Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

Just Aunty BB' 7

The worn leather of the armchair sighed under Kelly weight as she shifted, her gaze fixed on the distant ocean. Her fingers traced the condensation on her iced tea glass. "Solange," she murmured, not turning her head. "You know that marlin fishing idea is absurd. Who wants to wrestle a fish bigger than their ego before lunch?"

Solange leaned against the balcony railing, the morning breeze tugging at her linen shirt. She didn't glance back. "It's about the challenge, Kelly. The adrenaline. Not everything needs to be... predictable." A pause hung between them, thick with old rivalries and unspoken alliances. Below, the waves crashed against the private dock, a rhythmic counterpoint to the tension

Inside the airy living room, Beyoncé sat stiffly on a cream sofa, sunlight catching the gold in her braids. Her knuckles were white where they gripped her knee. Across from her, Jay-Z maneuvered his wheelchair closer, the soft whir of its motor cutting through the quiet. He stopped near her chair, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled. His brow furrowed. 

"Bey..." he began, voice low and raspy. "Is it just me, or do you have that... particular scent about you today?"

Beyoncé's cheeks flushed crimson. She forced a laugh, too sharp, too loud. "Jay, honey, I just showered! What on earth are you talking about?" Her eyes darted sideways, locking onto mine with a venomous glare that promised retribution. I just leaned against the doorframe, grinning.

Jay waved a dismissive hand, his expression clouded by the familiar fog of his post-stroke thoughts. "Nah, nah... know that smell. Comes every few weeks." He chuckled, a rough sound like stones tumbling. "Ovulation, right? Always throws me off." His gaze drifted momentarily, perhaps catching the ghost of a memory—Beyoncé riding him years ago, the reckless passion that ended with an ambulance and this wheelchair. But the thought dissolved as quickly as it surfaced, buried under the simplicity of biology.

Relief washed over Beyoncé, so potent her shoulders sagged. She managed a weak smile. "Right. Must be." Avoiding my eyes, she turned sharply to her sister. "Kelly, Solange—spa day?"

Kelly finally tore her gaze from the ocean, eyes sparkling. "Facials, massages, pedicures... pure heaven." Solange nodded curtly beside her. Beyoncé exhaled, tension bleeding away. "Perfect," she breathed, then shot me a warning arch of her brow. But I was already smirking, imagining steam-filled rooms and whispered secrets. This spa day promised delicious chaos. My wink was slow, deliberate. Beyoncé groaned softly.

Then her voice sliced through the air, crisp and final: "Y/N stays here." My grin froze. "Help Julez with the kids. Mom has plans." 

I gestured toward Jay. "Why can't he—?" 

"Therapy," Beyoncé cut in, already gathering her purse. Her tone left no room for argument.

Solange snorted softly, exchanging a knowing glance with Kelly as they moved toward the door. Jay wheeled himself closer to the window, oblivious to the undercurrents. "Don't forget my deep tissue appointment!" he called after Beyoncé. She paused, her back rigid. "Of course not, Jay." The words were smooth, practiced. Too smooth.

As the door clicked shut behind them, the yacht exhaled. Sunlight pooled on the marble floor, silent and accusing. Jay hummed tunelessly, already absorbed in his tablet. My fingers tightened around my phone—Beyoncé's last glare replaying in my mind. *Don't you dare.* 

Jay's gaze lifted from the screen, sharp and unexpectedly lucid. Not confusion now, but a slow, deliberate assessment. His wheelchair creaked as he pivoted toward me. "Ovulation," he rasped, the word deliberate, almost amused. A dry chuckle escaped him. "She must think I'm slow" 

The ghost of that reckless afternoon—Beyoncé's wild abandon, his own burst vessel—flickered in his eyes. He wasn't dismissing the scent ripe peach, salt, sex anymore. He was naming the lie. he stood from his wheelchair