden, you couldn't help but notice how different he looked in the soft afternoon light. The sun caught in his curls, giving them a golden sheen, and his eyes seemed brighter, more alive than you'd seen them since he first woke in your cottage.
“Here,” you said, handing him a small trowel. “We need to thin out these chamomile plants. They're growing too close together.”
Jacaerys took the tool, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You felt a small jolt at the contact, but quickly pushed the feeling aside.
“Like this?” he asked, carefully digging around one of the smaller plants.
You nodded, watching as he worked. His movements were slow and a bit clumsy, but he approached the task with the same determination you'd seen in his eyes when he spoke of returning to battle.
“You're a natural,” you said, offering an encouraging smile. “I imagine it's quite different from wielding a sword or riding a dragon.”
Jacaerys chuckled softly, the sound warming something deep inside you. “Indeed it is,” he replied.
You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds. Every so often, you'd steal a glance at Jacaerys, marveling at how at ease he seemed in this simple task.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, hands threading the weeds as he stole glances at your own hands to mirror your movements. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
The question caught you off guard. You'd never really thought about leaving your small corner of the world before. You hummed, “I... I'm not sure,” you admitted. “I've never been far from here.”
Jacaerys looked up from his work, his eyes meeting yours. “Surely you must have dreamed of other places?”
You considered for a moment, your hands continuing to work almost of their own accord. “I suppose... I've always been curious about Oldtown,” you said finally. “The Citadel, with all its knowledge and learning. It must be amazing.”
Jacaerys nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “It is,” he said softly. “The libraries there are unlike anything you've ever seen. Shelves upon shelves of books, stretching as far as the eye can see.”
“You've been there?” you asked, unable to keep the awe from your voice.
He smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Once, when I was younger. Before...” he trailed off, his gaze turning distant.
You understood. Before the war, before the weight of his responsibilities had fully settled on his shoulders.
“Perhaps...” Jacaerys began, then hesitated. “Perhaps when this is all over, you could see it for yourself.”
Your heart skipped a beat at his words. The idea was so foreign, so impossible, and yet... the way he said it made it seem almost within reach. The thought of Jacaerys showing you around Oldtown, of exploring those vast libraries together, sent a thrill through you that you couldn't quite ignore.
“I... I would like that,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze with a mixture of gratitude and something else you couldn't quite define.
Jacaerys smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes. “Good,” he said, his voice tinged with warmth. “It's a promise, then.”
Jacaerys' eyes met yours again, and for a moment, you felt as if you were teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken possibilities.
But then Jacaerys winced, his hand going to his side where you knew his wound still pained him. The moment shattered, reality rushing back in.
“We should get you back inside,” you said, your healer's instincts taking over. “You've been out here too long.”
Jacaerys nodded, allowing you to help him to his feet with a pained sound from his throat. As you made your way back to the cottage, his arm around your shoulders for support, you couldn't shake the feeling that, even though he was still in pain as of now, he’d eventually have to leave for war again.
Your thoughts raced as you helped Jacaerys back inside the cottage, his weight leaning heavily on you despite his efforts to remain upright after having strained himself into a bad position for his wounds. The image of him in pain, yet determined to return to the battlefield, haunted you. You knew his wounds were healing, but not fast enough for him, not when his heart and mind were still with his family and the war effort.
Inside, you guided him back to the bed, where he eased himself down with a grunt of pain. His face was drawn, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he settled against the pillows.
“You shouldn't have pushed yourself,” you said softly, your voice tinged with concern as you adjusted the pillows behind him.
Jacaerys spoke, his voice strained. “I can't just stay idle while others fight and die.”
You sighed, sitting beside him on the bed. “I understand your need to fight, Jacaerys. But you're not yet strong enough. Rushing back into battle could do more harm than good.”
His eyes searched for yours, frustration and determination warring within them. “But every day that passes, I feel more useless,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You're not useless,” you countered gently, your hand reaching out to grasp his.
Jacaerys sighed heavily, his fingers tightening around yours.
For a long moment, Jacaerys was silent, his gaze fixed on some distant point. The tension in his body slowly eased, his fingers relaxing slightly around yours. “I don't want to be weak,” he admitted quietly, almost to himself.
“You're not weak, Jacaerys,” you said firmly, meeting his eyes. “You're healing,” you continued softly, squeezing his hand gently. “It takes time. And taking the time you need now will make you stronger in the long run.”
Jacaerys looked down at your intertwined hands, his expression conflicted. “I've always been taught that strength is in action, not in rest,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
“Strength is also in knowing when to rest,” you replied gently.
As Jacaerys looked up at you, his eyes softened. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out with his free hand to gently cup your cheek. Letting out a sound that sounded almost like a plea, he pulled your face down to meet his.
The first brush of his lips sent a shiver through you, a gentle exploration that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. Jacaerys' lips were warm and soft, molding against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own. His fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, as if afraid to let go of this fragile moment.
You responded instinctively, leaning into him, your hand finding its place against his chest. Beneath your touch, you felt the steady beat of his heart, strong and steady, echoing the rhythm of your own pulse. The scent of earth and herbs mingled with the subtle fragrance of his skin, creating a heady mix that enveloped you both.
He furrowed his brows, trying to focus on the kiss and not his inexperience. He’d spent most of his teen years fighting in wars, after all.
His lips moved tentatively against yours, a mixture of desire and uncertainty evident in his touch. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb gently caressing your skin as if trying to commit every detail of this moment to memory.
His touch is tender, and his kiss carries a mix of uncertainty and desire. You can feel his heartbeat beneath your hand. Perhaps he's been so focused on duty and honor that he's only now allowing himself to explore softer, more vulnerable emotions. He kisses you as if it’s the last thing he will ever do, not hungry enough to be lust but soft enough for your mind to swirl with possibilities of why your heart feels fluttery in your chest.
But then, as Jacaerys shifted his position ever so slightly, a sharp intake of breath escaped him. His hand instinctively moved from your cheek to clutch at his side, where the lingering pain from his wound had suddenly flared up.
You pulled back immediately, concern etched on your face. “Are you alright?” Your voice carried a mixture of worry and compassion.
He winced, his features tense with pain. “It's nothing,” he managed through gritted teeth, trying to reassure you even as he struggled to catch his breath.
“I just... I wanted...” Jacaerys's voice trailed off, frustration evident in his eyes as he looked away, unable to finish his thought.
You gently placed your hand on Jacaerys's shoulder, silently urging him to rest against the pillows. His brow furrowed with pain as he settled back, his breathing still labored. The moment of intimacy between you both had faded into the background, replaced by the urgent need to tend to his worsening pain.
“It's alright,” you assured him softly, your fingers brushing lightly over his forehead. “Just breathe. Let the pain pass.”
Jacaerys closed his eyes briefly, focusing on regulating his breath. You followed the usual routine, giving him pain-killing medicine, stepping out of the room while he changed into your old father’s clothes, and continuing to provide the healing and care he needed in the following days. The conversation about the kiss was long gone.
As the days passed, Jacaerys continued to heal under your careful attention. The gash on his stomach gradually closed, leaving behind a thin scar that was appearing. His arm, once injured and immobile, regained strength. He was practically healed.
As Jacaerys's physical condition improved, a palpable tension grew between you both. The memory of that tender kiss lingered, unspoken but ever-present in the air. You found yourself stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking, your heart fluttering at the sight of his tousled curls or the way his brow furrowed in concentration as he read one of your few books.
Jacaerys, too, seemed more aware of your presence. His eyes would follow you as you moved about the cottage, and his hand would often linger a moment too long when you passed him things. Yet neither of you spoke of what had happened, as if addressing it might somehow break the fragile peace you had found.
One morning, you awoke to find Jacaerys standing by the window, his posture tense and alert. He ran his hands through his hair in stress, wearing the same clothes you found him in the day you took him into your care. Your heart sank as you realized what this meant.
“Jacaerys?” you said softly, approaching him.
He turned to face you, his expression a mix of determination and regret. “Y/n,” he began, his voice low and serious. “I must return to the war.”
A part of you had anticipated this moment would come, but you dreaded it. You had known from the beginning that Jacaerys was not just any injured soldier seeking refuge – he was a prince, with responsibilities that extended far beyond the confines of your quiet garden.
You approached him slowly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “Jacaerys, rushing back into battle–”
He cut you off gently, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resolve. “I need to do this,” he said firmly. “They need to know that I haven't abandoned them.”
You sighed softly, “I understand,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
Jacaerys's expression softened, his hand coming up to your chin. His eyes scanning your face for a few seconds, trying to memorize every freckle, every detail he possibly could before he left again.
For a moment, you both stood there, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. Then, with a sudden urgency, Jacaerys leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, his eyes fluttering closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was urgent, passionate, filled with all the unspoken emotions that had built up between you. His lips were warm and soft against yours, moving with a newfound confidence and intensity.
One of his hands cupped your face gently, his thumb caressing your cheek, while the other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the steady beat of his heart echoing your own racing pulse.
The kiss deepened, Jacaerys tilting his head slightly to better capture your lips. There was a hint of desperation in the way he kissed you, as if he was trying to memorize every sensation, every taste, every feeling. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, seeking permission, which you granted with a soft sigh.
As the kiss intensified, you found your hands moving of their own accord - one threading through his soft curls, the other gripping the fabric of his shirt at his chest. The scent of him enveloped you - a mixture of herbs from your garden, the earthiness of the forest, and something uniquely Jacaerys.
Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the kiss. It was bittersweet, filled with the joy of finally giving in to your feelings, but tinged with the sadness of knowing it might be a goodbye. Jacaerys kissed you as if it was both the first and last time, pouring every ounce of his gratitude, affection, and regret into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Jacaerys rested his forehead against yours. Silently, he moved his hands to your wrist, gently untying one of your bracelets and nudging your fingers with his. He held the bracelet in his hand for a moment, running his thumb over the woven threads.
“May I keep this?” he asked softly, his eyes meeting yours.
You nodded, unable to find words as emotion welled up in your throat. Jacaerys carefully tucked the bracelet into a pocket, as if it were a precious treasure.
He grasped your face in his hands again, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. Lingering, he moved down to your cheeks, your nose, the corner of your mouth. He kissed every inch of your face, his eyes furrowed close as if he was trying to forget where he was going – if he was ever going to see you again. Finally, he reached your mouth again, giving you a slow kiss.
Jacaerys stepped back. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to face the world beyond your cottage. Unable to trust your voice to respond, you reached out and gently squeezed his hand, conveying your own gratitude and a silent farewell.
With a final, lingering look, Jacaerys turned away and made his way out of the cottage, his steps steadier than they had been in weeks. You watched him go, feeling a mix of pride and sadness as he disappeared from view. Alone once more in the quiet of your cottage, you leaned against the doorframe, your heart heavy with the weight of his absence. The memory of his touch lingered on your skin, his kiss still warm against your lips.
Months passed in a blur of uncertainty and waiting. As the war waged on, your heart remained tethered to Jacaerys, hoping and praying for his safety. You tended to your garden with a quiet determination, finding solace in the familiar rhythms of nature amid the turmoil beyond your cottage walls. Everytime a new black soldier came for aid at the care center, you’d sneakily ask about the war, for news, for numbers of wounded and dead – anything you could grasp onto.
News of the war's eventual end arrived like a bittersweet whisper, bringing relief mingled with sorrow for the lives lost. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as you continued your solitary existence, never quite giving up hope that one day Jacaerys might return.
Then, on a crisp morning that carried the promise of autumn, a knock echoed through your cottage. Startled, you set down your gardening tools and hurried to the door. When you opened it, your breath caught in your throat.
There stood Jacaerys, his once-pristine armor now battered and bloodied, a testament to the trials he had faced. His hair was unkempt, his face lined with weariness, but his eyes held a familiar spark of determination and relief as they met yours.
“Y/n,” he breathed, his voice hoarse but filled with emotion.
A rush of emotions flooded through you – joy, disbelief, and an overwhelming sense of relief that he had returned to you. Without a word, you threw your arms around him, holding him close as if afraid he might vanish again.
Jacaerys held you just as tightly, his arms wrapping around you as if seeking reassurance that you were real. “I'm here,” he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude.
Together, you stepped inside the cottage, the weight of the past months hanging in the air but overshadowed by the sheer relief of being reunited. Jacaerys sank into a chair, and you fetched a basin of water and a cloth to tend to his wounds. As you cleaned the blood and grime from his face and hands, your touch was gentle, conveying a silent understanding of all he had endured.
Once cleaned up, Jacaerys looked around the familiar surroundings of your cottage, a sense of peace settling over him. “It feels like a lifetime since I was last here,” he admitted softly, his eyes meeting yours.
You nodded, sitting beside him and taking his hand in yours. Your instinct made your hands immediately go to his forearm, a cut that was no longer bleeding on it, tenderly tracing over the healed wound, feeling the scar that marked him.
“I'm glad you're back,” you murmured, your voice filled with a mixture of relief and lingering concern. He took your hand in his, his eyes searching yours with earnest intensity.
“I want to stay,” he said quietly, his voice steady yet filled with vulnerability. “Here, with you.”
You squeezed his shoulder, a grin plastered on your face as he mirrored your movements.
“Let me tend to your wounds,” you said softly, guiding him to sit by the hearth where you had once helped him find refuge. Jacaerys lowered himself gratefully, wincing slightly as he settled, his armor clinking softly with the movement. The air was thick with unspoken emotions, a delicate balance of relief and the weight of their shared experiences.
You fetched fresh water and clean cloths, moving with practiced care as you began to clean the grime and blood from his face and hands. Each gentle touch spoke of the months apart, of your worry and hope intertwined.
Jacaerys watched you silently, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude, much like the first time you had tended to him.
Mouthwashing if Anya told Swansea instead of Curly
-
mwentallyunwell liked this · 1 year ago -
ratusbratus liked this · 1 year ago -
neon-volta reblogged this · 1 year ago -
neon-volta liked this · 1 year ago
-
oxifars liked this · 2 years ago -
whimbo reblogged this · 2 years ago -
stonehedge-0 liked this · 2 years ago -
d3monb0i liked this · 2 years ago -
bugsupport liked this · 2 years ago -
awkweirdblackgirl reblogged this · 2 years ago -
awkweirdblackgirl liked this · 2 years ago
-
cinnamonsugar-pretzel liked this · 2 years ago -
lyanro liked this · 2 years ago -
king-ofthetrill liked this · 2 years ago -
freelancefelix liked this · 2 years ago -
vicesandvultures liked this · 2 years ago -
iduns-golden-apples liked this · 2 years ago -
rottytopss liked this · 2 years ago -
princessfetus liked this · 2 years ago -
justacatto liked this · 2 years ago -
insanitykeepsme liked this · 2 years ago -
kittygirlgothcat reblogged this · 2 years ago -
gingerrsstuff reblogged this · 2 years ago -
21panda-cakes liked this · 2 years ago -
anqel-devil liked this · 2 years ago -
luckykingpainter liked this · 2 years ago -
flash-bangzzz123 liked this · 2 years ago -
shiroganeee liked this · 2 years ago -
xxlilmeowmeowxx liked this · 2 years ago -
thefallingstarlights liked this · 2 years ago -
raturger liked this · 2 years ago -
wxrmgxd liked this · 2 years ago -
bubbles-are-a-flavour liked this · 2 years ago -
james-nightshade liked this · 2 years ago -
katbird0152 liked this · 2 years ago -
yourmoirail liked this · 2 years ago -
lavenderemo liked this · 2 years ago -
kittenspumpkinparty reblogged this · 2 years ago -
lullabibi reblogged this · 2 years ago -
lullabibi liked this · 2 years ago
-
gothwaldo liked this · 2 years ago -
tiredpopcorn liked this · 2 years ago -
taigacryptid liked this · 2 years ago -
zomatoma reblogged this · 2 years ago -
zomatoma liked this · 2 years ago
-
goth-pride liked this · 2 years ago -
vipersalt liked this · 2 years ago -
creators-rb-dump reblogged this · 2 years ago
