Hello! I love your writing sm and I especially adore the way you write Maekar. If you do not mind, could you pleaseee write a Maekar Targaryen fanfic, him getting cuteness aggression from reader? <3
REQUEST - MAEKAR x READER
SUMMARY : You've been married for almost a year, yet Maekar still treats you like a stranger. Tired of being kept at arm's length, you decide to do something about it and step into the courtyard.
AUTHOR'S NOTE :
I loved writing this! Maekar is definitely one of the characters I enjoy writing the most. I have to confess, I'm the one feeling the cuteness aggression toward him whenever I write him, which sometimes makes it difficult to come up with a scenario that still feels true to his personality.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I also hope I understood your request correctly—that Maekar was the one receiving the cuteness aggression, not the reader. If I got that wrong, feel free to send me another ask! XD
In many ways, Maekar reminded you of your childhood pet: Salem.
A white Persian cat who hissed and clawed at anyone foolish enough to go near him. Except you, whom he simply chose to ignore, walking away as soon as you entered his space. That didn't stop you from cooing at him and buying his affection with food and catnip. It eventually worked, for you were the only person in your household who could hold and kiss the little devil and live to tell the tale.
Your husband was, in many ways, like your cat.
He cursed as much as Salem hissed. No one was spared from his sharp tongue. Maekar cussed at his brothers (especially Aerys), at any lord foolish enough to speak to him, and at the ladies who glared at him after he cussed at their lord husbands. His mother, Queen Myriah, once told you his first word had been a swear word. Even though you suspected the Queen was teasing, it wouldn't have surprised you in the slightest. You could perfectly imagine an infant Maekar, his white hair cut into a bowl, cussing at his governess.
Instead of claws, Maekar had swords. Your prince especially enjoyed blowing off steam in the training yard, sometimes battering his opponent if he was in a sour mood. Though his weapon of choice remained the mace, which he loved to use against his eldest brother.
Finally, like Salem, Maekar left his white hair absolutely everywhere...
However, unlike the little pest, you weren't Maekar's favorite person. That spot belonged to Prince Baelor, with whom your husband spent most of his time.
At first, you found the love the brothers bore each other endearing. It was rare for siblings to get along within the nobility, and especially within the House of the Dragon. The Blackfyre Rebellion was the perfect example.
However, you thought Maekar would come back to you whenever Prince Baelor had to attend to his duties. On the contrary, your lord husband preferred to spend his time either in the training yard or in his solar. You only saw him during meals and before bed.
His behavior was vexing, to say the least. You had been married for almost a year now, too long to qualify as newlyweds, yet he still treated you like a stranger. No one would know you were his wife if it weren't for the softening of his cursing whenever you were around.
Something had to be done.
Since Maekar wouldn't come to you, you would go to him.
Therefore, on an unassuming afternoon, you stepped into the courtyard wearing training attire. The stitch was much heavier than you would have expected beneath your clothes, but the simple tunic and trousers allowed you to move freely. It pleased you to be able to move your legs however you liked, without the fear of ripping expensive fabric constantly plaguing your mind. As pretty as your gowns were, they were too elaborate for a simple stroll through the gardens.
Or training with a sword in the courtyard.
Once you spotted Maekar's clump of white hair from across the yard, you walked straight toward him. One of the soldiers training there stopped mid-movement to gawk at you in shock, and his opponent took advantage of the distraction to knock him into the dirt. To be fair, ladies in trousers were a rare sight.
If only you could have such an effect on your own husband. The latter seemed determined to win his bout against his opponent, his sword strikes falling like rain upon the poor fellow. Maekar truly was glorious in battle, and the fact that he remained shirtless while training only added to his appeal.
His opponent saw you before he did and barely managed to block Maekar's deadly sword.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the Anvil growled. "A squire could have seen this from a mile away!"
"Your lady wife is here, my lord."
Maekar frowned at him suspiciously but turned around nonetheless, his sword steady in his hands.
There you were, smiling right in front of him. If your clothes disturbed him, he didn't show it in the slightest.
"Husband," you greeted him happily.
"Wife," he replied grumpily. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to see you, of course! Your prowess as a knight is sung all across the realm, yet I realized I'd never seen it for myself."
A lie. You had been observing the prince from the window long before you were even married.
"Prince Maekar truly is remarkable, my lady," the knight your husband had been training with chirped teasingly.
"Shut it," the Anvil growled before taking your wrist and guiding you well away from the clashing of swords and shields.
A scowl adorned his face, yet his grip was gentle. He released you once you were out of earshot.
"This isn't a place for a woman," he grunted, staring at you as though you were a willful child. "You could get hurt."
"So you do care about me," you teased.
His eyes widened as if surprised by your statement. He opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish, unable to decide what to say. His confusion, as well as the blush creeping onto his cheeks, only made him even more endearing to you. It was certainly a welcome change.
Maekar must have noticed your amusement, for his shyness instantly disappeared, replaced by his usual grumpiness.
"Don't flatter yourself," he grumbled. "Baelor wouldn't let me hear the end of it if you got yourself unnecessarily hurt. I don't have the time for this kind of nonsense."
"I wouldn't get hurt if you were the one training me," you suggested, even though that had been your goal from the very beginning.
Maekar looked at you as though a horn had suddenly sprouted from your forehead.
"Absolutely not. That idea is even madder than the last. I've seen the way you turn your head away during tourneys. You don't even care about training."
"Mayhaps, but I care about spending time with my husband."
His blush deepened at the word husband.
Interesting...
"Still, there's no way in the Seven Hells I'm training you," he argued, stubborn as ever.
"Would you rather I find another man to train me? There are plenty of skilled warriors around. I'm sure I can find a suitable teacher on my own."
For the first time, Maekar truly noticed the way you were dressed, and how well your clothes suited you. He frowned, clearly displeased by the thought.
Finally, the Anvil let out a sigh of resignation.
"You're going to be the death of me, woman."
"I certainly hope so, husband."
The word definitely flustered him. He coughed to regain his composure, but it was too late. Maekar lent you his own sword and positioned himself behind you, using his hands to correct your stance.
You didn't mind having his hands on your hips, and you certainly didn't mind making him stammer by pressing a kiss beneath his jaw.
"Gods be good," he grumbled.
You smiled, victorious.
After all, you had always found a way to tame grumpy cats.
Two names just landed on your hit list: your father, who dragged you back to the tiny town you swore you'd never see again, and Bucky Barnes, the infuriating farmhand whose smart mouth and sexy smiles threaten to ruin your career and your heart.
▸ PAIRING: Farmhand!Bucky Barnes x Pop Star!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, public sex, no condom (don't try this at home), fingering, penetration, creampie, bucky is bossy in bed, brat diva!reader, sex tape leak mentions, hurt/comfort?, bucky calls her princess in a loving and lowk nasty way
▸ WORD COUNT: 23.8K
▸ A/N: i wanted to write a hannah montana: the movie au so i wrote a hannah montana: the movie au. partially inspired by the movie but with my own liberties!! im almost sorry for the length, idk why i cant shut up. thank you again to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for organizing this collab, excited to share my second contribution!!! check out my first one here <3
↤ main masterlist | bwat summer masterlist
Just when you think your father can’t find any new ways to torment you, he stoops to an all-time low. He’s done plenty of insane things throughout your life and your career, risks that you still question to this day whether they were worth taking, but this one takes the fucking cake.
“Turn this plane around right now,” you snap, arms crossed with a scowl stitched into your brows. Your pink heels tap impatiently before him, a new purchase as a reward for finishing one song for the new album.
He doesn’t even look up at you, simply turning another page of his copy of an entertainment magazine. He’s treating you like an insolent brat throwing a tantrum and, suddenly, you’re fifteen again, begging your dad to pack your entire life to move to the city of angels for the sake of your dream. It took months of convincing before he relented — and look where you are today.
However, he knows what he’s doing, thumbing another page and leaning back into the private plane’s cushy leather seat, raising the magazine a fraction higher to match your line of sight. The front page is one you cannot miss, considering it features you and your latest… incident.
Your lips twist. It’s not fair; this one wasn’t even your fault.
The last few headlines before that are a different story: a high-definition photograph of your underwear when you accidentally flashed some sleazy pap who snuck into a very private party while you were blackout drunk, a tell-all from a PA who had gotten a pissed-off tirade after he fucked up your coffee order — after he spilled the first one all over, not one, but two of your photoshoot outfits, and your ongoing feud with international supermodel Natasha Romanoff who had won a part in a Spielberg blockbuster despite zero acting experience and only because she’s good pals with the main sponsor, Tony Stark.
You’re not entirely, solely to blame for these clickbait stories. Your life and actions have been under a microscope twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You’d be lucky if you could take a piss without someone hiding inside your toilet. Paparazzi are constantly camped outside of your apartment building, so much so that management has had to bump maintenance fees for more extensive security measures. Some days, you think you should just move to the peace and quiet of a Hollywood gated community.
But that’s never been you — there’s a reason why you moved away from your hometown, why you wanted to chase bigger and brighter dreams. What’s the point if you end up isolating yourself again from the rest of the world?
Unfortunately, this life under scrutiny — combined with the fact that the deadline for your next album is coming up quick — is not one for the weak of heart. You think you’ve trained yourself enough to survive the criticism of strangers, but your patience and limited kindness have worn particularly thin as of late. Your record label, your stylist, and your manager are all hounding you for updates, wondering if they could start preparing for your single. Your little (big) flare-ups are no excuse, but you were hoping that your dad, of all people, as your parent and your manager, would understand.
Now he’s committed the biggest betrayal of all.
You should be on your way to New York. A monthlong schedule filled with fall Fashion Week preparations, meetings with casting directors for movies with guaranteed Oscar nominations, and lots and lots of aperol spritzes to distract you from your thoughts. Anything but write another mindless album of pop hits that the general masses enjoy.
Instead of fun-in-the-sun in the big apple, you hear the pilot announce after you’re in the air that you’re on the way to bumfuck Tennessee.
The stewardess looks anxiously between the two of you, lips quivering and hands flying like she can do anything to ease your rising temper.
“I paid for this private charter,” you growl, “I can turn it back around if I want to.”
“Booking’s under my name, darling.”
“Paid for with money that I earned. I have people I have to meet, things I have to do. You can’t just drag me away for a trip down memory lane. These are insane opportunities that won’t come twice. What kind of manager are you?”
“The kind that is your dad first,” he gives you a pointed look.
“Is this because of what happened? You know that one isn’t my fault!”
He doesn’t say anything.
“You know it isn’t.”
“Regardless of what happened, this break should do you some good. A little bit of grass, a lot more fresh air—”
You deadpan, “It smells like literal horse shit everyday.”
“Let’s not get into the technicality of things. The point is you could use a break.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m your manager, so I get to decide it for your career. You keep going down this path and who knows where you end up? Trust me, honey, rock bottom is a long, hard fall.”
“You would know,” you mutter under your breath.
The moment those words leave your lips, remorse floods your system. Your eyes flick up to meet his. It’s not hurt, it’s not disappointment. It’s sympathy. You’ve just insulted your own father and he’s pitying you.
Perhaps rock bottom isn’t a long way down after all.
“I’m sorry,” you quickly sigh, “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” He gets to his feet, pulls you close to press a reassuring kiss on your forehead. “But this is how I know you need this. Trust me on this one, the weeks will fly by.”
You jerk back. “Weeks?!”
Your childhood bedroom feels like a breeding ground for anxiety.
With your bags with New York-esque clothes tucked away into a corner, you stand there with the door closed as your eyes travel around the space. Posters of pop icons that you’ve now befriended and adopted as mentors, aging floral wallpaper that’s peeling in some corners from the years of humidity, a vanity that looks like it belongs in an antique shop from the seventeenth century.
Music filters muffled through the gap underneath your door, a sound that you haven’t heard in quite some time but still echoes like a distant memory. It’s one of your grandma’s favorites, and she’s no doubt leading the charge with the rest of the family and friends who live nearby. They tried to keep your welcome party small, trusted confidantes who wouldn’t breathe a word to the press.
The only thing that’s drowning out the noise downstairs is your publicist and best friend, Yelena, who has somehow worked through every expletive in the Russian dictionary until she came up with more creative and colorful ones of her own.
“You better tell your dad to drive your ass back to New York right now. I don’t care if you have to use a beat-up pick-up truck from the barn next door but we have people waiting for you. We need to get some damage control done before it all goes to shit.”
You sigh. Yelena gives a little uh-oh. “That’s not going to happen. You know my dad; when he’s got his mind made up like this, nothing’s going to change it. He thinks I need a break.”
She says something else in her mother tongue, one that you’ve learned over time translates to something along the lines of I’ll break something else of theirs. “Do you need me to book you a new flight right now? We can literally land in the cornfields in like two hours and bring you to New York. I promise you I’ll make it happen.”
Do you want to be disowned and be shown your father’s look of utter disappointment that will stick in your people-pleasing brain for the rest of your life? No.
Sighing, you glance out the window again. Endless stretches of open fields, green on green on green. You haven’t seen this much green since you face planted during rehearsal for a summer show in Central Park.
“No, I’ll be fine. If I behave and play along, then maybe he’ll let me come back earlier. Two weeks is a long—”
“Two weeks?! Do you know how long it took me to get on Nolan’s calendar? That man is booked and busy, more so than the mayor of New York.”
Wincing, you bite down on another upset noise. “I know. I’m trying to get out of here earlier, but we’ll see how it goes.”
“I can come visit you, you know. Try and talk to him.”
It’s tempting. Yelena has a way of convincing people to do her bidding, even if it means doing a bit of arm-twisting. Literally. You’ll spare your dad from that today. She’s loyal to a fault and the last thing you want is a broken arm on his body.
“No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Silence settles on the other end. A brief pause before you can practically hear Yelena’s voice melt, the rough curl of her tongue unfurling into concern. “Will you?”
You can’t say for certain. You haven’t been back here since you packed up your entire life and moved. This place feels familiar, but it’s no longer your home. Nothing here feels like you anymore; it’s like being in the mind of a stranger. A stranger who knows exactly what bone to pick with you.
You hate to admit it but being back here feels as if you’re back in square one. The place where it all started. You can still hear the ghost of your songs, scribbled messy into a songbook that you haven’t touched in years, because that isn’t what the world wants. Your fingertips tingle with the memory of learning how to play the guitar for the first time, testing out your dad’s old songs on his very first guitar that he gifted you for your tenth birthday.
Then you started making some of your own, the kind of music you’ve always loved and ones that touched the heart. Call it bias but your family always thought you had the talent to make it out there. It’s the whole reason you had the confidence to make the move.
But the world has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out. You learned how to toughen your shell, block out all the negative so that you can keep pushing through. Because when you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up.
Now that you’re at the top, you don’t want to find out if you’ve reached the ceiling.
This is a part of your life you don’t like to dwell on, anxiety attached to the fear of failure painted onto the decor every time you look at these four walls.
“I will be,” you murmur.
“Maybe your dad is right. This is a good chance for you to get away from all the drama. The cameras. Unplug for a little bit.”
“Alert the media, I think Yelena Belova might have lost her darn marbles.”
“Darn marbles? The countryside has changed you, little one.”
A giggle slips past your lips. “Alright, diva.”
“Let me get your schedule sorted and I’ll check back in with you. In the meantime, try to have fun?”
Fun and this bumfuck town are complete opposites. You know from firsthand experience.
“You’re cute when you’re being funny,” you drawl.
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Then you’re left in the silence once more.
There are very few things in life that can faze you nowadays. Being raised in a tough, soul-sucking industry will do that to you. Your days have been one thing after another, a schedule packed to the brim that insomnia has become a welcome friend.
You’ve gotten used to drowning and choking on the sea that you can’t taste the difference between clean air and saltwater anymore. You adapt. You learned what it means to come up for air when you need to and swallow that intense, briny ocean when your head is being dunked into it.
Still, things have always happened within your control.
This situation right here is out of your control.
It’s fazing you.
You’re not talking about your dad being progressive and caring more about his baby girl’s mental health, placing it above her career that’s paid off the mortgage on this Tennessee home plus a few others scattered throughout the world.
No, you’re talking about these damn chickens.
You really should’ve just kept your mouth shut and stayed in your room for the next two weeks. If you could convince your dad that you’re sane enough to survive that, he’ll surely let you go free. But you got impatient, you figured that if you could make friends with nature once more, he would release you into the wilderness again.
Here you are now having a staredown with five chickens who have been eyeing you like feed. They know an easy target when they see one and a pop star who hasn’t touched a pail in decades, nor has seen a real-life chicken outside of television segments recently, is definitely one.
They’ve squawked. They’ve pecked. They’ve chased you around this coop, turning you into a headless chicken.
There’s about to be more than one headless chicken if these little shits don’t let you get their eggs.
You now learn that there are only three things that can stand up to you — your dad, Yelena, and these damn chickens. They let out another battle cry before rampaging towards you again, yanking a yelp from your lips as the bucket clangs in your hands.
Fifteen minutes later and you’re flat on your ass for the second time that morning, straw entwined into your hair and probably chicken shit stuck to your sequined denim shorts. Still no eggs. It isn’t the most ideal farming outfit, but you packed for a city, not for a tiny town.
It’s only when you’re this close to giving up that you hear the deep rumble from the door.
“Need some help?”
A snarky “you think?” sits on the tip of your tongue as you whirl around from your spot in the ground. That response dies fast when your eyes land on the six-foot man before you.
Your mouth dries when you first notice the cowboy hat. God, you’ve always been a sucker for a good cowboy. It’s the country girl in you that never left. Regardless of how many polished and shiny men you’ve met in Hollywood, nothing beats a rugged cowboy with dirty hands and broad shoulders and–
He tips his hat back slightly to get a better look at you. Blue eyes. Bluer than the late morning sun outside. Bluer than the sapphires you have in your safebox back in your penthouse. His pink lips are curled into an amused smile as he appraises the state of you on the floor.
Fuck, he’s hot.
He looks like your biggest mistake waiting to happen. He looks like he belongs on the front page of Vogue rather than on a farm. He’s got a coil of rope hanging from his shoulders and the filthy image that invades your mind should put you in the asylum.
High risk, high reward, your brain and the heat between your legs whisper traitorously.
But then you remember the “incident” and you remember how many times you’ve had people approach you for their fifteen seconds of fame, and an irritated glare descends on your face. He doesn’t look affected by the quick change of emotions; in fact, he looks even more delighted that he’s put that look on your face.
“If you could murder some chickens for me, that would be great.”
“We try not to eat our friends here, we usually get ours from old man Jenkins down the road.”
God, even his stupid voice is hot. This is not going to go well for your undomesticated libido. Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson with sex and men.
“Alright, then a few eggs should do the trick. Enough for breakfast for three.”
“Four.”
You cock an eyebrow.
“I’m joinin’ for breakfast so it’ll be breakfast for four. Why don’t you go on back up to the house? I can handle things here.”
I’d like you to try and handle me. Preferably naked in five different positions in bed.
What you need is a vibrator, the mental image of this man, and ten minutes alone in your room. That should do the trick.
(You’re lying to yourself because you know that wouldn’t be enough but it may be sufficient to sate some of your curiosity and this hungry little thing between your legs.)
“And who are you again?”
The corners of his lips tip up higher. “Don’t remember me?”
“I’ve met a lot of people. I don’t remember everyone.”
“I’d think you would remember the boy you tortured more than the chickens are doing to you now.”
Your brows pinch in a confused frown. “Who?”
“You pick on all boys, princess? Or am I special?”
Fuck. Warmth creeps up your cheeks at the insulting pet name, and his stupid flirty tone, and you find yourself glaring at him again. “Only the ones that clearly deserve it.”
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I’m not the only one then.”
If there’s anything worse than a man, it’s a man who knows exactly what to say to have you twirling your hair in your fingers like a schoolgirl.
“Well, he-who-must-not-be-named, I don’t really want to hear an I-told-you-so from my dad so how about you get me a few eggs and we can go our separate ways?”
The man smiles. It’s not a smile you trust. “Anyone ever teach you to say please and thank you or did the city take all your southern manners?”
“Please,” you grit out, caving far too quickly — but you prefer not to have your dad come out to check on you and realize you really have lost your roots.
His eyes twinkle with the kind of mischief that makes your stomach flip. He looks like he’s about to say something else, lips parting in preparation but then he shakes his head with a low chuckle before he easily navigates towards the nesting boxes. The chickens flock around him eagerly, none of them attacking him the same way they’ve been coming at you.
With ease, he nabs a few fresh eggs. He places them into a basket, one that he then hands over to you.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
Your fingers brush over his as you take the basket from his hand, a spark crackling between your fingertips that zings straight through your core. It’s unexpected and you jump back slightly at the feeling. His eyes flick up to meet yours — there’s something unnerving about them. Too blue, too earnest. Too knowing. Like he knows something you don’t.
You ignore that feeling, kicking it to the curb before it can take root inside your vulnerable mind.
He makes a gesture towards the door. “Shall we?”
The man doesn’t try to make any more conversation as the two of you venture back towards your house — no, your grandma’s house. In fact, he seems deep in thought; mouth pressed into a firm line and brows slightly furrowed. He’s even taken off his hat, holding it to his chest as his fingers rake through his thick brunette hair.
Seriously, frustratingly hot.
You force your eyes away from him for the remainder of the walk. When you come through the kitchen doors, your dad and grandma are right where you left them. They look mildly surprised to see you, probably in one piece. “Farm-fresh eggs ready for breakfast! How would you like ‘em? Scrambled? Sunny side up?”
The two look at each other then at the man hovering close behind you.
“Oh, I see you’ve met Bucky!”
Only Buc-ee you know is down Route 40. Who the hell is Bucky?
“Ma’am. Sir. Morning.”
“What a lovely day of reunions,” she chirps.
Reunions? You don’t get a chance to ask when your father holds up the perfectly-intact eggs. “You didn’t have any trouble with the chickens, darlin’? They can be nasty. Been a while since you’ve done it.”
You can hear Bucky’s cocky grin. You ignore it and opt for a bright smile at your family. “Of course not. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
As they turn away to begin cooking, you feel a tickle in your ear.
“They teach you to lie in those acting classes, princess?” Bucky’s voice is close — too close. He’s ducked his head behind you, lips grazing the shell of your ear with his whisper.
You swiftly leap away from him with a glare. “Yeah, same place they teach me to stay the fuck away from condescending, attractive men.”
His lips twitch. “Attractive, huh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You know what you are. I know what you are and I know what not to trust.”
“You don’t know me, princess.”
Your expression goes ice cold, a hiss slipping between your teeth. “I’m not a princess.”
“Five-time Grammy winner, America’s pop princess,” he recites and you nearly get whiplash.
That was your introduction for a recent awards show you attended as a presenter. The fact that he knows it— you didn’t trust him before, you trust him even less now.
“Stalker much?”
“Your grandma was watching it, I was helping her fix the kitchen faucet.”
You didn’t even know your grandma kept up with your activities, last you heard she was struggling to even work the new television upgrade you got her. It was a gift of part love and part apology for not making it home for Christmas. She always sends quick texts whenever you release a new song or win an award. The last few months have been turbulent. You haven’t had the time to respond to her texts, let alone check in over a phone call, when you’re prioritizing work opportunity emails.
Even when you do get the chance, video calls mask most of the fine lines on her face. Only now do you see how much she’s aged.
A piece of your heart breaks with guilt. You’ve been so focused on your own life and your own work that you haven’t had the chance to pause and look back at everyone else who’s supported you. Your grandma has been your biggest cheerleader from day one, arguing against your dad to support your dreams.
After all, she’s constantly calling you her favorite granddaughter (her only one, mind you).
Bucky must sense your mood because he then tries to remedy the situation, “She’s doing fine. She misses you a lot, takes every chance she gets to talk about everything you’re doing. God forbid anyone try to badmouth you in this town; with her influence, that person is shunned within seconds.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat at the thought. She’s always been a firecracker, it’s where you inherited your temper and energy from.
“It’s been a busy few months,” is all your manage to say. Your throat tightens and you blink away the tears. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of this man who looks like he feeds on girls’ tears.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Your lips pinch as you turn to him with an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to.”
“This is gonna be a fun two weeks, princess.” He throws you one last smile over his shoulder before he joins your family.
The next few days don’t get any better. Your grandma’s been so busy with an issue in town that you’re been mostly left to your own devices.
By that, you mean you’ve been left at the beck and call of one Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes who you learn is the farmhand who’s been tasked to keep all of the animals alive, including your horse that you haven’t seen in some time. She’s one of the only good things left in this place, one of the things you regret leaving behind. Winter is a little antsy when you first approach her.
“She doesn’t do well with strangers.”
Your lovely homecoming is quashed when you hear that familiar voice interject. “I know that. She’s mine.”
“I know,” Bucky echoes with a small smile. “Wanna ride her?”
For a second, you’re embarrassed that you feel a spark of fear. It’s been a while since you’ve been on a horse, trading for a different kind of horsepower that’s much safer and faster. You would hate for Bucky — your new arch nemesis — to see you fail.
“Maybe later.”
He looks at you like he knows, that ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
You learned that the two of you were raised together, despite having no recollection of it. Apparently you had gone through all of grade school together but you’ve met enough people that you can’t seem to remember the children you spent time with — no matter how many times they try to slide into your DM’s with “Oh my god, we went to school together! Can I get some tickets?”
Somehow, you doubt Bucky is the type to slide into anyone’s messages. He probably doesn’t even have social media; the man acts like a dinosaur sometimes when you mention your popularity on certain apps as reason why you shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty and he simply blinks and congratulates you. Then he hands you a shovel to help him with the horses.
That history seems to matter as much to you as it does to him. He still calls you princess with that patronizing tone; sometimes you think there’s a soft tinge to his voice but that thought evaporates the moment he rolls his eyes when you can’t seem to do anything to help around the house.
He also seems to have a problem with the way you dress.
“Really? You’re going to town in that?”
You look down at your silk lace top complemented by the cutest denim skirt tailored to your shape, a pair of low black heels on your feet. “What’s wrong with this?”
Bucky’s gaze traces the length of you. When blue sweeps over you, warmth sinks into your bones again. He looks at you like you’re a piece of meat — and you apparently seem to like it.
“I packed for New York, this is as casual as it gets.”
He stares are you for a brief second again before he shrugs off his flannel, draping it over your shoulders. You’re too stunned to move. He takes this moment to wrangle your arms through the sleeves.
“I’m not wearing this,” you deadpan, raising your arms to find that the sleeves droop lower than your fingertips.
“It looks nice.”
It certainly does, but it smells like him and that scent — masculine, earthy, and a touch of cocky — seems to rouse that inappropriate beast inside of you from its slumber. The one that growls possessively whenever someone comes too close to Bucky or one that salivates over the sight of his exposed arms whenever he’s lifting bales of hay.
Instead of acknowledging his compliment, you roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
“I think this would help with your whole effort of going incognito in town.”
“I have some glasses and a hat to go undercover. It usually works. I’m this generation’s Clark Kent. But, hey, if I get recognized, I want to make sure I look good.”
Bucky blinks at you. “You always look good.”
And you’re not sure what to say to that.
But when you do get spotted by two teenage girls later that day and they fawn over how good you look, you can’t help but shoot him a smug smile.
The two of you disagree on most things; you can probably count on one hand how many things you do agree on, including the fact that you disagree on a lot of things. That and how your grandma is the most awesome person in this city, but that’s not news.
She worries about the two of you being at each other’s throats, biting remarks flung across the room until she has to tell the two of you to shut up and sit down for dinner — which is a whole other question because why is he always here?
While Bucky pokes fun at you all the time for your incompetence, you also take your shots at him. Harmless ones.
One time you found him asleep on the couch downstairs after you finish doing your nails, so you decided to do his. He ends up with neon pink on his toes and blood red on his fingers. You snicker to yourself thinking you’ve just done something to get on his nerves.
Except, it doesn’t. Instead, he walks around proudly. Nails gleaming in the sun whenever he’s doing work and he doesn’t break a sweat. He even gets compliments on them.
It sours your mood — partly because your ruse didn’t work, but mainly because that confidence is stupidly hot. You don’t need another reason to find him attractive when you’ve already got a list longer than the Nile.
When your grandma tells you to be nicer to him, you’re extra prickly because— “Why do I have to be nicer to him when he’s the one being annoying with me? Aren’t I supposed to be resting? Manual labor is not part of that agenda.”
“You did all this when you were younger, sweetheart. It’s like riding a bike.”
“Riding a bike didn’t have me breaking my fresh manicure,” you say pointedly. “And I didn’t have anyone bossing me around. Being told what to do by someone my age versus by my dad are two completely different things.”
Your grandma only laughs, stroking your cheek like she finds this little tantrum endearing. You lean into her touch, her fingers softened by the years. “He’s just a kid pulling on his crush’s pigtails.”
His crush. You would find it cute (you do find it cute) if you weren’t so miffed after you chipped your index finger trying to lift a bag of feed for the horses. When you told Bucky, he only quirked his eyebrow at you before returning to his own duties.
So no, he doesn’t have a crush on you. In fact, you’re convinced that he hates you. In his mind, you’re probably this diva who lost her roots and whines about every single thing in her life — which isn’t incorrect per se, but he has no right to dislike you for that. He doesn’t even know you. He doesn’t know the shit you’ve been through to make it in the industry, how many times you’ve had to grit out a smile at shitty producers, even shittier paparazzi, and everyone in between.
If he really does have a crush on you, he sure as hell has a crap way of showing it.
“Well, we’re not kids anymore,” you huff, “and I don’t like bullies.”
Your grandma gives you a look as she leafs through her farm ledger. The numbers look alright from where you’re sitting, nothing in the red, which is a good sign. Part of the reason why you’re so adamant about being and staying successful is for her; you never want her to want for anything.
“You do know you were the one who had him crying growing up. Poor boy put up a lot with you forcing bugs onto him and teasing him for falling off a horse lord knows how many times.”
Oh. Your cheeks warm at the thought. Maybe you do have some vague memory of a gangly kid who wouldn’t stop weeping no matter how many times you tried to coo him to quiet down, lest you risk the wrath of your father. Again.
“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a crybaby then,” you shrug instead with a huff.
Your grandma’s grin stretches a little wider. “I think you even made him play house once. We thought it was adorable. You had him stay at home with the baby while you went off to work. Singing your silly heart out to the rest of us before coming back to him.”
Oh god. You’ll never live this down. So maybe Bucky does have some right to abusing his power for the sake of tormenting you. From what your grandma’s shared, it sounds like you’ve put him through the wringer.
Then again, Bucky has grown — and he’s grown a lot. His shoulders have filled out, hair darker than his horse’s mane, thighs thicker than a tree trunk—
You put the brakes on those thoughts. You really need to get yourself a fix. Or get yourself fixed at this rate.
What you need is one really good dick. A good fuck to wipe all of these thoughts from your mind. The only problem with being so famous is the need to keep your private life private. You don’t need any more scandals on the front page and you certainly don’t know Bucky well enough to trust him — no matter how good his dick looks in the imprint of his jeans.
“He’s a good one, you know,” your grandma smiles softly. “Been with the family for years. Always around to help whenever needed.”
You hate to point out the obvious but— “That’s his job, grandma.”
“He’s also one of your biggest supporters,” she says with a look. “Has all of your albums in his house. Sits right here next to me in front of the TV whenever you’re on it.”
Your jaw practically drops to the ground. “That’s ridiculous,” you sputter, “there’s no way.”
“Yes, you should ask to see his place sometime. He’s quite proud of the collection, even said that he’s going to ask you to sign them one day.”
You have a feeling he’s burned down his collection after meeting you again and realizing what a raging bitch you are. Plus, the thought of asking to come over to Bucky’s place feels a touch too desperate for your personality, even if there is nothing you want more. Imagine yourself getting bent over backwards on his kitchen island with your album covers staring right back at you.
“All I’m saying is, give him a chance. He’s not a bad fella.”
You try. You really do, but Bucky somehow always finds a way to push your buttons. Like today, he decides to reward your hard work with lunch in town at Sal’s Diner. It’s the best diner here — arguably the only diner here.
“No, I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. Pretty sure my dad fed me the French toast here to help me teeth,” you argue, cutting a fat slice of your dish.
You caved into ordering this meal that would give your nutritionist a stroke. Deep fried, juicy toast dripping with maple syrup and topped off with a dollop of house whipped cream and slices of fresh strawberries and blueberries. You’ll allow yourself this cheat meal if it means proving Bucky wrong.
That and you’ve been on a strict diet of certain vegetables and proteins for your Fashion Week fittings, so this is a welcome change. Think of it as a form of protest against your father bringing you here unwillingly.
“You’re out of your mind,” Bucky chuckles. “Everyone knows that Sal’s crown jewel is his waffles.”
Said waffles sit before him. A stack of perfectly crispy, doughy goodness. The perfect burn on the outside complemented by the soft chew on the insides. Topped off with the same maple syrup and cream and fruits, the only difference rests in the vessel for the brunch dessert.
You can’t tell what you want to eat more — your toast, his waffles, or him.
He looks even more delectable today with his hair disheveled from the sun and sweat. His beard has grown out a little more to frame those pink, kissable lips that Hollywood wishes they could naturally have.
“Alright, try yours then try mine. We’ll decide here and now.”
You’ve never once backed down from a challenge so you eat yours first. Delicious, the flavor is nostalgic and the toast is tender and sweet. You recall all the times your dad brought you here, you with snot in your nose after a kid picked on you. You vaguely remember another boy next to you, blue-eyed and a dark ring around his eye, fists with red scrapes clenched next to his stack of waffles.
Based on your grandmother’s stories, said boy must be Bucky. He doesn’t seem like a troublemaker but you wouldn’t be surprised if he was the type to pick fights with other people. That’s what he’s been doing with you all this time.
“Now mine,” he says and swaps your plates, smirking a little too wide as he watches you grudgingly slice into his waffle. You lift it into your mouth, your teeth sink in, and— fuck.
It’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. The texture, the flavor, the balance. The combination of the crunch and the soft give of the waffle against your teeth. The square gaps filled with the perfect amount of cream and syrup, serving as a ship to carry the sweetness onto your tongue. The french toast soaks it in a little too much and the texture is all around too soft now that you’ve had a taste of this.
The waffles are Sal’s masterpiece.
Your eyes flick up to Bucky, he catches your gaze immediately. His lips tug up a little higher.
You quickly school your expression.
You’d never admit this. You’d never admit that Bucky’s right. Over your dead body.
“It’s fine,” you shrug nonchalantly.
“Bullshit,” he laughs, leaning back against the booth chair with arms crossed. His biceps flex and your teeth tingle with the urge to sink into them. “You like it better.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you respond, reaching over to switch your plates around again. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my lunch now.”
When you take another bite of your dish, it no longer tastes the same. The magic has faded and now you can’t stop comparing how mushy it is compared to Bucky’s mindblowingly scrumptious pick. You bite back a cringe when your teeth clack together, overestimating how much effort it would take to break through the food.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, princess,” he grins, “I can see right through you. If you ask nicely, I’ll take your toast and you can have my waffles.”
“I’m fine,” you grit out again.
“You sure? Do you really want to die on this hill?”
“This is the best dish here and you can take your opinion and shove it up your—” the waitress gives you a look from behind the counter and you quickly shut your mouth.
Bucky tilts forward this time with a glint in his eye, arms propped up on the table. You don’t like where this is going. “I think I know what the problem is.” You cock an eyebrow. “Maybe you just don’t know what good food is anymore. All those fancy, tiny, overpriced tasting menus have altered your tastebuds.”
A scoff falls from your lips. “They have not! Those are incredibly refined and curated dishes that the chefs dedicate their entire lives to. It’s definitely different from a diner that serves greasy food that only you can enjoy.”
His lips twist, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well then maybe you’ve just forgotten your roots, princess. All those years in the city and suddenly you think you’re too good for everyone else here, including your family.”
The words knock the breath right out of your lungs. It grips your heart and rips it from your chest. As if your own guilt isn’t enough, having Bucky of all people dogpile on what a terrible granddaughter you’ve been isn’t exactly ideal. Between losing quality time with your grandma and the sound you’ve nurtured here that brought you your success, one feeling crawls over your skin.
Fear.
Fear that you no longer know who you are anymore, a cog in the machine so desperate to keep turning. Fear that you’ve become what you hate: fake, pretentious, disgustingly greedy for wealth that you don’t even need. Fear that, if you lose all you have now, when you’ve already lost everything you had, what would be left for you?
Because that’s the thing they don’t tell you about making it to the top — to get there, you have to make plenty of sacrifices. One you convince yourself are worth taking, until you’re looking down at what you’ve left behind and you realize that nothing will ever be enough to make up for it.
Perhaps your dad is right. The fall to rock bottom is a long and arduous journey, a path where you’re forced to reckon with everything you’ve lost and everything you have to lose.
A warm hand covers yours on the table, dragging you out of your reverie. Bucky’s no longer looking at you with disdain or arrogance. Worry is now carved into the furrow of his brows as he squeezes your hand. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
You jerk your hand away from him, lips pressed into a thin line as you swallow the lump in your throat. You know how to stop yourself from crying, you know how to not show your weakness. You’ve done it countless times before to survive; you can do it again with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“It’s whatever,” you mutter.
“No, it’s not whatever. I crossed a line.”
You don’t appreciate the look on his face. It’s an expression akin to pity. You’ve gotten enough of those looks your entire life, you don’t need it from him. It makes you sick to your stomach. You’re a strong, successful woman who’s achieved everything you’ve ever wanted; there is no reason to pity you.
In lieu of responding, you grab a few bills from your purse and toss it onto the table. “I’m full. I’m going to head out first.”
Ignoring Bucky’s shit, wait, hold on, you’re slipping out of the booth and stomping out into the streets. The breeze outside is helpful against the heat flaming your cheeks as you bite back tears.
Deep down, you know that it isn’t Bucky you’re upset with; nothing he said was untrue. In fact, you hate that it hits a little too close to home.
You start walking — somewhere, anywhere — just away from there. You need space, you need room to breathe and digest what this means for you. It’s one thing to think about how much you’ve lost, circling the issue without calling it out directly, it’s another for someone to point it out so blatantly to you.
“Wait,” Bucky’s voice reaches you before you feel the hand around yours. “Don’t go.”
“Let me go, Bucky.”
“How are you going to head home?”
“I’ll hitchhike if I have to,” you snap.
Bucky looks conflicted again, baby blues darker than usual. “Don’t do that, that’s not safe,” he murmurs, “please. You can be mad at me, I deserve it, but let me take you back. I’ll drive you home.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He licks his lips. “I know you don’t need it. You’re perfectly fine on your own. I get it. But I want to help, so please just take the offer.”
You yank your wrist away from him. “I’m good. Seriously. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I don’t need to do anything. I can’t do anything but worry when it comes to you,” he practically spits out, “I wish I could stop worrying, but I can’t. Not when you look like you’ve lost everything good in your life. Not when you don’t smile the way you used to.”
That stops you, your movements halting.
“It’s not just your grandma who’s concerned about you. Do you think I don’t notice how distant you sound in interviews? Or all that shit in the papers?”
“Go fuck off your high horse, Barnes.”
“I’m not on my goddamn high horse,” he defends, “I’m just saying it all sounds like a cry for help, okay.”
“Oh, so you think you know me now?”
“I know you. I’ve always known you. I was there defending you from those stupid kids growing up. I was there for you to pick on whenever you wanted to destress. I was there to support you and your dreams because I believed in you.”
Your breath hitches in your throat. There’s a lump lodged there that has your lungs constricting. The next words that come out of your mouth are a feeble attempt to hold your ground. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m not the person you knew.”
“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?” He whispers, “I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m saying that you don’t have to do it all alone. You have so many people who love you — your grandmother, your dad, m—” He stops himself, seeming to bite his tongue. “All I’m saying is that you’re not alone. You don’t have to be.”
“I—” you find yourself at a loss for words for the first time in a very long time.
Before you can find the right response, you hear your name followed by a blinding flash in your eyes. It takes you a second to register that there is a camera in your face and the grating noise in your ears is this man bombarding you with questions.
“Is this your new man? Have you moved on already? Tell us who you are, man!” More flashes. More questions.
Your blood runs cold.
You should’ve known that trouble would follow you here. You’re quick to turn around, ready to remove yourself from the situation and avoid giving him the content he wants.
The man lets out a low whistle, smirking. “Oh come on, sweetheart, give me a smile. Your fans miss you back home. Everyone thinks you got kidnapped.”
Don’t give in. Don’t respond to this fucking moron.
“Aw, you’re always so sweet in front of the press. Now that it’s just me, you won’t even give me one smile? What kind of celebrity are you? You want everyone to think you’re a fucking bitch?”
Gritting your teeth, you continue brushing past people, Bucky close on your tail, and the guy still hot on your heels. He’s still lobbing words at you, ridiculous comments like just one smile, baby and don’t be a stuckup bitch.
You don’t respond. You’ve been taught better. If you give them the time of day, they’ll keep coming back for more. Ignore them long enough and they’ll label you a cunt and move on with their lives.
However, it’s only when he brings Bucky into it that you stop dead in your tracks. “This your new man? I can give him that publicity he wants right now. How’s she in bed? Did you make a video too? Come on, give me a quote and I’ll even put your face on the paper.”
“Will you piss the fuck off?” You snap.
His lips curl into a smirk far too proud for a man of his occupation. “Pop princess has claws. You wanna curse for the camera too? Bet your kiddie fans will love that.”
“I am here on vacation. Leave us alone.”
“It comes with the territory, honey. Now that I have you, why don’t you tell me about this stud, huh? What’s your name, man? You give me a tell-all on how good she looks in bed and I’ll pay you. Triple if you’ve got a video like the last one.”
Bucky steps forward, clearly ready to be your knight in shining armor, but you move faster to put a hand on his chest. As much as you dislike Bucky, you don’t want him to be subjected to the bullshit that these tabloids publish. He doesn’t need his face splashed on the front page just because he’s doing a good thing and taking you out to lunch.
Shaking your head, you signal him to back down. He doesn’t seem to like that idea, frowning until you pin him with a glare that has him pursing his lips.
“Just ignore him. He’s not worth it.”
“Whatever she’s offering you, I’ll give you more! Name your price.”
His jaw clenches, blue eyes sparking with the kind of rage you’ve never seen with him. “Leave it alone, Buck.”
His eyes melt, if only a fraction.
You don’t try to decipher that look. Instead, you turn around and point your finger at this man. “You leave me alone or I’ll sick the cops on your ass.”
“Public space, sweetheart. I can do whatever I want.”
“And when I get you barred from every press event I attend? I’m about to file a restraining order if you keep harassing me like this — with plenty of witnesses at that. Think about what you’re doing before you keep running your mouth like that.”
With that, you shove Bucky forward and back into his truck. The two of you peel off before the man can chase you back down again.
It is only in the quiet of the vehicle that you finally hear the thundering in your chest. Your heart hammering in your veins like it’s about to jump out of your chest. With a hand over your heart, you try to take in what shaky breaths you manage. You pull your phone out of your pocket to text your dad, but your fingers are trembling too much for you to type properly.
Cursing under your breath, you type, backspace, type, backspace, until you’re frustrated and flinging the device onto the dashboard with a loud clatter.
“Shit, sorry,” you wince.
“Hey, you’re good. You’re safe,” Bucky whispers next to you, his voice calm as it slips between the crevices of your palpitating heart.
His hand reaches out to close around yours on your thigh. He squeezes, thumb brushing over the back of it in circular motions. You’re momentarily distracted by the act, eyes following the repetitive movement until your heartbeat matches its rhythm. The ringing in your ears quiets, fading into a light buzz before it eventually ceases to let you focus on the rumble of the truck over dirt roads instead.
Bucky pulls to a stop outside the house. Your house. Your grandma’s house.
His hand is still on yours.
You pull it away quickly. Habit. You’re always alert, never sure if there are any more cameras waiting to catch you slipping.
“You’re fine. He didn’t follow us. I did a few reroutes to make sure,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” you exhale slowly. “I’m sorry. Shit, this whole thing is so stupid.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Why are you sorry?”
You open your mouth, only to realize that you don’t have an easy answer. “Um, well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“His own actions are his responsibility. You do not need to apologize on his behalf.”
He’s not wrong. It’s annoying. All this guilt that you shouldn’t even be feeling.
“I guess,” you mutter.
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised. “I hope you know that none of this is your fault — him showing up, the crap in the papers, all the bullshit around you.”
With a grunt, you press your lips together. “I know that. It’s just… unfortunate circumstances.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he smiles, “though, I should also apologize again. I am sorry. I crossed a line, it won’t happen again.”
You can’t even find it in you to come up with a snappy retort. Instead, you shift your gaze away. He seems to understand, letting out a low chuckle. Your lips thin. “I’m not a fan of the word princess.”
That seems to surprise him, a twinkle in his widened eyes. “That so? You used to make me call you that all the time.”
“What were you then? The prince?” You drawl sarcastically.
“Actually, you designated me court jester.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat — probably the first sincere one since you got here, maybe in years. The thought of you acting all high and mighty, making Bucky perform for your entertainment is comical, especially when you consider how massive he is now.
“Find it funny, do you?”
“A little bit.”
“I should send you the bill for my decades of mental anguish.”
Your lips curl into a smile of part amusement, part foul delight. “You could sell all of those childhood stories for a pretty penny.”
“I think your grandma has a few pictures of you in the bathtub.” A gasp falls from your lips. “I was helping her clean the attic. She’s got quite the collection.”
Your cheeks warm. “Haven’t you heard? If you wanted to see me naked, all you have to do is go online.”
You’re not entirely sure why you prompted the idea of you being naked to Bucky, it hardly seems appropriate but Bucky then appraises you with those eyes. Blue drowned out by his blown pupils. You see the indent on his cheek where he’s pushing his tongue against the walls, likely biting back an equally inappropriate comment to respond to yours.
“I’d prefer to experience the real thing for myself.”
All of a sudden, your throat feels like sandpaper and Bucky’s looking you up and down in a way that has your entire body tingling with need.
This can’t be happening. Not right now. Not when you’re supposed to have a clean slate.
Not with Bucky of all people.
However, your grandma’s in your ears, whispering, He’s not a bad fella, is he? He’s not. He’s a good one — perhaps the only one left — but he’s still a man at the end of the day and can you really bring yourself to trust another?
“Too much too soon?” He asks gently.
“No,” you choke out. “Not at all.”
Bucky’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you’re momentarily distracted by the way his bottom lip glistens. His voice drops a pitch— “Don’t tempt me, princess.”
Your heart stutters between your ribs. Heat snakes between your thighs and you’re forced to bite your tongue before you can let out a sound that would embarrass the both of you.
“I’ll check in on you later, yeah?” Bucky tips his hat with a charming smile before wandering towards the barn.
Leaving you and the timber of his voice echoing in your ears.
Something shifts between the two of you after that. It’s nothing monumental but you no longer dread the hours you have to spend with him out with Bucky. Laughter comes a little easier when you’re not viewing him as the enemy. He still teases you but you match that energy right back, with significantly less animosity.
The first time you jump back on Winter, you nearly fall flat on your face. You half-expect Bucky to make another jab about how you’ve lost your skills. However, you’re pleasantly surprised when all he says is “easy there” before he’s encouraging you back on the saddle.
The two of you start taking rides into the mountains. With the wind in your ear and the scent of wild grass, you can’t help but feel like you’re finally home.
However, even when the two of you are sharing picnic lunches that he packs at the top of your hike and he’s tugged off his t-shirt after he gets drenched under a waterfall, Bucky doesn’t do anything more or less.
He keeps a comfortable distance — close enough that you find yourself leaning in, far enough that he finds the excuse to pull away.
As someone who’s always, always gotten whoever you wanted whenever you wanted, you almost want to grab him by the collar and kiss him senseless just to make it a done deal. But as someone with a little bit of pride left, you want him to make the first move.
Unfortunately for you, none of your usual tricks have worked. You’ve spritzed on a little bit more perfume. You’ve worn your lowest cut tops without your tits spilling out. You’ve even given him enough sultry looks that you’re starting to get a twitch in your eye.
Your final tactic, which has never failed you, requires a third participant. A third participant that you didn’t have until today.
You and Bucky are helping your grandma at the farmer’s market. Bucky as the pack mule, hoisting crates of jam onto the vegetable stall that she runs with all of her prized produce. You’re cutting up samples of watermelon and, of course, your presence draws a big enough crowd that your grandma sells out quickly.
“If business can be this good with you around, maybe you should move home,” she beams.
“Good to know that I’m only useful for marketing,” you drawl with a teasing lilt.
“Oh, honey, what can I say? You’re not much help around the farm.”
You feign a gasp and turn to Bucky who’s chuckling to himself on the sidelines. “You’re not gonna defend my honor? After all I did for you this week?”
“Was that before or after you broke the new stepladder we got?” Bucky prompts.
With a roll of your eyes, you wave the two of them off and continue to slice up the fruits. “Two traitors, that’s what the two of you are.”
Before either could respond, a man comes up to your booth. He’s tall. He’s blonde. He’s rather handsome, if you liked the all-American sort of thing. He’s got blue eyes like Bucky but not even half as bright or kind. “That looks like a good one, sweetheart. How about cutting me up a slice?”
The sweetheart is like ice rolling down your spine. You force out a trained smile. “‘Course. I can even give you a bigger one if you promise to buy a whole watermelon from us.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You drive a hard bargain but you have yourself a deal.”
You flash your prettiest grin at him; you know exactly what men like him need. A little stroke of his ego and you’ve got a hook, line, and sinker. As you’re pushing the knife into the fruit, you feel a sudden warmth next to you.
Bucky. His shoulders are squared, eyes partially narrowed. “John.”
“Bucky,” the man — John — smiles easily in response to Bucky’s tight lip curl. “It’s been a while, man. How’s the farm?”
“Good.”
Curt. Terse. Very unlike Bucky who you’ve grown to understand is very talkative. “Good to hear,” John responds, voice light, “I see you’ve got yourself a pretty new helper. A famous one at that. Bet you’re the reason the stall’s doing extra well today, sweetheart.”
You open your mouth to respond but Bucky beats you to it. “She’s great. Why don’t you run along now? I’m sure there are other people you can pester today.”
“Pester? Now, am I being a bother to you, sweetheart?”
Yes, but you’re not going to give Bucky that satisfaction. Something about this man irks Bucky. Not a lot of things can get under his skin, which only piques your interest further. So you slap on a saccharine-sweet smile. “No, definitely not. He’s a customer, Bucky. Play nice. He’s buying a whole watermelon and two squashes today.”
“Am I?” A flicker of surprise crosses his eyes, fading into a humored sparkle.
“You are, sir.”
“Well, if the lady says so, then it must be true.”
You let out a giggle, one that you know will grate on Bucky’s nerves. The two of you continue to make light conversation as you offer John a sample and John seems to take his time nibbling on the slice while he looks you up and down. You don’t like his look, but you do like the color on Bucky’s face right now. The perfect shade of green that you’ve been waiting for.
Because of that, you can’t help yourself. You up the ante a little bit — giggling a little more, flicking your hair over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him. Throughout your entire conversation, you can practically hear Bucky’s blood rushing in his veins. Jealousy is a good look on him.
Still, he doesn’t say a thing — at least, not until John finally, finally walks away. You didn’t know how much longer you could’ve pretended to find him entertaining; stale jokes were never your foreplay of choice.
“He’s bad news, you know,” Bucky utters next to you.
You’re busy cutting up the last of the samples as you reply with a light, “Sometimes I like bad news.”
He frowns. “You can’t be serious. Him of all people?”
“If not him, then who?” You deadpan, turning to look at him.
Bucky’s mouth opens then promptly slams shut. He once again appears to want to say something but he’s holding back, biting his tongue. Coward.
“Hey, kids, I’m just going to check on Mr. Oliver over there. He’s been getting harassed by that developer I told you about, James. Start cleaning up, we should be good to head back soon.” Your grandma ducks out of the stall and disappears.
You raise an eyebrow at Bucky. “James?”
“My first name,” Bucky shrugs.
“James,” you repeat — then it clicks, “James the Jester! I remember now. Oh, you were such a crybaby.”
At that, a deep scarlet blush sprawls across his face, up to the tips of his ears. “I was not. You were just evil. Instead of princess, I used to call you the wicked witch of the west.”
You bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you did. Grandma told me you’d let me do whatever I wanted.”
“You were a spoiled princess after all.”
Ignoring that comment, you choose to ask, “What’s going on with Mr. Oliver?”
“Developers have been coming around these parts to try and turn it into something more modern. They’ve been offering hefty amounts to buy out property owners in the area. Talks about luxury apartments and a shopping mall.”
“Who in the world would pay for luxury apartments around here?” You crinkle your nose.
Bucky shrugs, his hat tipping forward. “Who knows? Guess they found a market for it.”
“That kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, the town’s been trying to fundraise to help support a lot of these small businesses to make sure they can stay afloat. Otherwise, they’ll get priced out and before you know it, everyone’s going to be gone.”
While the idea of a shopping mall does appeal to you, you hate the thought of losing this place. Neighbors who know each other by name. People who come from near and far, spanning generations and building relationships for years to come. All the lush greenery, soft sunlight filtering through the leaves, the crisp fresh air. The idea of all of that replaced by a concrete jungle is a nightmare.
“How much have y’all raised so far?”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Not a lot. It’s tough to get funds out here when folks barely make anything for themselves. We need some outside help but it’s not easy, not many care about a small place like this.”
But you do. You care. This is your home. No matter how many times you’ve avoided coming back, or how much you try to deny the past, this is where you came from. If you lose this place, who would you be?
“Why don’t we throw a fundraiser? I could do something. I don’t need to be the main attraction but I could help bring people out. We could sell tickets, do a little open mic night.”
“You’d do that?” His eyebrows practically jump to his hairline.
You give him a look. “You think that lowly of me?”
“No, not that I don’t think you’d do it,” Bucky quickly clarifies, “It’s just— it’s obviously a lot to ask when you’re trying to stay incognito here.”
“I just have to convince my dad.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dad!” You say at the same time your grandma scolds her eldest son with his full government name.
“I didn’t come here so you could be the center of attention,” he brushes off, “again.”
“This is different.”
“This is going to attract unwanted press.”
“This is the kind of press we want.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down with your grandma and Bucky standing on the sidelines, waiting for one of you to be the first to break.
“In all fairness, she is doing it for a good cause,” your grandma chimes in the hopes of alleviating your father’s wrath.
“Sounds to me like she’s trying to get back in the spotlight. What if the press says this is all pretense to clean up her act? What if it brings unneeded scrutiny to our small town?”
You let a heavy exhale escape. Your eyes fly to the ceiling only for the briefest of seconds before you redirect your gaze to your dad. “Honestly, they can say what they want. At this point, they’ll pick on anything I do. It doesn’t matter if I have good intentions — or even if I don’t do anything at all, they’re going to find something to be upset about. They’ll twist everything I do to fit their narrative because that’s what they do. It shouldn’t stop me from living my life — or supporting things that I care about.”
Three pairs of eyes land on you. You try not to squirm but the weight of their attention is enough to make you shift. You look at Bucky first — his eyes are soft, understanding almost. He saw firsthand what it’s like to be in the spotlight, chased after in the middle of the most menial activities. Friendship twisted into a scandal.
These people are vultures and, while there’s nothing you can ultimately do to stop them, you have control in the way you respond and behave. In this case, perhaps the only correct response is to stop caring.
Your life is yours and you need to stop listening to these assholes who think that they know you, who think that they can shape your reputation to the image of you they have in their heads.
Your father looks thoughtful, almost surprised by your words. He’s silent, mulling over it for a moment before he looks at you. He’s searching your eyes — for any doubt or uncertainty — but he finds none of it. Because you haven’t been this sure of anything in a long time.
“Alright, fine. We’ll make it a community event. We won’t use your name because we don’t need a frenzy; this may be a small town but you’re not a small name, darling. I don’t need to hire security for a fundraiser. However, we can sell tickets to a live stream that will ultimately go to supporting this town. Hopefully that helps alleviate the traffic.”
You’re throwing your arms around him before he even finishes his sentence. “Thank you! Thank you!”
He chuckles, “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. I’m expecting you to do a lot of the planning.”
“Wait, what?” You balk, jerking back.
“You proposed this so you need to see it through.”
A pout forms on your lips. “But—”
“I’ll help,” Bucky cuts in, mouth stretched into a proud grin. “You’re doing enough already. Just get yourself ready. I can help organize the live feed.”
“You can set up a livestream?” You ask, doubt creeping into your voice.
He smirks, “Such little faith. I know my way around technology. Trust me on this, princess.”
You’re not one to argue with him so you can only nod. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Things come together relatively quickly in the next couple of days. You spend most of your time figuring out how to make your extremely pop songs acoustic with minimal support from a local band. True to his word, Bucky does eventually set up the live stream and even does a little test to make sure it works.
“Smile.”
You force out a grin before it’s quickly wiped away from your face. “Are we good?”
“You’ve got something on your face. I think it’s the whipped cream from the waffles earlier.”
Your hand immediately flies to the corner of your mouth. Clearly it doesn’t work because then Bucky’s coming up to you. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your lips, swiping along the bottom. As if possessed, he sticks his thumb in his mouth and sucks it clean.
His eyes don’t leave you once.
Your heart slams against your ribs, core squeezing. You don’t get a chance to question him before he’s clearing his throat and pulling away with a quiet “got it.”
With all the marketing up, the event comes together fast. In a blink of an eye, you’re in this large backyard space with fairy lights strung across trees, tables for the buffet that your grandma has cooked up, and a makeshift stage where the band has set up. It’s beautiful and cozy. Perfect.
Instead of wearing one of your usual concert getups, the bedazzled bodysuits with matching rhinestoned boots, you opt for something more casual. A find from a thrift store and Bucky’s flannel layered over you; the latter isn’t by choice, he took one look at how much skin you were revealing and insisted you would be too chilly.
With your guitar propped up on your well-worn sneaker, you take a deep breath.
“Ready?” Your dad asks, bumping his shoulder against yours.
“Yeah. Of course. I do this all the time.”
The corner of his lips quirk up. “It’s alright to be nervous, you know.”
You worry your bottom lip, turning to look at him. “I’ve done this a billion times before. Why am I so worried?”
“Because it matters this time, because you care, and that’s a good thing,” he soothes, placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll be right there with you.”
“What if nobody else wants to perform? I’m only singing at the end. What if nobody participates?”
“Darling, you know your grandmother. She’d get up there and start the macarena if she has to get the party going.” A giggle rises from your chest. “You’ve got good people here and everyone’s here for a good cause.”
“If it’s dead silent, maybe I can get Bucky to get up there,” you snort softly, “he apparently had been my court jester in the past.”
Your dad lets out a tiny grunt. It’s one that most people won’t blink twice at, but you know him better than that.
“What’s with that sound?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. That’s the sound you make when the spare ribs don’t fall off the bone. So what gives?”
“I don’t like that boy.”
You shoot him a look. “You don’t like any boy.”
“That’s also true.”
“Grandma says he’s one of the good ones.”
It’s your dad’s turn to give you a look. “He’s a boy. There are no good ones.”
Your lips curl into a smirk. “I haven’t seen you go all protective in a while.”
“Well, none of them were serious before. This one — this one looks like the type who can break your heart.”
Both your glances wander over to Bucky who’s helping your grandma set up the food table. It’s still early enough that nobody’s filtered in but you expect a good showing. Tickets are basically close to selling out, the space will hopefully be at capacity. You’ve raised a good amount of money already and that doesn’t even include the massive success of the live stream sales.
But Bucky — heaven-sent Bucky. He really is a good one. In your world, that usually means that he is too good to be true. Someone always wants something. Whether it’s fame or fortune — or both, you’re merely a gateway to it. You’ve lost most of your trust in humanity since you started succeeding; your industry mentors tell you that’s how you know you’ve made it.
However, you’re not in your world right now. Not fully at least. So maybe you’re allowed to hold onto that tiny piece of hope that things may just work out with him.
“I know,” you murmur. “Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
Your dad wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m going to check on your grandma. Break a leg out there. You did good, kid. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” you smile softly up at him. “For trusting me this and… for bringing me back here.”
“Anytime, darling.”
Just as your dad said, the party comes into full swing in the next thiry minutes. There’s no shortage of people wanting to perform — anything from singing to dancing and even standup comedy (though this last one is a little bit questionable when you hear the awkward filtering of laughter through the crowd).
People hop onto the makeshift dance floor for the next performer. An upbeat number that has everyone twirling and shimmying all over. You glance at Bucky only to find that he’s already looking right back at you.
Ask me to dance, you idiot. You raise an eyebrow and Bucky only coughs and shifts his eyes away.
You roll your eyes. If he doesn’t do something soon, you may end up taking matters into your own hands.
“Now, what’s a pretty lady like you doing all alone here?” The familiar voice interrupts your irritation. John. He’s got that boyish smile on his face again. “Would you care to join me for a dance?”
You look to Bucky again, finding him already looking at the both of you with stone-cold eyes. Well, if he’s not going to do anything about this, then you might as well find another form of entertainment.
Sliding your hand over John’s outstretched one, you nod. “I’d be delighted.”
John’s a decent dancer. He spins you around, matches your rhythm, and still manages to make conversation throughout. He asks you about life in California, if you have anything exciting coming up soon. You give him noncommital answers about how you’re working on your next album.
“I sure hope you’d save me a backstage pass for your next tour.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you force out a smile.
On top of that, he’s too handsy for your taste. His grip starts safe on your hips before they drift a little too low like he’s trying to reach for your ass. You have to carefully navigate away from him every time he does that.
“Anything going on between you and Barnes?” John asks.
You look at Bucky again. His gaze has been burning a hole through your skull and probably John’s. As much as the two of you try to ignore it, it’s near impossible to not feel the weight of his impressively intense stare.
“No, nothing,” you answer honestly.
“He looks like he wants to cut off my head,” he chuckles.
“That’s just his normal face,” you brush off brusquely.
“If you say so.”
However, when this song ends, you feel another pair of hands on your waist that quickly manhandles you to land with an oof against a firm chest. You look up to find Bucky who’s now holding your hand and your waist for a spin around the floor. When you glance back at John, he looks none too pleased and stomps off in another direction.
“You don’t like to share your toys, do you?” You smirk.
“I don’t share, period,” he mutters.
“Then you should’ve claimed your prize from the start.”
Bucky’s brows meet in the middle. “You’re not… a prize,” he begins, “you’re more than that. I didn’t— I didn’t know how to even begin to approach you.”
“You had no problem berating the shit out of me when I fucked up the horse and chicken feed.”
His shoulders shake with laughter. “That’s different. That’s my area of expertise.”
“And this isn’t?”
His lips thin. “I’m not… experienced with all this.” He clears his throat, “Romance. Women.”
“You’re kidding,” you blurt out before you can stop it. He shakes his head. “You look like this and you’re telling me you don’t have experience with people?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you’re hot, Barnes.” Bucky jolts back in surprise. “Come on, that is not news to you. I’ve seen at least five girls come up to you in the time John and I danced.”
His fingers tighten on your waist. “They wanted me to introduce them to you.”
“That’s an excuse to approach you. They probably wanted a dance.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Bucky huffs, “How would you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do. You’re a catch, Bucky.”
“High compliment coming from you.”
You swat his chest playfully. “Playing humility when you are anything but isn’t a good look, Mr. Barnes.”
“I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have,” Bucky mumbles, hand squeezing yours.
“Yeah? How long has that been? Since we were kids?” You tease lightly, fully expecting him to scoff and call you ludicrious.
However, the sheepish look that settles on his face has you gaping.
Before you can question it further, your dad is announcing your performance next. Bucky nudges you towards the front with a small smile. “Go get ‘em, princess.”
It’s a bit of a blur of you getting up there and preparing yourself for your first performance in a while. It’s one thing to be on a stage with hundreds of thousands silhouettes watching you, it’s another to be able to see every single face in the crowd waiting for you with bated breath.
Your fingers circle the neck of your guitar, fingertips pressed firm against the strings. The steel bites into your skin but your focus is really only on the people before you.
“Hi, everyone. I just wanted to say a very big thank you again for coming out tonight. I hope everyone’s havin’ a good time!” The crowd explodes in cheers and applause. “We’re all here because we love this town and I’m happy that I have the opportunity to contribute to saving it. There’s no other place like home. A big shoutout to all the viewers watching from the comfort of their houses as well, we couldn’t have done it without you. Without further ado, I hope you all enjoy this last segment of the evening.”
The rapid beating inside your chest is a drum against your ribs. Your eyes trawl over the crowd, over strangers’ faces and familiar ones. Your dad who shoots you a proud grin, your grandma who’s waving her fist in encouragement, and Bucky — Bucky who smiles soft and nods at you.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of motions. Once you finish your set, you’re greeted by a round of congratulations when you step off stage. Your hand hasn’t cramped from signing autographs in a bit but you relish in the attention. Whenever you look up, you catch Bucky watching from the sidelines.
I’ve only got eyes for one. Always have.
The echo of his words have your ears burning.
By the time you finally make it back to him, the crowd has thinned, with only a smattering of close friends and family still chattering over food.
“Sometimes I forget how good you are live,” Bucky says, a tinge of awe in his voice.
“Please, when was the last time you heard me live?”
His teeth catches his bottom lip for a second before he clears his throat. “Your Nashville show last year.”
You can hear your jaw land on the floor. “You went?” He shrugs. “Why didn’t you tell me? I invited grandma but she couldn’t make it out.”
“You didn’t know me, princess,” Bucky chuckles.
Well, he’s not entirely strong. But still. “Grandma could’ve told me. You shouldn’t have to pay.”
“Why not? I’m supporting a good cause, aren’t I?”
You exhale a laugh. “So I’m a charity case now?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny—” Your punch on his arm gets you a laugh, it probably felt like a tingle. “I didn’t want to be one of those people who pulled that card. We haven’t spoken in years and I would’ve gone anyway even without the free ticket.”
Bucky needs to stop giving your heart reasons to shift towards him. You haven’t been in love in a very long time, and you’re not sure you’re ready for it yet — especially not with a man as good as him, one you cannot bring into your world.
“Plus, I was talking Madeline. Her mom’s our foreman.”
“Playing chaperone, cute,” you murmur. “Next time, just shoot me a text. You have my number. My dad or someone else can arrange something.”
“Noted, appreciated.”
You wring your fingers behind your back, hiding evidence of your nerves. “So, I sound good? I’m not sure how the music would play out without the usual production, acoustic felt more fitting here—”
“It was great, seriously. I was reading the comments from the stream and everybody loved it. A lot of them seemed to have been fans for a while and they were happy to see you perform like this again.”
It reminds you of the smaller gigs you used to play — coffee shops and dive bars before you were promoted to opening for bigger artists and then going into your own sold-out world tour. Part of what you were missing in your work is that connection with the fans, doing more intimate engagement for your more loyal listeners.
“Yeah, I think it would be fun to do something like this once in a while,” you smile.
“Well, if you need a tech guy, you know where to find me.”
You roll your eyes but your lips twitch into an amused smile. “Come on, let’s go help my grandma clean up.”
“Hey,” Bucky catches your hand just as you turn, drawing your attention back to him. You cock an eyebrow in question. He scratches his cheek, looking almost… nervous? “Are you doing anything tomorrow? I thought we could go for a ride. A picnic maybe.”
“We’ve done that before,” you say slowly, puzzled, “but I’m down.”
“Okay, yeah, sounds good.”
That’s when it hits you. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to ask me out on a date?” The laugh that slips past your lips has Bucky tinting red as he swallows and pulls away from you. You realize then that he may think you’re poking fun at him. “Wait, no, don’t do that. I wasn’t— I wasn’t teasing you, promise. I think it’s cute.”
Bucky’s mouth twists a little. If you didn’t know him so well, you wouldn’t have known that he was sulking. It’s such a tiny reaction that you could miss it if you blinked.
“Bucky, come on. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, I know.” Does he? “I know I’m probably not as… I don’t know, cool as all the guys you’ve dated before but—”
You take his hand in yours and squeeze. “No, that’s not it at all. I’ve just— I’ve been waiting for a bit for you to make your move. Even now, you’re still beating around the bush. Just ask me out, Buck.”
He chuckles, ears still red. “Alright, will you go on a date with me?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” you grin, “now, was that so hard?”
“Might be harder than getting back on a horse after a decade.”
You gasp, “That’s uncalled for.” He beams sweetly right back at you, turning your hands so that he’s holding yours now. It’s your turn to warm to the tips of your toes. “Okay, let’s go help grandma, casanova.”
The ride shouldn’t be any different. You’ve done this route a million times before. You’ve done this ride and this picnic thing with Bucky before. You shouldn’t feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest any second now. Maybe it’s time to summon your on-call doctor to make sure it’s not a seizure.
“You’re fine, you’re just nervous,” Yelena says from your laptop. “I think you should go for the lace top, it makes your tits look great.”
You pick up the flimsy piece of fabric. “I’m not nervous. I don’t get nervous for dates. I definitely do not get nervous for a man.”
As you tug the shirt over your head, Yelena laughs, “Nobody knows that I’m getting a strip tease from a five-time Grammy winner.”
Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you shrug on the top. “I’m serious, Yelena. This isn’t cool. I’m not being cool.”
“No, you’re being a girl with a crush.”
“I’m this nation’s favorite pop performer. I don’t get crushes.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been there a little over a week and I’ve never seen you smile this much.” That explains why your cheeks are aching. “Face it, you’re head over heels for this man.”
You rub your face furiously. “God, this is so uncool. What if he’s making me uncool?”
“Then you guys can be uncool together.”
“That’s not an option,” you grumble, “what do you think?” You do a few turns in front of the floor-length mirror.
“Perfect. They grow up so fast,” Yelena mocks a tear.
“You’re a terrible friend.”
“I’m the bestest friend. Seriously though, you deserve to have a bit of fun. I think he’s good for you.”
“You’ve never met him.”
She gives you a look, one that is both chiding and soft. “But I know you and you haven’t been like this in a long time.”
Instead of acknowleding her words and potentially the gravity of your feelings, you instead choose to tease her. “Since when are you such a lovergirl?”
“Since I realized it makes you less of an asshole.”
“Rude.”
“You love me.”
“I do,” you grin.
“Have fun, kiddo.”
You’ve heard Bucky hustling and bustling outside since this morning. You, on the other hand, take your sweet time getting ready. Makeup light and pristine, nothing that would smudge even if you dunked your head underwater. Not a hair out of place. You’ve tested a few perfumes and there’s one that Bucky always leans towards so you spray a little on your neck and your wrists.
By the time you come downstairs ten minutes before the time he promised, you find him in the kitchen cooking with your grandma. Your dad is giving him dirty looks from the dining table.
“Morning, sunshine,” your grandma smiles, “don’t you look lovely today?”
“You’re saying I don’t look lovely everyday?”
“You have your days,” she jests with a pat on your cheek.
Bucky slides up next to you next, an appropriate amount of distance in front of your family. “Morning,” he murmurs, “you look beautiful.”
“I know,” you try to play it off but your heart feels just about ready to combust. “You ready?”
“Packed and ready to roll.”
You roll your eyes but can’t bite down on your smile in time. “You’re so lame.”
He only chuckles.
“I don’t need to give you the talk, do I?” Your dad chimes in next, glare darting between the two of you, before landing solidly on Bucky. “No funny business. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Curfew is at—”
“Oh my god, Dad!” You snap with your own scowl at him. “We’re not kids. We’ll be back whenever we’re back.”
“Still living under my roof, darling.”
“Technically my roof,” your grandma chirps and gives her son a scalding look. She turns to the two of you with a gentle smile. “Take your time. Have fun. Be safe.”
“But—”
Your dad’s full government name rolls off her tongue again and he immediately clamps his mouth shut. You’re pushing Bucky out of there before he can interrupt again.
“I’m so sorry,” you grouse, “he’s so overprotective sometimes.”
“He means well. I can see why he would be,” Bucky says as he leads you towards your horses.
“He’s overbearing is what he is,” you mutter as you hop on your horse. He makes sure that you’re settled safely before he climbs on his own horse.
The both of you set out on your usual route, your horses galloping deep into the woods as far as they can go. You take it all in — the fresh hair, the abundance of nature, the untouched beauty. It’s hard to imagine that you’ve been privileged enough to experience this life for the past week, let alone remember how this had been your life growing up. It’s even harder to imagine losing all of this. The nature in your gated apartment complex doesn’t feel natural. It feels necessary.
Out here, it just… exists.
Sometimes, you miss that — simply existing. If anything, this trip has become a reminder for you to come home more often and visit your grandma — and now, Bucky.
“You seem deep in thought.” Speak of the devil, he’s unpacking the lunch he’s tucked into his backpack. A selection of sandwiches in ziploc bags, fruits perfectly sliced and peeled, and pastries to top it all off. The food is simple but delicious and you can tell a lot of care has been placed into the prep — crusts off the bread, lightly toasted, fruits fresh and ripe, and pastries sweet.
Your stylist is going to tear you a new one when she realizes you no longer fit into your usual sizing. However, right here, right now, you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Thinking about how nice it is out here,” you sigh, gaze wandering to the world around you.
The two of you are perched on a rock at the base of a waterfall after a casual stride on your horses and a quick hike down to the stream. The symphony of water pouring down from the cliff mixed in with the sounds of birds singing in the distance and the rush of a coursing river — all of this brings you some semblance of peace. It reminds you of the quiet, the isolation. Things you could never have in the big, urban city you now call home.
Bucky laughs. “It’s always going to be here, you know. You just need to come back more often.”
“My schedule is crazy enough as is,” you stomp down on the urge to whinge like a child, “I’d love to pre-book my vacations but when opportunities come up, I have to prioritize that. I have to stay relevant. Things change so much in this day and age. In a blink of an eye and I could be rendered a has-been.”
“Have faith in your most loyal fans, you have plenty of those.”
Your eyes track the movement of the clouds above as they trail across the bright blue sky. “Maybe,” you sigh, “I’m just tired.”
Bucky tucks in close next to you, bumping your shoulder with his as he plucks a grape from the vine for you. You take it gratefully and pop it into your mouth, the sweetness bursting on your tongue.
“Maybe, what you need is to cool off.” You frown at him. He nods his head towards the waterfall. “There’s an old rope some kids put up a while back.” He points in the direction of the trees. “The water’s deep enough to break the fall.”
Aghast, you make your dismay very, very clear. “You want me to jump in there? Wearing this?”
“Unless you prefer to strip down, which I think only one of us would mind.”
Your fist lands a punch on his bicep. “Perv,” you mutter.
“Live a little,” he encourages as he jumps to his feet. He begins the short trek up the stairs, towards a small landing where a thick chord of rope hangs from a tree. His fingers curl around it tight, then he’s launching himself off and crashing straight into the water.
Your heart jerks in your chest as you peer over the rock into the water, waiting for him to surface. Bucky comes up for air with a huge splash, grinning as he slicks his hair back with his hand.
“The water’s fantastic.”
“You’re insane,” you deadpan. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”
“Man, here I thought you were finally free of the stick up your ass—” you gasp, he laughs, “—but I guess I was wrong.”
“I do not have a stick up my ass. Sue me for not wanting to get soaking wet in a Prada top.”
Bucky leans back, hands reaching up to wipe the water from his face again. It’s then you notice his t-shirt clinging onto his arms — like second skin that does nothing to mask the thick muscles that could probably lift you with a finger. “You can always buy more Prada. You can’t buy another day like today.”
“Think I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, princess. I didn’t know you forgot how to have fun. You used to be the one who took me out here, would be the first one to jump in too before you dragged me in with you.”
That ticks you off. Your jaw clenches and you finally rise to your feet. Screw him for thinking you’d ruin your perfectly nice outfit for this. Your fingers catch the hem of your shirt before you’re tugging it over your head, then you shimmy out of your shorts.
“Wait, you’re really—”
“What? Never seen a girl in her underwear before?” You smirk, climbing up to where he stood only moments ago. Bucky looks even redder in contrast against the pool of blue.
You look at the rope and take a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You can do this. It’s just a swing and a jump. After that, you black out and by the time you come to, you’re already soaked from head to toe, coming up for air with a gasp as the water laps cool against your skin. You still hear the echo of your scream before you crashed into the pool.
“Shit, it’s freezing. You didn’t warn me.”
Bucky chuckles as he swims closer towards you. “Doesn’t it feel nice?”
“Feels like I’m about to catch a cold.”
The two of you splash around for a little while, Bucky even coming out only to jump back in and drench you in another wave. Your screech echoes in the quiet of the forest, muffled only by the waterfall behind you.
He looks at you when he comes up, grinning as he approaches you. His hand reaches up to drag the wet strands of your hair away from your face, fingertips brushing your cheek. His touch is cool but your entire body feels like it’s been set on fire.
You’re well aware of how little you’re wearing, even more so when the thin fabric sticks to your wet skin. Your nipples are stiff in the chill, pushing against the material, and you can feel your panties squeezing between your cheeks.
Your arms wrap around yourself, partly because of the cold, but mostly because Bucky’s watching you a little too closely. His eyes travel down your neck where strands of your hair are clinging to your skin, to your collarbones, down to the valley of your breasts that peek up from above the water.
You see his throat move as he swallows. Blue finds you. The color a shade or two darker as he assesses you, drinks the sight of you in. Instead of addressing it, he begins to move towards the surface where he manages to stand, water kissing his calves. You follow after him slowly.
He turns around then, looking at you when you come close enough. There’s a depth to his gaze that you can’t read, but you’re almost too scared to ask.
“What?” You try to play off.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. Gentle. Honest.
“You’re just saying that because I’m practically naked,” you taunt, fully aware of how much you’re showing now that you’re out of the water.
“I’m saying that because you look incredibly tempting right now and I think I’ll have a hard time keeping my hands off you. For both our sakes, I recommend that you put on some clothes right now.”
Your breath catches, snagging in your lungs. The words that depart your lips are one born from days of frustration and longing. An honest, desperate question. “What makes you think you have to?”
Bucky inhales sharp, deep. “Do you know what you’re saying right now, princess?”
“I am,” you respond calmly, though your voice wavers.
He takes a step closer and suddenly you’re backing up against a large boulder, the cold surface kissing the swell of your ass.
His hand stretches out. His touch ghosts over your skin, hand trailing lightly over your hip where the hem of your panties rests, traveling up to your waist, right beneath the wiring of your bra, fingertips brushing over your exposed torso. Your breath hitches in your throat, chest rising as your lungs expand. Bucky’s blue eyes, warm where they’re focused on how his large palm moves over your stomach, flicks up to meet yours.
“This okay?” He whispers.
You only manage a nod.
“You’re gorgeous, princess.”
The pet name crawls up your spine and grips your lungs. You’re too busy looking at how Bucky’s lips look, the way they part, and his eyes, pupils blowing up to swallow the blue, to notice how his hand is slowly creeping up your bare stomach. His hand leaves a trail of fire where it crawls up to your chest, burning through your skin when he cups you gently.
He lets out a garbled sound. “Fuck, you’re so soft.”
“Generally how tits are, Barnes,” you try to tease.
A flush sprawls across his neck. “You’re such a brat. I should really shut you up.”
“Why don’t you try?”
Bucky doesn’t hesitate before he seals his lips over yours, drinking in the surprised little gasp you let out. He gulps down your whimper as you arch your back into his touch. His touch grows bolder, stronger, as he squeezes your breast over the fabric. His hand wanders to the space between the rock and your back, fingers deft as they quickly work to unbutton your bra.
“I don’t like how you did that so quickly,” you mumble against his lips. “Have you been practicing with other girls?”
“Just good with my fingers,” he chuckles.
“Good answer,” you grin.
He slides the material off your body, leaving you open for the taking. A low growl rises up his throat as he gropes your breasts harder, fingers finding your nipples, and relishes in the small moans you make. He takes his time with it, kneading your tits to the shape of his hand, kissing you warm and slow — all the while heat accumulates between your legs and you’re reduced into a quivering puddle in his hands.
But he doesn’t let you slip; he presses you back against the stone, his touch cool and warm, a chemical reaction against your skin. He distracts you from the chill, moving his mouth languidly against yours. God, kissing him feels like the first touch of summer after a long winter. He tastes like the icing on the cake he brought, sweetness that melts on your tongue. His hand — a working man’s hands — are rough where his palms are calloused, creating delicious friction with the way it rubs up against your delicate skin.
“Bucky, come on,” you whine.
“Patience,” he only says as his lips trail to the corner of your lips to imprint kisses that leave you wanting more. Much, much more.
“Move it along, Barnes, or I’m gonna have to find someone to do the job for you.”
Bucky pulls back abruptly, your stomach sinks. His eyes are dark as they look at you, lips set into a firm, irritated line. “You’ve really got such a mouth on you,” he snarls, “been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess. You keep running your mouth, just waiting for someone to tell you to behave.”
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t like that this much. But you do. And Bucky knows you do.
His lips curl into a smirk. “Is that it? You need someone to teach you some manners again?” Bucky’s nose brushes over the pulse in your neck, feeling it stutter beneath him. “I can do that for you — all you have to do is listen.”
An expletive slips past your lips and Bucky brushes his lips over yours again, teeth nipping on your bottom lip.
“Language, princess.”
A whimper climbs out your throat. “I want you.”
“I know you do,” he says, voice gliding over your skin like silk, “but you need to be patient. Can you be a good girl for me? Can you listen to me?”
You nod, your entire vocabulary flaking into ashes as he smooths his palm back down your body. You don’t register when he slides it over your hip, you barely register his hand cupping the warmth of your pussy, your ass raising to give him access. It’s only when his index finger traces the line on your panties where the fabric sinks into you does your gasp wake you from your stupor.
“I can tell you’re so wet already,” he whispers, disbelief clinging to his syllables, “is this all for me?” Your breathing stammers an uneven staccato in your chest. “Tell me it’s for me.”
“‘S for you,” you choke out.
“Good girl,” he breathes out, “shit, you’re so wet. I can feel you through this lace.”
Your hands instinctively fly to cover yourself up as much as you can, cheeks flaming and it’s not from the heat.
“Gettin’ shy on me?”
“What if someone sees?” You hiss, but the sound melts into a whimper when Bucky starts to trail his finger up and down your slit over the mesh that barely hides you.
“Nobody comes out this way. Just you and me, princess.”
Your protest dies when Bucky tugs your panties to the side, sliding his finger along your slick folds, brushing over your clit until your voice splits into a long groan. He peppers your face with kisses, enough to sear a mark onto your skin that you’ll feel for weeks. All the while, his fingers tease you open slowly, coaxing moans from your lips as he dips his fingers in only to leave you in the cold. He repeats the movement over and over until you’re squirming, your fingers catching his wrist to keep him going.
“Come on, Buck.”
“What is it?” He feigns confusion.
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
Through gritted teeth, you manage to say, “Properly. Touch me like a man, you fucking coward.”
“I need to teach this mouth of yours some manners. Need you to ask me one more time.” Your lips stubbornly sew shut. “Come on, you can do it,” he coos.
It’s patronizing. It’s demeaning. You shouldn’t let him speak to you this way. You are a five-time Grammy winner, the nation’s favorite pop star, you don’t need a man to—
“I’ll finger you open properly if you ask me nicely. I’ll make sure you’re good and ready for my cock. I promise.”
Fuck. Your mouth moves before your brain can catch up. “Please.” The plea escapes you. “Please finger me, Bucky.”
“That’s a good girl,” he beams, “that’s my girl.”
Your insides positively melt. My girl. It shouldn’t be so easy to get to you. You’ve had your fair share of men who know what sweet nothings to whisper in your ear, so you shouldn’t be fazed by such a simple phrase.
But it’s different — because this is Bucky and the thing about Bucky is that he always means it.
When he calls you his girl, that means you’re his, and that’s that.
Your thighs fall apart as his finger finally pushes in, thick and intrusive to spark the fire in your core. He curls it inside of you, brushing up against your walls and you’re curling into him. He kisses you again, taking in the gasp that bubbles up your throat.
“My pretty girl,” he murmurs sweetly, “look at you. So easy for me when you’ve got something in this pussy of yours.”
The fuck you stops cold on your tongue when Bucky adds another finger in, stretching you out with a delicious burn that has you spilling needy little noises into his mouth.
“Such a good girl when you’re filled up. Who knew I could stop you from acting like such a brat just by stretching this gorgeous cunt open? I should’ve done this that first day. Should’ve made you spread your legs for me if you wanted my help.”
His name forms on your tongue, like his fingers are forcing you to say it out loud. To beg him.
“I can’t wait to have you wrapped around my cock. Bet you’d feel so tight, fit around me like a glove. I know you’ve had others before me, but I promise you none of them can make you feel as good as me. None of them will worship you the same way I will.”
“God, Bucky, please.”
“I know, I know,” he utters tenderly, “I’m here, princess. I’ll take good care of you. Tell me what you want.” His fingers spread inside of you, urging you to open up real good for him. “I need you to use your words for me.”
“You know what I want,” you whine, fingers clawing at his chest.
“I know, but we talked about this. I need you to be good for me and ask me nicely.”
Your eyes burn with embarrassment, chest blazing with the warmth of a thousand suns. “Bucky, please. I need you.”
He cocks an eyebrow as he fingers you open again, pumping his fingers in and out of you as he teases you with a third. His thumb finds your clit, finds the surprised, wanton-filled sound from your chest. He rubs you slowly, gentle as he once again asks you to pose your request.
“I want your cock. Please. Please,” you whine, “I want you to fuck me open.”
Bucky lets out a guttural moan as he covers your lips with his again, kissing you senseless, stealing every single breath from your lungs until you’re gasping for air as he finger-fucks you open. You’re soaking him, you can feel yourself leaking all over. You’d be more ashamed if you weren’t so caught up in the delirium of pleasure.
“Attagirl,” Bucky chuckles, kissing the top of your head. He moves fast — fingers ripping off your panties so you’re exposed to him. You don’t get the chance to complain about losing a very nice pair of underwear, not when he takes a second here, admiring the way your pussy glistens in the sunlight. You’re suddenly shy, hands moving to shield yourself again, but he moves faster, gripping them and pinning them down above your head. “Don’t hide from me. You look sweet like this. So vulnerable.”
He uses one hand to pin both of yours above your head, all the while he’s nudging your legs to open up further with his knee. Bucky looks bigger from your vantage point, height towering over you, blocking the sun until your line of sight is completely consumed by him. You hear hiz zipper being undone, but your focus is entirely on him.
“I’ve got a condom,” Bucky exhales, tugging at the seams of your consciousness and rational thought. “In the bag.”
“You brought a condom? Were you expecting this to happen?”
“Expect, no. Hope? Always,” he offers a wry smile.
“Fuck a lot of girls in the woods, Barnes?”
Bucky stifles a laugh. “No, just the one,” he smiles, “just you.” For a second, the two of you simply stand with each other, stewing in the tension that hangs heavy in the air between you. “I should go get it first,” he says, making his move to pull away.
You aren’t sure what possesses you but then you find yourself grabbing him by the soaked collar of his shirt. He halts, eyes wide. “I’m clean,” you mumble, “I don’t want to wait.”
“Princess,” Bucky says slowly.
“Please, Buck.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’m clean, I promise you, I got tested after—”
“That’s not my concern,” he interrupts cautiously, “I’m asking if you’re sure about this. With me.”
You give a small nod. “I trust you.”
“Shit,” he hisses, “can’t say things like that and expect me not to fuck you stupid, princess.”
“Again, what makes you think you can’t?”
Bucky lets out a low roar that fuels the heat coiling tight inside your belly. Your eyes finally drift down to his cock in his hand and, like you’ve been unknowingly trained, you begin to salivate. Your mouth waters at the sight of the thick length, tip red and leaking. It twitches with need, moving towards you like it’s drawn.
He’s big. Bigger than anyone you’ve had before.
“I—” you start only for the words to choke out. Bucky raises a questioning brow.
“Did you change your mind? We can stop right now. Say the word.”
“No, that’s not it— I’m just—” you look at it for a heartbeat then two. “You’re really big,” you blurt out. “I don’t know if I can fit you.”
His lips twitch up into a smile, a mix of cocky confidence and amusement. “I’ll ease into you, princess. Promise it won’t hurt,” he says then pauses, “it might hurt a bit but you let me know if it gets too much, yeah?”
Your own giggle fizzles out when Bucky props up one of your legs, closing in on you with your folded thigh against his chest, and notches the head in your entrance. It’s a bit of a stretch, you can feel a slight sting, but your greedy pussy has other ideas. It opens up to him with the second nudge in, caving under the pressure much too quickly. You hate to admit how good he feels.
For a man who claims to have limited experience, Bucky seems to know exactly what to do. A vein on his forehead pulses as he slowly inches himself inside you, sweat beading his skin. His neck strains as he slowly sinks himself inside you, fucking up to bury himself deep inside your aching pussy.
A desperate whimper climbs out your throat. His name on your lips.
Bucky throws his head back, breathing in harshly through his nose. “You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to cum right now,” he rasps.
And because you can’t help yourslef, you do. You say his name again in a needy little cry that has him lifting you up with a growl, your legs wrapping around his torso as he shoves himself all the way inside you.
You’ve never felt so full before, inner thighs burning with his cock inflating inside you. His length stretches you open as he presses you back against the rock, leaning you back so he can properly fuck into you with deep, intentional thrusts.
“Look at this pretty pussy spread open for me,” Bucky groans, “you’re fuckin’ perfect. I’m gonna feed her my cock, gonna make sure she’s full.” His fingers bury in the flesh of your thighs as he drives himself deep inside you.
His other hand wanders to your neck, squeezing around the outside just enough to have your mind dizzy. His eyes search yours, vision glazed over as the pleasure slips through every crevice of your brain. Once he confirms that you’re okay, he tightens his grip enough to limit the airflow into your lungs, your breath hitching in your chest as he does so.
Bucky’s name leaves your lips in a hoarse whisper and he groans when he feels your core tighten around him. “My perfect girl, squeezing my cock like you’re tryin’ to milk me. You feel like you haven’t been touched in so long, princess. Was this all you needed to stop acting like a brat? If only people knew that the only way to get you to behave was to put a cock inside this pretty little cunt.”
He reaches down between your legs and circles your clit until your moans pierce through the waterfall raining down behind you. You say his name over and over again, like a prayer. Like a plea. Your entire body shakes every time he thrusts deep inside you. Your heart stutters in your chest when you hear an unknown sound, your eyes flying to see if anyone’s witnessing the debauchery occurring out in the open.
“Shit, princess, look at you,” he hisses when he looks down where the two of you are joined, “you’re creamin’ all over my cock. Soakin’ my cock so easy.”
“Bucky, please,” you manage to rasp, chest tight as the burning between your legs intensifies.
You can feel it. It’s been a while, but it also has never been like this. A mind-numbing concoction of breathtaking pain and pleasure. Bucky’s cock opens you up, your folds swallowing him in like you’re desperate for more, like you need to fit as much of him in as possible.
The tip brushes up against the deepest parts of you and yet somehow it’s not nearly enough. Bucky mutters about how tight your pussy feels, how there’s no way anyone has been in here before.
“Not with how your cunt is choking me, princess,” he groans, fingers sinking deeper into your hip now. “She’s so sweet for me, practically sucking me in. I can’t wait to cum inside you.”
That has your panic flaring again, only for a second because then your stomach twists with the desire for exactly that — to be filled to the brim with him.
“I’ve never—” you gasp, “I’ve never let anyone cum inside me.”
Bucky chuckles softly, leaning forward to kiss you again. It’s hypnotic how easily he has you putty in his hands. “Won’t you let me be the first?”
Your heart beats a little faster. You’ve never been good at saying no to him. Especially not when you want him as much as he does you.
“Yes,” you whimper, “please, cum inside me.”
Another deep groan resonates from his belly. “You’re going to be the death of me, princess. Spoilin’ me rotten like this, you’re gonna get me used to cummin’ inside this gorgeous cunt. I’m gonna have to be inside you everyday, never be able to sate myself unless my cock’s buried in this pussy.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I can’t—” oxygen is punched out of your lungs with every thrust, “I can’t hold it— I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, princess. Cum around my cock, need to feel you pulse around me,” Bucky groans.
Like the obedient girl that you are, you do. The orgasm wracks through your entire being, zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back lifts off the stone as you gasp, straight into Bucky’s touch. He buries his face into your neck as his body shudders, spilling liquid heat into you.
The stickiness clings to your skin but the waterfall is cooling on your skin as you come down from your high. Bucky slumps on top of you, wet t-shirt between the two of you. You giggle breathlessly against his skin and feel him shake with laughter against you too, all the while his cock is still buried deep inside you. Twitching.
“You’re a bad influence,” you mutter, smiling.
“You’re one to talk, practically jumped me first chance you got,” Bucky chuckles and you hit him with a solid smack to his arm. “Let’s get out of here before you catch a cold.”
He pulls out of you slowly and you can feel his cum trickling down your leg. It stirs warmth inside of you again and, before you could think about quashing how good it feels, you watch as he moves towards the rocks to push himself up and out.
It certainly doesn’t help your still overeager libido to see how his back muscles move, traps flexing, as he lifts himself out before he turns to extend a hand to you. You take it and he looks away as you climb out of the water. He hands you his dry button-up, once again without looking back at you.
“Figured this would be warmer,” he clarifies.
“Thanks,” you mumble and slip your goosebump-riddled arms through the sleeves. The fabric is quick to absorb the water and your fingers make quick work to scrunch up and squeeze out water from your hair. Your hard work, down the drain.
Well, down to the bottom of the pool at least.
“Are you okay? Was I too—”
“Stop,” you wave a hand to halt him, “I’m fine. I’m not made of glass.”
He murmurs an okay but still looks at you with that look in his face. For a moment, you think it’s some form of sympathy, but you quickly realize that it’s awe. He’s looking at you with the kind of adoration that has your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
As fast as that feeling came, the one that follows is from your years of experience: fear. Trust is a fickle mistress in this industry. The last time you slept with someone, you ended up on the front pages of every entertainment site on the planet. Who’s to say this isn’t the same? It’s a quick money grab. Who doesn’t want another scandal with one of the most famous celebrities on the planet? Though, the payout is probably less now that you’ve already had one of these—
“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” Bucky’s hand is warm as it takes yours. His hair is still dripping, droplets landing on the blanket and your thigh as he leans closer. You open your mouth to deny his question, but he’s already shaking his head. “I can tell something’s goin’ on, princess. Tell me so I can fix it.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes. It’s a sweet thought. “It’s a personal thing, don’t worry,” you insist, but he’s not letting you go. His hand squeezing. Your teeth catch your bottom lip before you relent. “Trust. It’s not an easy thing when you’re in the spotlight. I’m tired of constantly second guessing people’s intentions, why they do what they do with me. I’m scared of being the subject of another public issue — mostly because it creates a massive headache for my team, including my dad. I just— I hate that I’m putting those around me in an uncomfortable position of having to defend my actions, even if I’m fully aware some of them are completely defensible, but the general public always has to have a witch on the stands right? It’s just the way the world works. Regardless of whether you’re a real villain or not, you’re put at the stake and subjected to the constant judgment.”
Bucky stiffens, lips tightening. He holds your hands closer to him. “You are not responsible for these shitty people and their behavior. None of this is your fault. You’re living your life, you’re defending yourself. You should never apologize for any of that,” he adds sternly. His hand trembles and his jaw stiffens. The fury rolls off him in waves and your heart liquifies at the sight. “Need you to know that you got a lot of people here — and out there — who love you and will protect you. We don’t give a shit what they say because we know you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“So as long as you have us around, we won’t let anything happen to you. It’s not because we have to, but because we want to.” Your throat closes and the salt in your tears prick your eyes. Bucky throws an arm around you, pulling you close to kiss the top of your head. “We got you, princess.”
You would think that your unmeasurable need and curiosity would be satisfied from that one time with Bucky Barnes. You’ve never been more wrong. If anything, your desire for him has only grown — you can’t help how distracted you are by his hands, remembering how they feel on your hips, or his eyes that are icy when he’s irritated but thaw when they turn to you, or his cock—
“Are you okay?” Bucky asks, drawing you out of your own thoughts.
It is then you realize that you’ve been staring at his lap for far too long to be subtle. His question isn’t innocent. It’s a prompt. An invitation. Safe to say, when you find yourself with your back pressed against the barn walls and Bucky bullying his cock into you as he muffles his moans into your neck, fingers sinking into your ass firm enough to bruise, you accepted that invitation.
Then you stare at his fingers a little too long when the two of you are at the bar for a night out with a few of his friends (who knew that this man even had friends?) and he takes you out the back door and presses his fingers inside you until you’re gasping for air, legs clenching together as he curls them in and whispers how you’re so fuckin’ wet out here in the open where anyone can walk out and see America’s favorite princess getting finger-fucked in an alleyway.
And then again in your childhood bedroom with your creaky bed when your grandma and dad were out. And one more time by the waterfall, this time with your tits pressed against the rocks. And finally in his truck when the two of you don’t quite make it to the drive-in theater he promised.
For once, you’re not thinking too far into the future. Bucky keeps you grounded in the moment. Between the times he spends kissing you, you manage to also get some writing done. Affection bleeding into your melody and lyrics as you pluck the strings to your guitar. Once, Bucky hears you playing a new one in the morning and tells you that that one’s going to be his new favorite song. He tells you that it sounds honest, more… you.
He doesn’t know that it’s inspired by him.
In your last few days, you refuse to worry too much about what this all means once you leave. For all you know, this is an easy, temporary thing for Bucky. You’re a blip, a shooting star that’ll fizzle out the moment you leave.
The thought hurts more than you expect.
However, you at least wake up feeling rejuvenated. Maybe the world hasn’t completely destroyed every piece of you, maybe you can still find her somewhere inside of you. Your phone blares with a shrill noise and you are roused in irritation for the first time in a while.
“What?”
“Lovely way to greet your friend slash fierce protector,” Yelena snaps. You grumble about how early it is and how on earth are you awake right now. She hesitates briefly, which has you peeking an eye open from where your face is mushed against your pillow. “Have you checked your notifications?”
That’s never a good sign.
You push yourself up and lean against your headboard, thumb immediately scrolling through the barrage of messages and news alerts on your screen. Your blood runs cold. The last time this happened—
“I’m sure it’s different,” Yelena chimes in first but your eyes are scanning through every word.
Your name. Bucky’s. Evidence. Sources close to the pair. Another sex scandal. Pictures and pictures and more pictures. Every single news outlet has published grainy pictures of the two of you, photos that look like they’ve been taken from behind bushes and trees. An absolute obliteration of your privacy.
Shame settles firmly in your gut. This is exactly why your dad brought you here — and yet here you are again. Fuck.
“I need to—” your breath catches in your throat. What do you need to do? What can you even do? The damage is done. It’s more red on your ledger and you’re running out of ways to wipe your slate clean.
“Listen,” she interrupts softly, “I don’t want to add more to your plate but I talked to one of the reporters. They were apologetic but they had to report it. It seems like it came from someone who knows what you’ve been up to very well.”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows what I’ve been doing,” you hiss, “better yet, who I’ve been doing. I just didn’t think anyone would sell me out after the shit I did.”
“You don’t think there’s a chance it could be— no, it couldn’t possibly.” She’s quiet, waiting for you to deny it, but the thickness in your throat doesn’t allow you to. “Right?”
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I’ve known him two weeks, Yelena. Maybe more if you count the memories I can barely remember but—”
What if this was his plan all along? All those years of tormenting him. All the shitty things you’ve said to him. You acting up—
Been wantin’ to put you in your place, princess.
You shake your head. There’s absolutely no way. He said it in the moment, a comment meant to stir heat between your legs.
But the voice inside your head, the one that insists that you doubt, is louder. It questions everything. Every interaction you’ve had with Bucky. Every touch, every kiss. It burns uncertainty into your skin until you see the creeping skepticism on the back of your hands. Because, at the end of the day, you don’t really know Bucky Barnes. Regardless of how much time you’ve spent with him the last couple of weeks, you’ve learned the hard way that anyone could put on an act, even — no, especially — ones as charming as him.
“You should talk to him first. I doubt he’s the one who spilled.”
You also doubt that you can say for certain that he isn’t. Swallowing thickly, you try to ignore how your heart feels like it’s been ripped out of your chest, beating bloody in the palm of his hand. His smile, one you always picture to be soft and sincere, twists into something ugly, something sinister.
You spend the morning scrolling through the articles. Countless pictures of the two of you, all of them similar so you at least know they were captured by one invasive individual. However, the articles are where the meat sits — criticisms of your promiscuity, accusations of being a terrible role model, and even comments on Bucky’s worth as your partner.
It doesn’t sit right with you. Why would Bucky bad mouth himself to the press if he wants to get his fame? To throw the scent of him. Even so, it paints him in a negative light. Any press is good press. Why would he even need the press? Maybe, just like you, he’s trying to make it out of here.
Both the angel and devil on your shoulder are working overtime, stitching doubt and questions into what you thought was a healthy relationship with Bucky. Now the dark clouds are sewn into every memory you’ve had with him.
Coming down for breakfast, you’re sufficiently pissed off. All that hurt has simmered into a rage that you’re ready to channel towards the one person you think deserves it. Luckily for you, he’s standing in the kitchen. Cooking breakfast.
He smiles wide when he sees you, “Hey, I’m making some french— what’s wrong?” The joy wipes off his face to make room for confusion.
“You’re fucking kidding me right,” you snap, arms crossed over your chest. You don’t bother cleaning yourself up, hair in a tangled mess and pajamas rumpled from your deep sleep. You don’t bother paying attention to the way Bucky’s eyes had softened when he saw you in this state.
“Gonna have to give me more than that, princess. I’m not followin’.”
You turn your phone to face him with the article with the headline: America’s Favorite Pop Princess Caught Rolling in the Hay with Local Farmhand. It’s a disgusting piece but all the details are there — censored pictures, firsthand accounts from the source, and the scandalization of it all.
“Maybe I should’ve made you sign an NDA like everyone else. I’m an idiot.”
It takes him a second before he’s whipping his gaze up to you, disbelief scratched into his irises. “What? You think I did this? That I would tell the press about us? That I would do this to you?”
“I don’t know what to think! It doesn’t matter what I think or what I do. This is the shit that I have to deal with and—” and I would never want to put you through this. You swallow that bitter realization. No matter what you do, even if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. God knows what else the press will do to him. “And it doesn’t matter,” you say, defeated. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this.”
Bucky says your name and the sound knicks your heart.
“I should’ve known better,” you mutter, “this shit just isn’t worth dealing with. I should be focused on my next album, focused on writing those songs and getting them to chart. What’s the point of putting myself out there when all I do is end up in the news?”
“Because it’s worth it,” he insists, hands catching your arms. “Please. You gotta believe me, princess. I didn’t do this. I would never do this to you.”
You offer him a wry smile. “That’s what the last guy said too.” Tugging yourself away from him, you rub the places where his touch has burned. “I can’t do this, Buck. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway and I can’t risk anymore of my career. Every time this shit happens, I cause trouble for the rest of my team, my family.”
“That’s not on you—”
“I know that!” You snap, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m well aware that these are circumstances outside my control. I’m aware that I cannot control people whose entire livelihood depends on me losing mine. It doesn’t change the facts. Even if we keep whatever this thing is going, you and I are going to be dragged through the mud and neither of us will recover.”
Bucky’s jaw clenches, tongue digging into his cheek. “So, what? You’re just going to give up every shot you have at happiness? Life beyond whatever the fuck they’re putting you through? You’re going to let them win?”
“No, I’m playing their game. I don’t have to like it but what choice do I have?”
“Stand up for yourself. Don’t let this shit derail you from what you can do. You have the world at your fingertips, millions who love you — including the very people in this house.”
It’s easier said than done. It’s too tempting to fall into this myth of falling in love, of being allowed to fall in love. Your life isn’t one that permits it. You’ve seen the making and breaking of one too many relationships to believe that it’s possible for someone in your life. The rare few that succeed are lucky — lucky to have found someone in the right time, the right place.
“Appreciate the vote of confidence, but this won’t work, Bucky.”
He looks like he’s about to interrupt again and, for a second, you wish that he does. However, he keeps his lips sealed — and that’s the end of it.
On your last evening, the dinner table is quiet. It’s just you, your dad, and your grandma. A small family affair. When your grandma asks if you’ve invited Bucky, you tell that that you’d rather keep it to a small, intimate dinner. She gives you a suspicious look but doesn’t press further.
As you’re doing the dishes after, your grandma makes sure that your dad is out of earshot when she finally questions you. That is when you tell her everything — the scandal, the media, the pictures. She doesn’t shame you for engaging in extramarital affairs, god knows that’s the least of your problems.
“He wouldn’t do that,” she whispers as you tuck herself into her side.
“I know,” you murmur, “I know you believe in him. I want to believe in him. It’s just hard to draw lines between those you can trust and those you can’t, and I’d rather… not trust anyone at all if those are the two choices I have.”
She flicks your forehead gently. “That’s not the way to live, honey. As hard as it may be, taking those risks are a part of life and — yes, you’ve gotten hurt, but you always bounce back. Always. The people that love you know who you are, they know who’s in the wrong, and it is not you.”
“Thanks, grandma,” you smile, “but it wouldn’t have worked anyway. We live different lives now. He probably wants nothing to do with a girl like me. This life isn’t for everyone — your every move scrutinized and published for everyone to see. It’s a lot to ask of someone.”
Her laugh tinkles through the air. “You’d be surprised.”
Then you’re heading home. The plane rumbles as you climb the stairs up. You take one last look at the land before you, at your grandma who stands at the base of the plane waving. You take a deep breath and then you take your seat.
Los Angeles is the same as you left it. The only difference now is that the paparazzi has been made aware of your arrival at this airport, your flight manifest leaked somehow. You arrive to blinding flashes and questions about your latest tryst, one too many of them asking where this guy is. You grit your teeth and let your dad push through the crowd into the car.
Life is the same. Busier than ever. Now that you’re working on your album full time, it’s hard to find time for anything else — which is ideal because, if you were left alone with your thoughts, you tend to wander to that small town and a certain not-so-small man. The last guy who you had been with already milked his fame and you worry that the media is now hounding Bucky for more details. Guilt carves itself into your bones. These are the days you’re tempted to reach for your phone, to call him and ask him how he’s doing, but you stomp down on that urge.
It’s better this way.
The paparazzi hasn’t let up. They’re at your door, they’re outside the studio, they’re camping out the restaurant that you’re at with Yelena. She gives them the stinkeye and a proper middle finger as the two of you enter.
“So, that’s it then?” She asks when you give her the full rundown of what’s transpired. “You have hot sex with a cowboy and then you go home? You’re really living the Hollywood life.” You give her a look as you take a sip of your third glass of wine. It’s that kind of night. “Your dad seems to like him, which is surprising because he doesn’t like anyone.”
That has you stopping. “What? How do you know that?”
“He told me,” she shrugs, “we were catching up on your schedule for the next couple of months and he mentioned that, despite him wishing you would stay single for the rest of your life, if he had to choose one man for you, that one isn’t a bad choice. I saw the pictures, I’m sure he’s more than enough.” Her wiggling eyebrows has you flinging a fry her way.
“I didn’t know he said that,” you mumble. “Bucky is a good guy. He just… deserves better. He doesn’t want this life.” You gesture to the flashing lights and the men still lingering around the entrance, waiting for your exit. “And I am tired of figuring out who to trust. I don’t want to play this game of roulette and being made a fool. Again.”
“Better a fool that got played once than be wise enough to never fall in love.”
You bark out a laugh. “Just made that up?” She states that it’s a Yelena original. “It’s a nice thought in theory. I don’t know. He hasn’t reached out again since our last conversation. Maybe he’s realized that I’m also not worth all this. It’s a fair assessment, I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone.”
“One day, you’ll realize that you’re worth it all, sweetheart. If anyone knew what it meant to have you love them, they would do anything for you.”
The one thing you did take away from your time in Tennessee is that you do need to stop taking everything they do on the chin. You stand up for yourself when the paparazzi become too demanding and entitled, snapping at them to be more polite at red carpets and telling them off whenever they’re absolutely crossing the line on invading your privacy. While you received backlash for the incident, you also received an outpouring of love. Fans who defend your stance, industry peers who echo your sentiment. It’s one weight off your chest.
But you go home at the end of the evening to your penthouse and the place is much too quiet. Sometimes you can hear Bucky whispering reassurances in your ear and that hallucination is the only thing that keeps you tethered to this life.
When you hear him say your name, a little too clearly this time, you think you may be losing it.
When you see him standing in the middle of your living room, you think your imagination has gone too far.
The second emotion that lands is panic. You’re immediately reaching for your phone. Your grandma can say that he’s a good guy all she wants but when you find this man standing in the middle of your apartment looking every bit as delicious as ever, you should be calling security.
It’s even worse when he takes the phone from your hand before you can ring up your ex-military doorman downstairs. He catches the flash of fear in your eyes and immediately backs up, even seeming a little hurt by that minute reaction.
“Not here to hurt you, princess. Promise. Your dad let me in.”
“My dad? Since when do you talk to my dad?”
“I figured you wouldn’t take my calls so I reached out to him,” Bucky clears his throat. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, that’s what most people do anyway. It doesn’t matter what I want, they always figure out a workaround,” you snip a little too bitterly. A flicker of regret crosses his eyes and that claws at your chest. You take a deep breath. “Sorry, that wasn’t fair. It’s fine. He’s met you,” you relent, “what’re you doing here?”
“To set the record straight.” He tells you about how he spent the last few days asking around, investigating on who would be sharing such intimate details about your life with the press. “Everyone there loves you, especially after what you did with the fundraiser. I knew it had to be someone who had an issue with you. That led me to John.”
John… isn’t he the—
“Yeah, that guy,” Bucky drawls out in annoyance. “Apparently he felt jilted that you flirted with him when he caught us one night. He reached out to a tabloid and realized he could get paid, so he started telling every single one of them.”
“Fucker,” you spit out venomously.
“Tell me about it.”
“You could’ve told me all this over the phone.”
He cocks an eyebrow, “Would you really have picked up?”
“An email would’ve sufficed too.”
“I wanted to make sure you couldn’t avoid me.”
Blue washes over you and you can’t help but give into the pull of the water. “I’m sorry for thinking it was you,” you murmur, “I knew — I knew that deep down it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have known for certain,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been burned before and you had the right to doubt me. I get that.” His teeth catches his bottom lip, his attempt to hide his sheepish smile. “Plus, if I’m being honest, I’m out here because I missed you.”
Your jaw practically drops to the floor. You manage to rasp, “What?”
He chances a step towards you, cautious. When you don’t move, he takes another. He reaches for your hand, thumb brushing over the back of it. “Didn’t realize how much I missed you until I saw you walk through those doors. How much I wanted you.”
“Wanted?” You squeak, pain bleeding into your voice.
“Want,” he emphasizes, “Present. Always.”
“You think I’m a bitch,” you choke out.
“No, I think you’ve put up walls around your heart and this picture-perfect image of yours because you know what you have to do to protect your dream,” he smiles softly, “I think you’re smart, funny, incredible. You know exactly how to push my buttons and I don’t want to imagine you doing that with anyone else.”
Your heart soars, climbing to cloud nine and — for a moment, it levitates. For a moment, you have hope. But the realization of where you are, who you are quickly sinks in. “Bucky… this could never work.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, we live in different places.”
“Planes exist.”
“For how long? I’m never— I’m never gonna leave this place and you have your house there and the animals and the town.”
The corners of his lips quirk up. “There are farms everywhere. But you do also realize I can do a lot of things. I’m a certified mechanic and a city like this could always use another one.” His name leaves your lips, but he cuts you off. “I’m laying it all out on the table. I’m ready to make this work because I want you. I want you. The question is do you?”
A whimper crawls out your throat. “It’s going to be a pain to deal with me. Everyone follows me everywhere.”
“I’m one of them. Next question.”
“Paparazzi will be hounding you.”
“I know ten different ways to say fuck off.” You’re scrambling to find more excuses, but all of them die on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to scare him away. This is it. “What do you say, princess? Want to take a chance with me?”
He holds out his palm out, fingers stretched out. You look at his hand, one that you’re used to having wrapped around yours. You look at him, those honest blue eyes that never seem to stray far away from you. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl,” he grins as he brushes his lips against yours. “Now, let me take my time showing you what you’ve been missing out on.”
“Better make it worth my time, Barnes,” you laugh breathlessly.
“Always will, princess.”
+ sam: thank you for reading if you've made it this far!!! longest bucky fic to date but holy heck, glad i finally finished a wip ha. shoutout to @singulartoast for being my farm x city lover too with her fic!!!
i lovee your work so much i like vist ur page so many times and what do u think about valarr having a big crush on his cousin and goes up to maekar to beg to marry her and what maekar would think about it yk ?
I WILL GET ON MY KNEES AND BEG—Valarr Targaryen
Valarr Targaryen x Targ!reader
summary: Valarr is ready to do anything to win your hand in marriage, even getting on his knees and begging his uncle.
words: 1.3k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest, nothing really other than that, reader is Maekar's eldest daughter, but no physical features are described.
You were a Goddess. He was not positive if it was the Old, The New, the Flames, the Lord of Light, but it did not matter it. You were a Goddess of Beauty to him all the same.
You were absolutely everything to him. The reason for his existence he thought often. His heart walking around, blessing everyone for your mere existence.
You danced around the floor with Aegon, a wide grin pulling at your beauty lips as your head was tilted back your laugh spilling out into the loud hall. It would have gone unnoticed to anyone else due to all the other sounds, but not to Valarr. Never to Valarr.
He stood on the outskirts watching, waiting patiently for his turn after you made it through your younger siblings. That was always the deal, and Valarr would have waited years to simply have the pleasure of dancing with you.
Though he much proffered when you would drag him off into the gardens, slipping past all the guards. Not because you would kiss him, though that was always a plus. He liked the quiet. When the two of you could exist without the watchful eyes and the pleasured of the crown.
Your eyes looked with his again, and you smiled at him. He could feel his own lips turn up slightly before Aegon pulled you once more attempting to spin you.
Valarr was so lost in his thoughts that he did not even notice the presence next to him. Though he probably should have due to the loud drunken steps, and the stench of wine that never quite left the man.
"If you stare any longer you might scare her off," Daeron mused, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. "Though I think she does like your attention."
He rolled his eyes, "I am admiring my future wife is all."
"Are you sure about that?"
The mismatched eyes turned meeting his violet ones. "What?" he asked, in confusion.
"My father has been speaking to Lord Tyrell about marrying his grandson," he answered with a shrug.
Valarr's eyes widened in horror. This was the worse possible thing he had ever heard in his entire existent. The thought of you married to anyone that was not him. That just would not do!
There had never been a formal betrothal, but he thought he did not need one. It was not secret how fond you were of the other, and he thought…His eyes then moved to the high table looking to Maekar who sat beside Baelor.
He would make this right. He then decided.
The Prince was moving through the crowd without a second thought, pausing before you to alert you of his intentions. You looked up as if you had felt his presence meeting his eyes. You beamed at him and he lost his train of thought pausing monetarily in his place as he simply stared at you, "Have you finally come to dance with me, Val?" you asked.
He could hear his heartbeat picking up. Your smile, your beauty, your angelic voice and the way you said his name. "No not yet, my love," he told you gently.
You frowned slightly, and it almost made him forget the task at hand due to how much he hated that sight. He moved forward cupping your face gently. No one in the crowd even paused to look at you continuing to spin around the pair of you, "I have to go have a talk with your father," he said.
The disappointment from only a moment ago, replaced by something that he had seen so often with you. In the quite moments when it was only you and him. No loud noises. No distractions.
It was the love you held for him. The one you confessed so loudly compared to his quieter admissions. It was the all consuming feeling that filled you both.
"Are you…" you trailed off, but you did not need to finish. He knew you better than that, as if you were an extension of his own thoughts and you never needed to complete yours, because he always knew.
"I am," he nodded in agreement. He reached down gripping your hand before pressing a kiss to the back of it.
"Do not leave me waiting long," you told him.
He grinned at you, "I wouldn't dream of it."
With a strength he did not quite know he possessed he pulled himself away from you, and began toward your father. He sat talking about something with his eldest brother, Valarr's father. The younger's face was a gruff as always as he rolled his eyes at something the elder said.
And before he knew it he was standing in front of the two men, "Valarr
"I request an audience with you," he suddenly declared, looking at his uncle.
Maekar turned looking to his brother, "What the fuck is he talking about?"
Baelor shrugged, "It is Valarr than requests an audience, Maekar. Not I," he reminded the younger.
He scoffed then turned back toward his nephew, "What the fuck do you want?" he then asked, not moving from his seat.
Valarr was undettered. This was Maekar's typical personality. Cold, stern, and harsh with his words, but underneath all that was a man who loved his children. Who loved you his first born, his precious girl, and only wanted the best for her.
And he believed he was that for you.
He puffed his chest out slight, trying to appear bigger than he was. He wanted to seem impressive, to seem worthy, but that was harder to do with a man that had earned the name of the Anvil.
"I wish to marry your daughter,"
"No," he answered immediately.
The young man's face immediately fell, but he was not going to take rejection that easily, "I will get on my knees and beg," he said.
The uncle's mouth turned into a grin as if he was tempted to see just how far he was willing to go. "Maekar," Baelor warned, knowing his son would do exactly as he said.
"I will do it," he repeated.
"You will get down on your knees in front of all these guests? The heir to the heir on his knees begging for my daughter's hand like an insolent child?" the stern man asked, leaning forward.
Baelor's eyes flickered around watching half in intrigued,and the other. making sure no one was witnessing this scene, because his brother was being his stubborn self.
Valarr nodded immediately, "Yes I will," he took a deep breath steadying himself, "I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and I will work every day to be the man she deserves. Getting on my knees and begging seems inadequate to the love I hold for her so if that is what you need I will l do it."
He then went to sink to his knees, but his uncle's hand shot out stopping him, "Do not get on your fucking knees. Maekar let out a sigh, shaking his head, "I will discuss it with your father. Now go and dance with my daughter so she will stop glaring at me," he instructed.
Valarr grinned widely, "Thank you," he said, with a bow before practically sprinting off toward you. As you awaited him, your hand already extending indicating exactly what you wanted. Both men watched as he complied, as you both danced around, matching grins on your face.
"Is there even much to discuss?" Baelor asked, once his eldest was out of ear shot.
"Oh, no. She already asked, but told me not to do anything until he did himself. I do not possess the ability to tell her no, and neither does he it seems."
a knight of the seven kingdoms tags: @kyvillasstuff @goldengirl86 @scarletwolfxox @witch-of-letters @confusedwhitegirl10 @itspbjellytime
summary: in which, daeron finds himself longing for the baratheon heir even though it scares him half to death, maekar low-key berates himself for not traveling to storm's end w the kids sooner, and lyonel is a girldad !
words: 2,9k
c.w: mentions of blood
a.n: btw this blog is a totalitarian regime and in MY dictatorship baelor and lyonel are friends, lyonel has no beef with the targaryens at all and as he’s close to maekar's age, he fought alongside the targaryens in the first blackfyre rebellion.
also! reader may be a baratheon but there will be no physical description of her whatsoever and her mother is not mentioned
The sun is yet to show itself in the sky when the halls of the Red Keep come alive with movement, servants and guards alike walking a beat faster than usual, which could be attributed to the preparations needed for the royal progress that is set to take place the same day… or the screaming of Prince Maekar, who seems hellbent on waking up every other resident of the castle who had not yet risen.
“I do not care if you have to search for him in every inn in Flea Bottom or if you have to scour the entirety of the Street of Silk, find him, for fuck’s sake”.
The prince storms through the never-ending halls, yelling commands to the knights of the Kingsguard to find his son at once. Of course he had to be missing today of all days, mere hours away from their departure from King’s Landing to Storm's End.
In Daeron's defense, he had not failed to communicate his wishes beforehand — to stay at the keep and drink his nights away, that is. The young prince was nowhere to be found in the keep, the guards told Prince Maekar once they were sent to fetch him, only to find his chambers devoid of life, with three empty bottles of Dornish red lying carelessly by his unmade bed.
These are not my usual dreams.
Daeron thinks to himself as he lies unconscious on the wooden table of an inn he frequents, confused once again by the contents of his usually tortured mind. There is no fire now. In its place, pouring rain and thick fog. He feels his cloak weighed down by the rainwater he’s currently drenched in. He does not know where he is, though the place is familiar, and he finds himself looking around for something. Anything.
Everywhere he looks seems the same: black rock, covering anything and everything. Focused on the bleak landscape, the prince fails to notice the rainwater beginning to turn blood red, and by the time he does, it seems to be entirely too late. The water continues to rise at an alarming pace, surrounding him completely. There’s nowhere to go. Daeron knows that looking around for a way out, will once again prove fruitless, but he does so anyways and —
Was that here before?
He wakes up with a gasp.
A stag. A dark brown stag with fierce eyes, covered in blood. Pretty, Daeron thinks. It makes its way over to him through the fog, and the prince squints to see it better, shielding his face with his hands from the blood rain. It’s coming closer and as it opens its mouth–
“My prince”.
“My prince, your father is calling for you. We are to take you to the Keep at once”. He looks around in a daze as he spots the two kingsguard, then he notices his wet strands of hair and his now completely drenched cloak.
“Did you throw water on me?” He asks as he sits up and his mouth hanging slightly opened in offense, entirely baffled at the new situation he finds himself in. The kingsguard share a look, though they do not answer. He goes with them anyways. He’ll get an earful from his father either way— probably more than an earful.
Traveling along the Kingsroad does not make a trip that takes nearly half a moon’s turn any easier, especially when it’s on horseback. His father and his uncle, Prince Baelor, insisted that no wheelhouses were needed for such a short journey, as the princes were old and experienced enough to travel on their own horses, even his youngest brother, Prince Aegon.
It did not stop them from complaining, though. Aerion had grown increasingly more irritated as the days passed and they had yet to reach the Stormlands, while Daeron was barely keeping himself upright on horseback, the wine leaving him uncoordinated but pliant enough to not enrage their father further. Egg’s excitement for adventure had faded after the first three days or so, as he now pestered their father every few hours, asking if they were there yet.
“You will know we are there when you are able to see the castle, boy. ¿Do you see the castle?” Prince Maekar answered with a deep scowl on his face.
“No”, said the young prince.
“Then we are not there yet”, Maekar answered, raising his voice slightly as his patience withered. He would need to replenish his energies somehow, he had the feeling he would need it. Especially during the entirety of their stay at Storm’s End, and everything that entailed.
King Daeron II thought wise for the royal family to further strengthen its alliance to House Baratheon, as Lord Lyonel Baratheon celebrated his nameday with a feast large enough to feed the entire realm and a hunting trip to the Rainwood that would last for days, it seemed the perfect occasion for the dragon family to show a united front to all of the noble houses in Westeros. Prince Baelor, ever the dutiful heir, had accepted immediately thinking it would be a good idea to take Valarr in order to polish his diplomatic abilities as the next heir to the Iron Throne. It had also been so long ago since he had last seen Lyonel, a man he had come to consider his friend.
They fared well on the travels, of course they did. Father and son conducted themselves with their usual composure and grace, much to Maekar’s dismay— Do they have to be so perfect all the fucking time? Maekar looked back at his own sons, and sighed.
You opened your eyes as the sun shone brightly though the windows of Storm's End. Your fortress. It was the very place you called home. The place that rarely, if ever, remained quiet. Today was no exception, especially considering your father’s nameday celebrations were taking place.
“It is not only a day, my darling. It will last the whole fucking moon’s turn if I can help it!” he told you once, as you conjured the memory of his spirited face and bright smile from a few namedays ago in your mind. He seemed convinced by the idea that he would be a failure to himself and your house if he were unable to improve and upscale the celebrations year after year. Which resulted in you being woken by his shouting, which seemed to bounce off of every brick in the fortress.
“No, no, no! You are doing it completely wrong! Again!” He yelled at the musicians, who had apparently been practicing your father’s favourite songs repeatedly and had yet to reach perfection, according to Lyonel.
You climb out of the comfortable silks of your bed and do not bother to call your maids to help with your dress. It was a particularly humid day in the summertime, so a light dress made with fresh fabrics would have to do. Hair still unkept and barely awake from your slumber, you march into the great hall determined to yell at your father for ruining a perfectly good morning’s sleep. As you make your way through the halls and reach your destination you see your father’s tense back and the musician’s tired faces.
“Are you aware of the time, you absolute madman?” You yell at Lyonel, though no real anger is present in your voice, only slight amusement at his usual antics – and vague irritation. He turns around to face you with a big, stupid grin.
“My darling girl! You are awake at last!”
“The sun isn’t even up-”
“Here, come. Tell these buffoons that this subpar so-called music has no place in my nameday celebrations-”
“The songs sounded completely fine.”
“-that their mediocrity will not be tolerated.” A small laugh escapes you.
“I will tell them no such thing,” you say. Your father turns to face you, as if you had stabbed him in the back with your own dagger. He frowns down at you, as you fail to remain serious in the face of his dramatics.
Halfway through the day, guests begin to arrive and you are forced to wear more appropriate clothing to greet the lords and ladies from different houses of the realm. Not that your father minds which dresses you wear, but someone has to be the face of House Baratheon while your father parties day and night. Someone who remains sober, at least. Or someone who keeps their clothes on. As the night approached, you noticed a certain dragon family had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps they enjoy being fashionably late, you thought. You were seemingly wrong, though.
“You wound me, my girl.”
You laugh.
Truth be told, he could have escaped the guards once again and hidden long enough for his family to be forced to leave the Red Keep without him, but something about his dreams at the inn kept him curious enough not to resist wholeheartedly. Daeron had long since given up trying to understand his dreams, all of them horrid in nature, always featuring great fires, the putrid sight of black blood beneath the moonlight, and burning dragons.
House Targaryen would not arrive on Storm’s End for yet another day, as they experienced a slight setback during their journey from King’s Landing. As in, the food from the night before had not settled well in Egg’s stomach, and caused the young prince to throw up all over his horse. And so, they had to stop for a few hours to clean Egg’s horse and wait until he felt well enough to ride again.
Daeron had thrown up as well, though for… different reasons.
He tried with all his might to recall whether he had ever dreamt of stags before, but it proved fruitless. If he had ever dreamt of stags and lakes of blood before, then either the dream had been completely inconsequential, or the wine had managed to erase all memory of it. It was probably the latter.
As they arrive a heir destination, Storm's End's surrounding walls stand tall and intimidating as the royal family approaches. While Baelor and Maekar remain indifferent to the sight, having visited the black fortress on political matters when they were boys themselves, the younger princes gape at the sheer sturdiness of its walls. All save Aerion, who is rarely impressed by anything at all—though even he has to admit that the stronghold looks more formidable than the Red Keep.
The Targaryens follow behind, with knights surrounding them on all sides. The farther they move into the fortress, the more the sounds of laughter and music envelop them, and the younger princes exchange glances, instinctively looking toward their fathers, who already seem to know exactly what is about to happen.
"Baelor!"
Lyonel's booming voice carries across the courtyard as he emerges through the castle doors, with you trailing behind him while he practically runs to greet the royal family without any semblance of propriety whatsoever. As the princes dismount their horses, Baelor braces himself for the incoming assault, and Maekar sighs.
Lyonel laughs loudly, the sound echoing throughout Storm's End as he closes the distance between them and throws his arms around the heir to the Iron Throne in a crushing embrace.
Baelor, for his part, takes it in stride. He returns the embrace with the composure only a man raised in a den of vipers, where kindness is so often mistaken for weakness, could possess. He pats Lyonel's back before offering him a warm smile.
Valarr remains rooted to the spot.
Of course, his father had told him stories of the Laughing Storm during their campaign against the Blackfyres, of how fiercely the Storm Lord had fought beside both him and his uncle Maekar. Still, hearing those stories was one thing. Witnessing Lord Baratheon all but tackle the heir to the Iron Throne before the horses had even come to a full stop was quite another.
"Lord Baratheon. It has been too long."
Still laughing, Lyonel waves a dismissive hand. "What's with the formalities, dragon? As if I haven't seen your bare arse covered in rebel blood before."
Daeron has to fight the urge to laugh at the remark, while Valarr, Aerion, and Egg can only stare in bafflement. They had never seen anyone speak to their uncle with a familiarity usually reserved for, well, family. Lyonel's attention then shifts to Maekar, causing the prince to close his eyes in anticipation.
"Gods, you look even more brooding than the last time I saw you."
Maekar groans.
You watch the interactions unfold, thoroughly amused by your father's antics and Prince Maekar’s barely concealed irritation at the theatrics for which the Storm Lord was so well known. The young princes, meanwhile, seem absolutely bewildered by the spectacle, clearly unaccustomed to seeing their fathers interact in such a manner and not yet knowing what to make of it.
Then, they glance at you.
They had never met you before. Their fathers had always considered them too young to accompany them on the few visits they paid to Storm's End. As the years passed, the family had been struck by tragedy not once but twice, as both princes lost their wives, and the children their mothers.
Your own mother had died in the birthing bed as well. Not that your father had ever allowed you to fully feel her absence, as he had made certain you lacked for nothing— be it love, friendship, or a shoulder to cry on. As you look upon the young princes, you become aware for the first time that they had not been afforded the same fortune.
You set your eyes on Prince Valarr first. He is a difficult man to overlook, with his mismatched eyes and a striking white streak of hair on the side of his head. He looks perfect. Perhaps a bit too perfect.
His posture is so impeccably straight to the point where you question if it pains him to maintain it for a long time. His smile is equally flawless, not too warm yet not vain. His hands rest neatly behind his back as he inclines his head in greeting. Everything about him looks utterly exhausting.
“Ah, yes!” Lyonel claps a hand against his own head, as if he had only now remembered that several people need to be introduced and especially, that the particular task is his duty. “Your Graces, this is my lovely daughter” Your father introduces you by name to the family, as you fought the overwhelming urge to glare at him for his complete lack of propriety.
“Father”
“What?” He grins. “You are lovely.”
Deciding that glaring at your father—or pinching the bridge of your nose as you desperately wished to do —would only make matters worse, you dip into a curtsy before the princes of House Targaryen.
“Your Graces, it is an honour to welcome you to Storm's End.”
Prince Baelor steps forward first, there is little about the heir to the Iron Thone that comes as a surprise to you; everything you had ever heard of him proves true at first glance. He carries himself with effortless confidence, his eyes filled with quiet wisdom, every movement experienced and measured without ever appearing rehearsed. His smile is warm and genuine, though restrained, a concept that strikes you as entirely foreign.
“Lady Baratheon. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
As the introductions carry on, you properly greet the rest of the princes. Prince Valarr greets you in the practised manner of a chivalrous prince, one that must’ve taken ages to fully master.
Prince Maekar appears to be a man of actions rather than a man of words, as he voiced nothing more than a simple, “My Lady” before fixing you with a steady stare. Right.
Prince Aegon seems excited enough for the entire family, tummy ache completely forgotten, as he greets you without truly looking at you, his attention instead fixed upon the towering castle walls with open fascination.
Prince Aerion neither smiles nor bows particularly deeply, he merely offers a curt Lady Baratheon as his gaze sets upon you. There is something restless about him. Something unnerving. It almost makes you want to look away first, but something tells you that doing so would read as a retreat of sorts, and you decide almost immediately that you would do nothing before him that could be perceived as weak. And so, you simply nod at him. You could swear he seems almost pleased by the gesture.
Only one prince remains now. Curiously, he has not moved. And so, you look.
He is already looking at you.
Lavender eyes find yours with an intensity that gives you pause. He stares unabashedly at you, his expression carrying something akin to recognition. As though, somewhere deep down, this is a meeting he had expected and was only now realizing so. The silence stretches a fraction too long, you are not the only one that seems to be aware that something deep stirs behind the heir of Summerhall's eyes.
“...My prince?” You whisper to him. Unsure on how to proceed, you find you do not wish to startle him.
He blinks. “Oh.” he speaks, his voice softer than you would’ve imagined. Softer than all the others’. “...Daeron.” Nothing more. Not Prince Daeron. Not a proper greeting, not even a Lady Baratheon. Simply his name, as though he had forgotten the rest. Prince Maekar clears his throat. Daeron tears his gaze away from you, and his eyes find the floor. “...My Lady.”
You incline your head. “My Prince.”
Daeron’s eyes snap back at yours.
Gods, you think, he’s an odd one.
author's note: gawddd this took way too long to write but alas, it is here. obviously this is gonna be a part of a series and i'm gonna be updating soon. idk when. but soon. trust
contents: Daeron Targaryen (the Drunken) x Reader, Modern AU (90s-ish), alcoholism, self-deprecating thoughts, descriptions of state of drunkenness, descriptions of ballet rehearsals and some ballet terminology, 🤏 enemies to lovers, bickering, belligerent sexual tension, teasing, yearning, eventual workplace romance, pathetic!Daeron, angst, nsfw in future parts (mostly some fun creative things because Daeron suffers erectile dysfunction in this one 🤧).
#strange harmonies
synopsis:
For years, Daeron Targaryen has been one of the company's Principal Dancers. Brilliant, impossible to replace, and increasingly impossible to rely upon.
By the time the drinking catches up with him, his name has earned enough goodwill to soften the fall. He keeps his job, but only just. Principal becomes First Soloist. Leading roles become second casts, then occasional substitutions, and eventually little more than the courtesy of remaining employed. His partner finds a new job. Younger dancers stop asking for advice and begin asking if he's coming in at all. He cannot honestly claim he is trying anymore. He simply is.
Then, the company hires a new dancer, and for reasons neither of you particularly appreciates, you end up partnered with him.
a/n: This isn't a conventional series so much as a collection of drabbles, scenes and longer snippets that all happen within the same continuity. They can be read chronologically, or simply as stand-alone one-shots. Daeron still dreams but it is left ambiguous as to whether he has a gift or an unaddressed illness, or a bit of both.
Modern AU (late 90s/early 2000s), set in an unnamed European ballet company (though it follows the hierarchy of British-style company). Occasional ballet inaccuracy despite an unhealthy amount of research. No posting schedule—I will drop new bits as the inspiration strikes, but if you'd like to be tagged let me know and I'll happily keep a taglist. You can also send asks/suggestions! The usual: banner is by me, dividers by @uzmacchiato.
parts:
01_need you so much closer (sfw)
02_off, off, off with your head (suggestive)
(and more soon)
glossary:
(under the cut)
❀ Principal Dancer → The highest rank in a ballet company. Principals perform the leading roles and are typically the company's most established artists.
❀ First Soloist → A rank below Principal Dancer. First Soloists often perform major supporting roles and may dance leading roles as first or second cast, depending on the production.
❀ Ballet Master → A former professional dancer responsible for rehearsing the company, coaching dancers, maintaining choreography and artistic standards, and acting as the link between the artistic director and performers.
❀ Barre → The handrail fixed along the studio wall, and by extension the first part of every ballet class. Dancers begin each class at the barre to warm up, strengthen technique and prepare for centre work.
❀ To 'mark it' → To rehearse choreography without performing it at full physical intensity. Dancers indicate the movement, spacing and timing while conserving energy and reducing injury risk.
❀ Pas de deux → Literally 'step for two.' A duet between two dancers, usually involving partnering work, lifts and coordinated choreography. Often the emotional centrepiece of a ballet.
❀ Marley → The specialised vinyl flooring used in most dance studios and theatres.
❀ Cast / Second Cast → Most productions have multiple casts for the same role. The first cast usually performs opening nights and the majority of performances, while the second cast dances selected performances and serves as cover.
❀ Partnering → The technical work between two dancers, including lifts, supported turns, weight-sharing and assisted balances.
❀ Corps de ballet → The ensemble of the company. Corps dancers perform in groups.
❀ Arabesque → A classical ballet position in which the dancer balances on one leg while extending the other behind them.
❀ Promenade → A partnered movement in which one dancer slowly turns the other while they hold a balanced position. Common in classical pas de deux.
SYNOPSIS : You doubt Prince Maekar intentions to marry you.
WORD COUNT : 1.3 K words
Your father was a smart and ambitious man whose greatest disappointment was having been born into a minor house. The only thing separating your family from wealthy merchants was your title of nobility. That was why your lord father was adamant that you make a good match and elevate your family's standing.
The infant daughter of a minor house in the Stormlands was hardly considered worthy of the heirs of the great houses, so your father personally oversaw your education. Nothing was left to chance: your clothes, your reading, your friendships. When you turned fourteen, he secured you a position as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Myriah Martell.
Despite all his efforts, your relationship soured as you grew older, because you would never be as perfect as your father's ambitions demanded. Your face was too plain, your wit merely acceptable, your voice tolerable...
You simply lacked the spark he believed necessary to captivate princes and great lords.
Therefore, you could hardly believe Prince Maekar when he announced his intention to court you. He did not try to appear as gallant as Prince Baelor or as soft-spoken as Prince Rhaegel, but he was undeniably attentive. Love blossomed gradually as you came to notice the little things about him: the devotion he bore his elder brothers, his discipline in the training yard, and the unwavering affection he showed you.
Yet because the match defied your father's expectations, he refused to believe it genuine. Instead, he slowly began sowing doubt in your mind about Maekar's feelings.
During the tourney your father organized for your brother's name day, he insisted that you bestow your favor upon Tyrion Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock. As you tied your ribbon around the knight's lance, your thoughts lingered on Maekar's gentle gaze. The prince had been unable to attend the tourney, as he and Prince Baelor had been called away to quell an uprising, yet you could not shake the feeling of betrayal as you knotted the ribbon.
When you returned to the Red Keep by carriage, you reasoned that your courtship was still in its early days. And should your father prove right about Maekar, then at least you would have secured the interest of the Lannister heir.
You nearly pricked your finger with your needle when the doors of the royal library slammed open, crashing against the walls to announce Maekar's arrival.
He strode between the towering shelves like a hunting hound searching for its prey. A brave maester approached to offer his assistance, but Maekar dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand.
You had never seen your prince behave so erratically, and a chill of dread settled in your stomach.
Setting aside the embroidery you had been working on by the window, you watched as Maekar finally came to an abrupt halt and looked at you.
The fury burning in his eyes rooted you to the spot.
Before you could utter a single word, he was standing before you. His ragged breathing and predatory stare made him look every bit the dragon his ancestors had once ridden.
"My prince?" Amalia Arryn, one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, ventured cautiously.
"I want everyone out."
"But—"
"I SAID: GET THE FUCK OUT!"
He barked the order without taking his eyes off you.
You couldn't blame your friend—or anyone else in the library—for hastily scrambling toward the exits.
Once you were alone, however, the silence became almost unbearable.
"Is something wrong, my prince?" you managed, pinned beneath his glare.
You had been courting for months, yet this was the first time you had ever seen Maekar so furious.
Worst of all, you couldn't begin to understand why you were the target of his anger.
"Do not take me for a fool," Maekar hissed. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out?"
"I... I don't understand."
Your answer only seemed to enrage him further.
He reached inside his doublet, the sudden movement making you flinch despite yourself.
For the briefest moment, something in his expression faltered.
Still, he withdrew a faded blue ribbon from his inner pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand.
You frowned as you took the worn fabric. Though the color had dulled with use, the embroidered sigil of your house remained unmistakable.
You didn't remember ever giving it to him.
"Where did you find this?"
A humorless laugh escaped him.
"Tyrion fucking Lannister had it. The cunt was proudly displaying his lady's favor—your favor—in the training yard. Seems you've been keeping yourself busy while I was away, haven't you?"
Your father's voice echoed in your mind.
"You cannot expect a prince of the realm to follow through on a promise made on a whim. I will not have you lose your chance at a good match over some childish fantasy."
Your eyes widened with realization.
"Oh..."
"'Oh'?! Is that all you've got to say? Fucking 'oh'?! I declared myself to you, and the moment my back was turned, you handed your favor to the first golden prick who smiled at you?!"
Guilt squeezed painfully around your heart.
You reached for him, desperate to explain, but Maekar violently shoved your hands aside and stepped away.
Your throat tightened, yet you forced yourself to speak.
"It wasn't like that. I don't care for Tyrion Lannister. My father made me—"
A flash of contempt crossed his face, and the rest of your words died in your throat.
Your heart seemed to stop.
The tenderness you had always found in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a look you had known your entire life.
The same look your father wore whenever you stumbled over a lesson or accidentally stained your gown.
"You are such a disappointment."
"You—a grown woman—would sink so low as to blame your own actions on your father?" Maekar spat.
It took everything in you not to break down.
"Of course not!" you cried. "But our courtship had only just begun. I was afraid your affections would fade. I was only trying to secure my house's future... and my own."
"Because the future I offered you wasn't good enough?"
He scoffed, though you couldn't miss the self-deprecating edge beneath the anger.
"Because I couldn't believe I was worthy of a prince!"
Silence settled over the library.
For the first time, you were grateful no one else remained to witness it.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked, taking a cautious step closer. "Had I not made my intentions clear?"
"Yes... you did."
"Then why the fuck are you believing those bullshit insecurities over my own words?"
"BECAUSE I'M NOT ENOUGH! I NEVER HAVE BEEN!"
He took another step.
The fury that had stormed into the library had almost entirely disappeared.
You wouldn't let him come any closer. Turning your face away, you refused to meet his eyes.
"You're a prince. A great warrior. A brilliant strategist. I'm a plain lady from a minor house with an ordinary mind."
"Those aren't insecurities," you whispered. "They're facts."
"They're bullshit, is what they are." His voice softened, though only slightly. "And whoever filled your head with that can go fuck himself."
A wet snort escaped you through your tears.
Maekar gently grasped your shoulders and turned you back toward him.
"Fuck perfection."
He held your gaze with unwavering certainty.
"I choose you."
A tearful smile spread across your face.
"I choose you too. Giving my favor to Tyrion Lannister was a mistake, but I swear it meant nothing. I had almost forgotten the whole affair until you showed me the ribbon."
Maekar grunted, seemingly satisfied.
"If it meant so much to him, then why did he give it back to you?"
"Because I beat the shit out of him."
"...Maekar," you sighed, unable to stop yourself from leaning into his embrace.
omg hii idk if you’re taking requests, but if you are hehe, can i request what maekar is like with an introverted/shy-ish wife pleasee 🤭?
also i hope you had a wonderful vacation!! and can i just say, i love your writing so much!! i’ve gone through your masterlist multiple times already aslfjdjfgk it’s just so good and i always love the dialogue and how you write maekar. you’re amazing! thank you for sharing your writing with us :P
Maekar Targaryen Doting on his Shy Wife Headcanons
18+ MDNI
Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader
Warnings: smut, insecurity, misunderstandings
AN: Sorry this took so long, I just started a new job so things are kinda crazy lol but I promise I’m back at the writing thing and have lots of wips coming soon! But anyway thank you so much for reading what I write! It means so much to hear :) hope you enjoy <3
1.8k Words
- Initially, Maekar is a little irritated with his shy, genteel wife.
- It's not because you're introverted, gods know he’s not interested in chatting with dreary nobles and conniving gentry, but he finds he cannot get a read on you and it vexes him greatly. Why are you keeping your thoughts so close to your chest? Do you not trust your husband with your heart? He is so used to prying the sly words of courtiers apart, but you give him little besides soft smiles and lowered eyes.
- He knows he’s not good with words, better on the battlefield than charming young ladies, but for the life of him he can’t seem to get you to like him. He’s not even sure why he cares so much. It would be far easier to let you to your own life, and he to his, but there’s a nagging feeling in his chest that keeps drawing him back to your calm demeanor.
- Maekar is not a gentle man by nature, but he is honorable and had set out to do good by his wife, as well as he could anyway. His deep-set insecurity rises to the surface when your shoulders tense when he steps close, when you quickly curtsey and zip off when he enters the room, and when you can barely hold conversation with him when you dine alone together.
- Obviously, he handles this poorly. Anger getting the best of him and staining his image of your relationship. He’s curt, sharp, unsettled by your apparent indifference and bruised by how you obviously don’t care for him.
- He’s grumpy when he watches himself in the mirror, closely monitoring the imperfections in his face and the places time has changed. Then he’s grumpy that he even cares about something as foolish as a pretty wife thinking him grotesque.
- This is, of course, not actually the case. Maekar is just so intimidating. His longstanding reputation as the Anvil, legends of swordplay, snide words and furrowed brows. When you were told he’d be your husband, you’d fretted over how you’d overcome finding him so daunting.
- How surprising it was, then, to find him quite palatable when you finally met. Handsome as sin; tall and broad with his piercing lavender eyes and glittering silver hair. In place of the boorish words you’d expected, you were met with princely honor. He was not warm, or delicate, but he was formidable in his duty, and you soon realized he was daunting in a far more frightening way.
- It was not like he was the only one you didn’t make much conversation with. Maekar watched you like a hawk at feasts, eyes following you as you trapezed around the crowds, avoiding nosey guests and keeping to yourself. Whispering softly to the ladies you knew but generally staying clear of new acquaintances. He equates it to the nerves of being the new lady of Summerhall, nothing more. Your feelings for him and your disinterest in mingling have nothing to do with each other. Obviously.
- Maekar’s staunch belief in your apathy is tested when one afternoon, as he sits with you in the gardens of Summerhall, sweating in his leather doublet but pretending to enjoy his present condition for your sake. You’d finally risen to leave, something about a meeting with a Septa, when you turned back to him with an unreadable look on your face. As quick as lightning, you leaned in, fingertips gliding over his chin as you pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw. You’d backed away in an instant, eyes wide and fingers to your lips, before you curtseyed and ran off.
- It was not often that the Prince found himself bewildered, but that had certainly thrown him off.
- His mind was once again proven mistaken when upon idling up to the door of your chambers, he heard you conversing with a maid.
“I cannot ask him to spend an entire morning with me! He is a Prince, he has far more important matters than entertaining his wife.”
Maekar pushed down his embarrassment as he pressed his ear against the smooth wood of the door.
“M’lady, you could always ask him. Has his grace not treated you with kindness?”
You let out an exasperated sigh.
“He has been the very picture of a gentleman, yet I do not think he cares for me.”
The defeat in your voice made Maekar’s chest clench. You were the one who did not care for him? Why would it matter to you that he couldn’t get you out of his head, that the very thought of you upset with him gripped his heart.
- After months of marriage, Maekar finally begins to understand that maybe you feel the same skepticism toward him as he did to you. He does try to come off less harsh, less hardheaded, and slowly he watches with hidden delight as you open yourself up to him.
- It’s gradual, but eventually you start offering him answers to questions he’s asked himself about you. Why you favor chiffon gowns over velvet, how do you get ready for bed, what dessert makes you lick the sugar off your fingers (he’s particularly interested in watching that one). It dawns on him that you are allowing him in, that few people get the gift of your affections, and Maekar is exceedingly pleased that you feel safe in your marriage to him. Protection is his way of showing love, and he is more than happy to keep you close.
- When a knight becomes too forward with you at a tourney, leaning in low and asking after your favor, Maekar’s head almost explodes with white-hot anger at your wide eyes and worried brow. He’s there in an instant, stepping up behind you with a hand firmly gripping your elbow and his chest against your back. The Prince will gladly be your shield if it means you aren't frightened.
- Banquets are no longer the same dull, awkward affairs as before. Maekar sits close to you at the high table. The leering eyes of the court are harsh, but the arm he has possessively slung over the back of your chair, coupled with a glare that would make the bravest of knights turn tail, keeps anyone from staring too long. It also means he gets you all to himself; leaning in to whisper against your ear, and listening to you speak softly back. The first feast you laugh openly at something he says, leaning over and pressing your palm against the bulk of his thigh, his ears are turning red and his trousers are bursting at the seams.
- He craves your attention, proud to be a place you go when you cannot face the brunt of court. He is more than happy to tuck you into his cloak, mumbling some lame excuse before leading you off to have you alone.
- Even years into your marriage, there are still times Maekar makes you feel bashful and demure. Sometimes it's a grand gesture; a jeweled necklace that must have been a fortune he insists on clipping around your neck, a book so rare it was thought that every copy was lost to time. It has you giggling sweetly and insisting it's too much. Of course, to him, nothing is too much for his wife, the very thought is ridiculous. Sometimes it's the little things that get to you. Giving you his gloves when he feels your hands are too cold, fresh flowers on your nightstand every morning in spring, a gruff compliment that’s just the right combination of romantic and stoic awkwardness. It always has you biting your lip, covering your face, and shuffling your feet. Maekar will roll his eyes, a halfhearted comment about the ridiculousness of your shyness after all this time, but he’s still so charmed to get the reaction out of you.
“Surely you cannot still be coy around me, my lovely girl?”
- You kiss him so sweetly he can barely stand it. Hands curled around his face, mouth soft and timid against his own; he wants nothing more than to take you in his arms and kiss you properly, but he bides his time and lets you lead. He’ll blissfully sit back and let you perch in his lap as you explore him with your tongue. The nervous giggle you let out when you bite at his bottom lip ignites dragonfire deep in his belly, and the startled yelp you let out when he grips your hips tighter only fans the flames.
- The sounds you make in bed are music to his ears, but he has to work to get you to let them show. He’ll be tongue deep in your cunt, juices dribbling through his beard and hands gripping your thighs before he realizes you’ve got your hand over your mouth. He reaches up to bat it away, set on hearing the sweet moans you release as he pleasures you.
- “None of that, little lady, I want to hear you.”
- He’s holding your chin while he slides his cock through your folds and pressing into your entrance. He doesn’t want to give you the chance to look away; he likes watching your eyes as he sinks into your cunt, the way they roll back a little as he cants his hips up, the fluttering of your lashes as he thrusts into you and you fight to keep looking at him.
- Maekar insists on you being clear with what you want from him when he takes you. He will not have you silent, laying by as he takes his pleasure. It's mortifying at first, the way he presses close over you, whispering that he will not move again until you’ve told him how you feel. Is he too much? Would you like him slower? Faster? Do you prefer his fingers or his tongue? Pierced atop his cock or held underneath him? You mumble out responses, and he makes you repeat them until he can hear you clear as day. He’s a soldier, he lives to serve, and so knowing exactly what you want pleases him greatly; it means he can take your orders and execute them to the fullest extent.
- His kisses are hot on your neck, hands roaming from the swell of your bottom to the curve of your breast, clutching your waist and tugging you close to his chest. You whimper softly until he bites at our throat, a grin on his lips at the sudden shriek you let out.
“What do you need from me, my love? What can your husband do for you?”
Maekar is the softest, most gentle when his babies were newborns he just likes to smell them, rubs his cheeks on them and loves his wife, plays with her hair and gives soft touched. HOLD ME BACKKKKK everything is just so soft and gentle and loving. Literally when his quietly speaking to dunk in ep 6 that’s just him. He is still related to Baelor and Dearon, he gets his gentleness from them.
Soft
Pure mush!!!! So cute!
“Can I have my baby back?” You ask smiling at your husband and newborn son. The man ‘offering’ to look after him while you spent some time with the boys before bed.
“He’s my son.” Maekar says rubbing looking down at the cooing babe in his arms, the little boy holding his father’s finger in his little hand.
“He’s mine too.” You laugh, not minding that he’s stolen your baby from you. Happy he loves his children so much, him not always able to show it.
“You got to carry him for nine moons, let me hold him now.” Maekar say turning away from you as if you were going to steal the babe of him. You just wanting to kiss him.
“But-.”
“I’m sure the older boys would love some time with their mother.” He tells you, him having been working all day and unable to be with your sons.
“Would they now?” You ask raising an eyebrow at your husband. Daeron and Aerion both sleeping as it’s late. You having just read Daeron back to sleep. You giving your husband a look. “Stop sniffing him.”
“I’ve missed having a newborn.” Maekar muses swaying slightly with the boy, while kissing his forehead. “You’re already more well behaved than your brothers.”
“Maekar.” You say sternly giving him a look. “It’s time for bed.”
“Wife.” He teases a smirk apart in his face, him at his happiest with you and the children, a newborn babe in his arms.
“You get so mushy when we have a baby.” You say rolling your eyes while you get ready for bed. Letting him cuddle Aemon for a while longer, the babe needing to actually sleep in his crib for a change.
“I love you.” Maekar whispers to you later while you cuddle in bed, your head resting on his chest while he holds you close to him. All the children sleeping in their beds.
“I love you too.” You say kissing his chest softly. Tired but also wanting to spent time with just Maekar.
“Can we have more?” He asks quietly as if saying it any louder would scare the idea away.
“Isn’t three enough?” You ask, happy with any amount of children you have.
“Just a few more?” He whispers kissing the top of your head, already picturing a future with more children.
“We’ll see.”
“Thank you.” He says softly, loving you and the children more than anything in the world.
“What for?” You ask in genuine confusion, not knowing what you’ve done to warrant being thanked.
✧ summary: as you ready for the day, your husband wishes to braid your hair. who are you to deny him?
✧ genre: fluff
✧ warnings: kissing, age-gap, reader is in her 20s
✧ word count: 2.2k
✧ author's note: yes, it's my hc that maekar knows how to braid, idc. also daella and rhae don't exist! so maekar just has his 4 maekarlings
Your solar at Summerhall held the languid warmth of late afternoon, something you appreciated greatly as the walls inside the castle were always cold in the way to make you shiver if you were not moving much. You were a woman who would bask in the sun all day if she could, to a reasonable extent, which makes Maekar fret over you like you were to melt in front of his eyes.
Oh, your Maekar, ever the worrisome husband, even if he wouldn’t admit it to you forwardly.
It was a dull morning so far and you were not in the mood to have your patience be tested so early. Getting up and preparing for the day was tedious, but it was no matter—you’d overcome it with grace, especially with the help of your ladies.
Your gown had already been laced and smoothed into place. It clung and flowed in equal measure—fitting through the bodice with the sleeves tapering elegantly at your wrists, skirts cascading in soft folds to the floor. Tiny pearls were stitched into the fabric, catching the light when you moved, and as you turned your head, they gleamed faintly at your collarbone like scattered dew.
Behind you, your ladies prepared the final task.
“Careful,” you murmured a name, meeting one girl’s anxious eyes in the mirror as she hovered with a comb. “You look terrified. Do try to relax, I won’t scold you.”
She flushed, but seemed to loosen with your reassurance. “I apologize, my lady. I’m trying for perfection.”
“Perfection is rarely achieved by trembling,” you tell her with a kind gaze. You were going to add more to settle her but a low, familiar voice cut through the room.
“Then perhaps they should stand aside.”
A door had opened without fanfare.
Maekar entered as he did most spaces: quietly, and yet impossibly present. Over the time married to him, you had gotten used to that. You were fond of how he need not ceremony to do things.
The servants curtsied at once. “My prince,” one began.
He did not look at them. Instead, his violet eyes found you in the mirror and remained there.
You turned in your chair, lips curved upwards, and greeted your husband. “My love, good morrow. Did you forget something in our chambers?”
He nodded at your wish for a good morning but after that, for a moment, he said nothing. The stillness stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His stare traveled down the line of your shoulders, the fall of silk, the pearls at your throat. That was his way of showing you he liked what you wore. You were beautiful, and he found the color lovely on you.
You tilted your chin slightly. “Well?” you asked, unable to resist; a compliment from your husband would most certainly brighten your day.
His jaw shifted faintly. “You are… well attired, my heart.”
One of your ladies stifled a smile at the phrasing. You gave her a side-eye in warning and she immediately presented a neutral expression. You knew she meant no harm nor mockery to the prince, but your husband would likely take it that way.
You looked back at Maekar.
“High praise,” you replied. “I shall treasure it.”
He stepped closer, boots soundless on the stone.
“They were about to finish my hair,” you explained, gesturing toward the array of ribbons and pearl pins laid upon the dressing table. “Unless you object?”
“I do.”
The room stilled, and you blinked at him. “You object? My dragon, you do understand I like my hair done, yes?”
“Yes.”
He lifted one hand—an economical gesture, not one of cruelty or sharpness. Hm, perhaps he was in a good mood today. “Leave us.”
The servants exchanged glances, hesitant only for a heartbeat. “At once, Your Grace.” Before they bowed and withdrew, gathering combs and oils as they went.
The doors closed softly behind them.
You arched a brow at your husband, teasing. “That was abrupt. Must you drive those poor girls off?”
“It was sufficient.” A simple answer.
“And what offense has my hair committed?” You put a hand to your chest in mocking before turning back around to face the mirror, inspecting yourself.
Maekar’s mouth twitched. Almost.
He stepped behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him at your back, and the placement of his large hands on the bare of your shoulders.
“I would do it,” he said.
You turned your head slightly, your expression one of genuine surprise. “Do what?”
“Your hair.”
You studied him in the mirror, searching for jest. You found none.
“You?” you questioned, amusement in your tone. “The man who frightens squires into dropping their swords? Since when does the Anvil style hair, let alone braid?”
His mouth tilted faintly at one corner. “Since long before I was the Anvil.” He reached toward the table, fingers selecting a comb with surprising familiarity. “And I do not frighten them. They merely frighten themselves.”
You hummed in response.
“When I was a boy,” he said, tone even, “I would watch my mother’s ladies. I was curious, interested. She noticed and let me learn to braid her from then on when duty allowed.”
There was no embellishment in his voice. He offered the information plainly, as though recounting troop movements.
You softened immediately at his explanation, your neck moving upwards to your right to regard him. “You never told me that.”
“There was no cause, my love.”
“There’s cause now.”
He did not respond to that, and instead began.
“Well,” you added gently, turning back toward the mirror, “I should be honored to receive such rare service.”
He chuckled softly. “Precisely.”
His hands entered your hair carefully, not tentative but purposeful—separating sections with the comb, letting them fall over his fingers to understand their thickness, their weight. He did not assume their texture; he learned it in real time, adjusting pressure with quiet precision.
You watched him in the mirror.
The prince who had faced down hundreds of men and battlefield chaos now stood intent upon dividing strands evenly.
“You look deeply troubled,” you observed, “and as though you are planning a siege.”
“I am calculating strategy. If I fail, you will not let me forget it.”
“True… but it is just hair.”
“It is symmetry.”
You laughed softly at his answers. Perfectionist.
He began the first braid at your temple, dividing the section into three clean strands. His fingers moved with steady assurance, weaving one over the other in a pattern that was both structured and gentle. He did not tug and he did not rush.
You smiled. “The realm should be grateful that you apply such diligence to statecraft.”
“The realm,” he said dryly, “does not sit before me with pearl pins.”
You rolled your eyes playfully.
Another section followed on the opposite side, then two more at the back: smaller, intricate braids that would later be gathered together. He worked methodically, constructing something more complex than a single plait: multiple braids interlacing, crossing one another before being drawn into a cohesive arrangement.
“You are making more of them than necessary,” you noted, but you didn’t mind. In fact, you were trying to still yourself from the giddiness in your body. Your husband’s braiding was far better than yours and you adored it.
“Necessary is subjective.” He slid a ribbon through one braid before continuing the weave. “I need durability.”
“Durability?”
“You move when you speak,” he said plainly. “You gesture. You turn quickly. It needs to hold. I will not have it undone by the first sign of movement.”
Mischief glinted in your eyes, lips tipped upward at the practicality of it. “I did not realize I required fortification.”
“You do not,” he corrected. “But I prefer certainty.”
The admission settled warmly in your chest.
As he worked, his knuckles occasionally brushed the nape of your neck. Each touch was unintentional, yet unhurried, familiar. You found yourself relaxing beneath his hands, the rhythm of the braids soothing in a way you had not expected.
“You will have to do this for our daughters,” you said lightly after a moment; a topic brought out of nowhere, yes, but one that must be spoken of one way or another.
His hands stilled for a fraction of a breath, though one brow lifted in the mirror. “Our daughters?”
“Yes.” You smiled at his reflection. “You will sit them before you just as I am now. They will complain, and you will pretend not to hear it. I can already envision you, scowling terribly, trying to convince a little girl to be still. Oh, that would be a sight.”
“She will not complain and I do not scowl.”
“She will absolutely complain and you absolutely scowl.”
“Mm. Then she will learn discipline.”
You laughed again, and the sound seemed to warm the room more than the sun. “You cannot command a child into stillness.”
“You forget I have four sons. I can attempt a fifth time.”
“You’d fail,” you said gently. “She would look at you with my eyes, and you would surrender.”
He huffed faintly. He hated that you were right in every way.
“But yes,” you pressed, “you would do it. You would braid her hair before feasts and tourneys… she’d insist upon more accessories and you’d indulge her without resistance.”
He exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to amusement. If he spoils his wife, he was fondly sure to spoil a little girl who was a mix of the both of you.
“A daughter,” he said after a moment, threading a thin braid beneath two others to anchor it, “would be agreeable.”
“Truly?”
“Of course, she would be formidable.” His voice lowered slightly. “If she were to take after you.”
“Clever,” he went on, adjusting the braid’s tension. “And far too persuasive.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the sincerity beneath his restraint, but you were able to reply with: “I think she would have your stubbornness,” you managed to tease.
“That is not a flaw.” Maekar said defensively.
“It is when two of you exist in one household,” you rose an eyebrow.
“You underestimate me; I would manage it.”
“My love, I don’t mean to remind you, but you can scarcely manage your sons: two already full-grown.”
“They are not mine alone,” he countered.
You hummed, tilting your head. “They are not mine at all.”
“They are yours now,” he said firmly. “By marriage.”
The weight of that simple statement lingered. He did not offer affection with grand gestures, but at least he made claims with certainty. You were his wife.
He weaved the smaller braids together now, drawing them toward the back of your head in an intricate pattern. He crossed them over one another, wanting to secure them with pearl pins at deliberate intervals.
You reached up slightly, offering him one. He took it without breaking focus, sliding it neatly into place. Ribbons were threaded through certain strands, creating a lattice of silk and shine that caught the light when you shifted.
“You are very serious about this,” you murmured.
“It reflects upon me.”
“Oh?” You grinned.
“Your ladies have most likely told the others I was to do your hair. If it is poorly done, they will assume their prince lacks skill.”
“And that would wound your pride?”
He met your gaze in the mirror. “Immensely.”
You laughed softer this time.
When he finished securing the final braid, he stepped back slightly—but did not fully withdraw. Instead, he studied the result with the same scrutiny he might grant a sword newly forged.
The style was intricate—multiple braids interwoven, coiled subtly at the back, ribbons threaded like veins of color, pearl pins glimmering at intersections. It framed your face without overwhelming it, leaving softness at the temples and elegance at the crown.
“Well?” you prompted.
He folded his arms, chin lifting a fraction.
“I am satisfied,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Satisfied?”
“With my work,” he clarifies.
“Ah, of course,” you turned in your seat to face him fully. “You are pleased with yourself.”
“I executed it well.”
“Did you?” You suppress a grin. “You make it sound like you conquered it.”
“It did not resist.”
“Hm, mayhaps it was intimidated.”
Maekar rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked its usual severity.
You rose slowly, closing the space between you. Up close, the severity of his expression softened, as it always did when he looked at you without audience.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
His gaze searched yours—as though ensuring you meant it. Then he leaned down and pressed his lips to your cheek. The kiss was unguarded, warmer than his words ever were, lingering just long enough to say what he would not.
You caught him before he withdrew, turning your face and brushing your mouth against his. The kiss deepened slightly and it was intimate in its steadiness. Your hand curled lightly into the fabric at his chest.
When you parted, your foreheads nearly touched.
“I’d also like to remind how much I love you,” you told him.
His eyes held your own without hesitation.
Maekar did not squander declarations. He did not dress them in poetry.
But he did not withhold them either.
“I know,” he murmured first, thumb brushing once against your jaw.
Then, softer, just meant for you:
“And I love you.”
✧ tagging: @ghostlybfgf @slenderclaw @sem-ra @potato-dragons @callmefatherr @mariaaysbusjs @beebeechaos @stillinraccooncity @imnoonejustapiramide
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Hii, I saw a tiktok of a girl saying that she loves sleeping in her parents' bed when one of them is away and she gets to have a sleepover with the leftover parent, tbh, so real, like ur parents' bed is so much more comfortable and warm. would love to see this with the markarlings even the baelorling :)
Sleepovers
Baby Aerion>>> this isn’t fully what you ask for (I don’t think) but it’s the maekarlings in bed with one parent while the other is away
Daeron
“What are you doing?” Maekar grumbles as his eldest son climbs into bed with him. The boy wearing the jumper you made him. Daeron wanting to sleep in your bed while you’re away visiting family, your grandmother sick. “Go back to bed.”
“I’m sleeping here.” Daeron mumbles hiding his face in your pillow as he holds it close to his chest. “Night.”
“No you’re not, fuck off.” Maekar says, wanting one night of having the bed to himself. Not having slept alone in years, him using it as an excuse to sleep in the middle of the bed. “Daeron.” Maekar whisper shouts lightly shaking the boy who fell asleep as soon as he finishes speaking. The boy clearly not having slept properly in days. “For fucks.” Maekar mumbles to himself, grateful that no one can see the soft smile on his face. “Good night.”
-
Aerion
“Why are you in my bed sweetheart?” You ask doing a double take when you see your 5 year old sat on your bed. You having just gotten Aemon to sleep. Maekar having left early today to deal with a minor lord causes issues.
“I’m sleeping in here.” Aerion say the hood of his dragon snug falling into his face, your boy looking adorable.
“Why? Are you alright?” You ask, under the impression that you would have at least one night on your own.
“I’m fine.” He says snuggling up in bed with is toy dragon being used as a pillow. Daeron having picked out brightflame for his brother when Aerion was born.
“Then why aren’t you in your own bed my little dragon?” You ask climbing into bed with him, not being surprised if you wake up to your two eldest in bed with you by morning.
“Kepa say I take care of you.” He responds hiding his smile in his dragon, knowing Maekar didn’t mean it like that.
“Did he?” You ask raising an eyebrow at the boy who adores his father. The boy wanting to be just like him when he grows up.
“And while Kepa gone we can cuddle and read dragon book all night.”
“Can we now?” You ask with a light laugh, pulling your little boy into your arms, making him giggle while you press kisses all over his face.
-
Daella
“Fuck off daeron.” Maekar groans when he hears stumbling and someone clambering into bed. You having been up with Aegon the boy having a nightmare, unaware that you would be staying with your eldest.
“Im not Daeron.” Daella grumbles climbing into bed with her father, arms full of all the toys she refuses to sleep without.
“Sorry darling, I just hear someone stumbling into bed and assume.” He says softening at the sound of his daughter, the girl unable to do anything wrong in his eyes. “Where is your mother?”
“Sleeping in Daeron chambers with him, he doesn’t feel very well.” She explains making her way into her father’s arms wanting a cuddle. Her snuggle bear between them. “So she said I could sleep in with you instead.”
“Why were you in Daerons chamber anyway?”
“I heard him say he was scared to sleep so I brought him snuggles bear so he could sleep with us.” She says sounding adorable in her little voice. Liking to help you look after her big brother.
“That’s nice of you.” Maekar says kissing the top of his little princess’s head.
“I know.”
-
Aemon
“When will father be back?” Aemon asks you sat on the bed massive book in his lap while you get ready for bed behind the divider.
“I’m not sure, tomorrow I think.” You say removing your jewelry after getting changed. “Why?”
“Just wanted to know.” He say flipping a page, looking forward to Maekar getting him the sequel. “Can I sleep in here tonight?”
“Of course you can.” You say coming out from behind the divider and blowing out some of the candles.
“Thank you.”
-
Aegon and Rhae
“No it’s my turn!” Egg shouts at his younger sister, it being his turn to sleep in bed with you the night before Maekar came home. His having to be away for a few days to deal with a lord and you letting the children sleep in with you while he was away. “You get tomorrow!”
“But Kepa will be back tomorrow!” Rhae shouts back, not finding it fair as she had to share with Daeron. Your eldest needing comfort after a dream.
“So!”
“Both of you enough!” You snap just wanting to go to bed, you being frustrated with all the arguments. “You can either both sleep with me or neither of you can!”
“Sorry muña.” They both say quickly, looking at the floor in embarrassment. Both just wanting to cuddle with you.
Maekar Targaryen’s Very Reasonable Safety Measures
Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Word cont: 2.4k
Summary:
The floors are dangerous. The terrace is dangerous. The wind is dangerous. The servants are incompetent. The children are too loud.
According to Maekar Targaryen, the only safe place for his pregnant wife is buried under a mountain of pillows.
English is not my first language!
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The council chamber of Summerhall was cool, but the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a sword. Maekar Targaryen stood at the table, both hands braced against the surface, fixing his steward with a stare sharp enough to make it seem as though the man had just confessed to treason. His stern face, framed by pale Targaryen hair, revealed no emotion beyond a deep, nearly permanent irritation.
“Repeat that,” Maekar demanded, his voice like two stones grinding together.
“My prince… I only noted that purchasing another twenty soft featherbeds from Myr and summoning yet another maester from the Citadel might be… a slight excess,” the steward stammered, nervously adjusting his collar. “With all due respect, the princess has already given birth six times. Your elder children are healthy. The princess knows perfectly well how to care for herself in this condition, and the household-
Maekar straightened slowly, and the knights present in the chamber suddenly became very interested in the tips of their boots. When the prince took on that posture, a wise man looked for the nearest shield. He was not his brother. He did not soften situations with a smile or a diplomatic word.
“The household,” Maekar began, taking one step closer, each footfall striking the stone floor like a warning, “is made up of a band of careless idiots. My wife carries our seventh child beneath her heart. The fact that the previous six times did not end in tragedy is not due to chance, the whim of the Seven, or, gods forbid, your competence.”
The steward swallowed audibly, not daring to interrupt.
“It is due to this,” Maekar continued, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to make the heavy brass inkwells jump, “that I personally eliminate every potential danger. If I say the stone floors in the family wing are to be covered with three layers of thick carpeting by dusk, then they will be. If there is still so much traffic and noise in the corridors that my wife cannot have a moment of peace, I will personally see to it that you and your men seek new employment at the Wall. No one there will complain of too many luxuries. Have I made myself clear enough?”
A chorus of panicked nods was the only answer given in the chamber.
Maekar did not dignify them with another glance. He pushed back the heavy chair, adjusted the collar of his outer robes, and strode toward the door with quick, decisive steps.
Officially, the council was over.
Unofficially, the clock in his mind had already counted far too many minutes since he had last seen you sitting safely in your chair. The entire castle, with its drafts, sharp-edged furniture, and clumsy servants, seemed to him in that moment like one vast field of hidden traps.
When you finally managed to rise from bed, you found your chambers in the midst of a revolution-one Maekar would, without blinking, have called “the implementation of safety measures.” Every rug runner, even the smallest, had vanished from the floors so you could not so much as think about slipping on one. The heavy carved chair you loved so much had been moved away from the window and buried beneath so many cushions it resembled the nest of some enormous bird.
The room was unbearably stuffy. The heavy, stagnant air of Summerhall made every breath feel like a challenge. You sighed, resting a hand atop your very advanced belly, and started toward the terrace doors to get even a mouthful of fresh air.
You did not even manage to touch the handle.
The door flew open with force, and Maekar himself appeared in the doorway. His severe face hardened instantly at the sight of you. In a few swift steps, he blocked your path like the walls of the Red Keep.
“Where are you going?” he growled, his deep voice vibrating through the stifling room. “The air outside is too damp. Sit.”
“Maekar, for the love of the gods, it feels like a forge in here,” you answered, setting your free hand on your hip and looking at him with a mixture of irritation and amusement. “I only want to step out onto the terrace. Get some air. I’ll be fine.”
“No,” he cut in shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and not moving an inch. “The wind from the hills is treacherous at this hour. You will not risk it.”
You took one step forward, lifting your chin high to meet those ever-stern violet eyes.
“My dear husband,” you began softly, but with emphasis, patting your belly pointedly. “This is our seventh child. Nothing went wrong the previous six times. You truly need to rest and let me breathe.”
Maekar did not even blink. His face remained deathly serious as he leaned slightly toward you, radiating that unshakable, stern certainty of his.
“My love,” he said, his voice carrying absolute, almost immovable gravity, “there is a direct correlation between my actions when you are with child and the fact that we have six healthy children. Do not question success.”
You froze for a moment.
Then a loud, helpless laugh burst from your lips.
“Are you serious?” you laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Are you truly trying to convince me that all of this paranoia is simply a well-considered plan?”
“It is not paranoia. It is caution,” he muttered, but in that same moment his gaze softened by the smallest degree. Before you could protest, his strong hands settled on your shoulders, and with remarkable care for him, he began steering you back toward the safe nest of pillows. “Now sit.”
Once Maekar had made certain you were seated comfortably and had no immediate plans to storm the terrace doors, he stepped out into the corridor, closing the heavy door quietly behind him. He had not taken even three steps when he heard hurried, muffled little footsteps and a distinctive shuffling sound.
Daella appeared around the corner, holding the hand of one-year-old Rhae, who was still taking rather unsteady, wobbling steps. Just behind them walked five-year-old Aegon. At the sight of his father, little Aegon immediately slowed, though his large violet eyes still shone with curiosity. In his hand, he clutched a hastily gathered bouquet of slightly crushed marigolds from the garden.
Maekar stopped and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at them with his traditional stern expression. The children, however, did not flinch. They knew that look too well. To them, their father was not a monster, but rather an exceedingly grumpy commander whose moods simply had to be endured.
“Where are you going?” Maekar asked, his voice quiet but carrying like an order.
“To Mother,” Daella replied matter-of-factly. “I brought her fresh figs from the kitchens so she won’t be hungry.”
“And flowers!” Aegon leaned forward, waving the crushed stems. “Rhae wanted to come too!”
Maekar looked at the bouquet, then at the figs, and finally at little Rhae, who had just let go of her sister’s hand and, with a soft, delighted squeal, toddled straight toward his legs, grabbing the hem of his robes. He frowned so deeply his brows nearly became one line, but he immediately crouched so the little girl would not lose her balance.
“Your shoes.” he observed grimly, though his large hand guarded the one-year-old with incredible gentleness. “They click against the stone. And you, Rhae, stomp louder than all of them. I told the steward clearly that this corridor was to be quiet. Your mother must rest. If you wish to go in, you will walk on your toes. Like scouts. Not a single sound.”
Daella gave her father a faint, amused look, then obediently lifted her heels.
“Yes, Father.” she whispered.
Maekar turned his stern gaze on his son.
“And you, young man.” he muttered to Aegon. “You watch your sister. No running around the chamber. No jumping on the bed. You give her the flowers, sit on the stool, and behave as befits a prince. Understood?”
The boy nodded vigorously, almost saluting with his little hand.
Maekar lifted one-year-old Rhae onto one arm-making sure her small hands did not dirty his robes-and opened the door for the little troop with his other hand. He let them in, then entered right behind them, shutting the room away from the rest of the world.
As soon as the heavy door closed behind Maekar, the room immediately felt brighter. Daella, faithful to the promise she had made her father, walked on her toes, though her ear-to-ear grin entirely ruined her “scout-like” seriousness. Aegon hurried straight toward your chaise, holding the crushed marigolds as if they were the greatest treasure in the world, while little Rhae, still carried on Maekar’s arm, reached her chubby hands toward you.
“Did he terrorize you in the corridor again?” you asked with a smile, opening your arms as Maekar, with extraordinary care, set the one-year-old girl on the bed beside you.
“He told us to walk like scouts,” Aegon whispered conspiratorially, climbing onto the stool and placing the flowers in your lap. “Mommy, are you really going to burst because of the seventh baby? Because Father looks like he’s about to burst himself.”
Daella snorted with laughter, setting the bowl of fresh figs on the bedside table.
“Aegon, stop talking nonsense.” his older sister scolded, then came closer and kissed your cheek gently. “Father is just in one of his moods again. The castle steward nearly fainted when he ordered the floors torn up so thicker carpets could be laid down.”
You laughed softly, tucking little Rhae against your side. She immediately became fascinated by the tassels on your coverlet, babbling happily under her breath. You adjusted the crumpled marigold stems Aegon had brought and glanced toward the wall, where Maekar stood near the window. He watched all of you in silence, arms crossed over his chest, but there was the slightest softening at the corners of his eyes.
“Your father simply… cares about us very much” you said gently, stroking Aegon’s white hair. “But I promise, my darling, everything is all right. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
“That’s good,” Aegon muttered, reaching for one of the figs, which Daella immediately swatted his fingers away from. “Because when Father gets nervous, even the knights in the castle are afraid to breathe too loudly.”
You spent the next hour with them, listening to Daella talk about her lessons and Aegon complain that one-year-old Rhae had ruined his favorite toy. In that warm, safe nest of pillows, surrounded by your children, you could almost forget for a while about the fear that paralyzed your husband so completely.
When the sun finally began to set, Daella-as befitted an elder sister-gathered her siblings. She led sleepy Aegon away and lifted half-asleep Rhae into her arms, promising they would bring you more flowers in the morning. They slipped out quietly, leaving you and Maekar alone in the chamber.
The silence that followed slowly thickened with the approaching night, and your stern guardian finally pushed away from the wall and came closer to the bed.
Late night brought Summerhall the relief it had been waiting for. The heat had finally eased, giving way to a cooler breeze that gently stirred the heavy curtains in the bedchamber. The candles burned low, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls.
You sat on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, listening to Maekar’s steady breathing as he moved around the room. He had already removed his heavy outer garments, setting aside his belt and family signet. He wore only a simple, loose linen tunic now. Without all the layers of expensive fabric and harsh tailoring, he seemed strangely… human. Though still powerful and broad-shouldered, in the half-dark he looked simply like a man who was deathly tired.
He approached the bed with astonishing quiet. Despite his size, he could move soundlessly when he wished to. He sat on the edge of the mattress, which dipped beneath his weight.
For a long while, he said nothing.
He simply looked at you, the faint glow of the last candle reflected in his violet eyes. At last, he reached out one great, scarred hand and, with hesitation-almost reverence-laid it on your belly. Beneath his warmth, you felt the seventh child move faintly, as though answering its father’s touch.
Maekar flinched slightly, and that rare, almost painful grimace of tenderness appeared on his stern face-the one he never showed anyone else.
“You’re still awake.” he murmured, and his voice carried none of the rough command he had used in the corridor. It was low, raspy, and filled with exhaustion.
“I was waiting for you.” you answered softly, placing your hand over his fingers. “You spent the entire day running through the castle and terrorizing the servants. I thought you might at least stop at night.”
Maekar exhaled loudly through his nose, which was probably his version of a sigh. He moved his hand higher, stroking the taut skin of your belly with his thumb. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder as if he had finally allowed himself to set down the weight he had been carrying all day.
“I cannot.” he whispered against the fabric of your nightgown. “When I lead men into battle, every movement has purpose. I know the strength of my arms. I know how long a shield wall will hold and when the enemy will break. Everything depends on my command. But here?”
He lifted his head to look into your eyes, and in his gaze was such deep, grim fear that it stole the breath from your chest.
“Here, my anger is useless. I could take the head of anyone who looked at you wrongly, but I cannot stop a fever or ill fate. Even if I placed guards at every step and covered all of Westeros in carpets, in the end my orders mean nothing against nature.”
His hand left your belly and moved to your cheek, his rough fingers impossibly gentle.
“You have survived six births, and every time, I feel as though I stand alone before an entire army without a sword in my hand. You are the one thing holding me together, (Y/N). If anything went wrong this seventh time… if you were gone… there would be nothing left to gather. Only ashes. So yes, I will be a tyrant to the servants. I will growl at every lord in this castle. But you and this child will live.”
You smiled faintly, drawing his head closer and threading your fingers through his pale hair. Maekar muttered something unintelligible, but in the end, he lay down beside you, one hand still resting on your belly like a guard unwilling to leave his post before dawn.
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
Thank you so much for reading 🤍
I had so much fun writing Maekar’s version of “being calm.”
Apparently, for him, that means threatening to send people to the Wall, treating terraces like enemy territory, and making sure his pregnant wife is surrounded by enough pillows to survive a siege.
But beneath all of that, I really wanted this story to be about fear — the kind Maekar cannot command away, fight away, or frighten into obedience. He is a man who knows what to do on a battlefield, but when it comes to the woman he loves, all that strength suddenly has nowhere to go.
So he becomes impossible. Overbearing. Terrifying. Ridiculous.
And completely, hopelessly devoted.
Thank you for reading this little piece of Maekar domestic chaos 🤍
The mud of Ashford Meadow was cold, but the blood boiling in Ser Duncan the Tall’s veins was white-hot.
You had been on the road with Dunk for months now. You knew the weight of his silences, the steady, comforting rhythm of his stride, and the fierce, quiet protectiveness that had grown between you with every shared campfire and meager meal. He was a giant, but to you, he was just Dunk—the man who made sure you ate the larger half of the bread and slept on the drier side of the cloak.
But right now, the towering hedge knight was a few paces too far away, caught in a press of the crowd, and you were trapped in a nightmare.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stood over you, his handsome face twisted into something cruel and monstrous. He didn’t care about the simple wooden puppets you had been helping to pack away. He cared only for his bruised royal ego, and he had decided to take it out on you.
"A treasonous display," Aerion hissed, his fingers gripping your right hand like iron bands.
"My Prince, please, we meant no offense—" you tried to reason, your voice trembling as you struggled to pull away.
"Silence, smallfolk," he snarled.
Before you could scream, Aerion twisted your hand. A sickening, sharp crack echoed through the immediate air as he deliberately broke your fingers.
The pain was instantaneous and blinding. A choked, agonizing shriek torn from your throat, and you fell to your knees in the dirt, clutching your hand to your chest as tears flooded your eyes.
Then came the roar.
It wasn't the roar of a dragon; it was the roar of a man pushed past his absolute limit. Dunk exploded through the crowd like a battering ram, his massive frame cutting a path through smallfolk and guards alike. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury.
Aerion barely had time to turn before Dunk was upon him. Dunk’s massive, calloused fist connected squarely with the Prince’s pristine, arrogant face. The impact sounded like a stone hitting a wall.
The blow sent Aerion crashing heavily onto the muddy ground, his nose shattered and bleeding. Dunk didn't stop there. He lunged forward, grabbing the prince by his fine velvet tunic, lifting him halfway off the dirt, and slamming him back down with bone-jarring force.
"Step back! Stand away!" the royal guards screamed, spears instantly ringing Dunk’s throat, but Dunk didn't even look at them. His eyes were locked on Aerion, his chest heaving, ready to tear the prince apart with his bare hands if they so much as twitched.
It took the intervention of Prince Baelor himself to stay the executions that night, leading to the demand that would decide all their fates: a Trial of the Seven.
The days that followed were a blur of terror and agony. While Dunk scrambled to find six good men to ride with him, you were tended to by a sympathetic maester who bound your broken fingers. The physical pain was nothing compared to the suffocating dread in your chest. Dunk was fighting for his life. Because he had protected you, he was facing seven of the deadliest knights in the realm.
On the day of the trial, you could barely watch. The thunder of hooves, the splintering of lances, and the horrific crunch of steel on steel filled the meadow. When the dust finally settled, Prince Baelor Breakspear lay dying, and Aerion Targaryen had withdrawn his accusation, sparing Dunk’s life at a terrible cost.
In the chaotic, grief-stricken aftermath of the meadow, the crowds dispersed like ghosts. The tourney grounds were empty, littered with broken wood and trampled grass.
You walked aimlessly through the tents, your breath catching in your throat, your bound hand cradled against your waist. Your heart hammered against your ribs until, finally, you saw him.
Dunk was sitting heavily on a overturned crate near the edge of the woods, away from the camp. His armor was gone, save for his greaves. He looked utterly defeated. His face was a map of violent purple bruises, his lip was split, and his knuckles were raw and bloody. He looked less like a victorious knight and more like a man who had carried the weight of the world and failed.
"Dunk," you breathed.
His head snapped up. When his weary blue eyes landed on you, something in him seemed to fracture. He stood up so fast the crate toppled over, taking two long, hurried strides toward you before suddenly halting, as if afraid he might break you further.
"You're here," he whispered, his voice thick and rough. He looked down at your right hand, resting in its tight splint and bandages. A spasm of pure agony crossed his face. "Your hand..."
"Dunk, it's alright—"
"It's not," he choked out, stepping closer, his large hands hovering near your shoulders but not quite touching you. A tear tracked through the dirt and dried blood on his cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I had been quicker... if I had been standing next to you instead of jawing in the crowd, he never would have touched you. I was supposed to protect you. We've been on the road all this time, and the moment you needed me, I let him hurt you."
He looked so small in that moment, despite his towering height. The guilt was crushing him.
You didn't say a word. You couldn't. Your heart was too full, aching with a profound warmth for this foolish, noble giant.
Slowly, you raised your left hand—your uninjured one. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his stubbled jawline, gently tracing the heavy bruise blooming across his cheekbone.
Dunk leaned into your palm instinctively, closing his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping his lips.
Standing on your tiptoes, you pulled his head down slightly. You didn't speak a reassurance; instead, you pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft, tasting of salt, copper, and the cold Ashford air, but it carried everything you couldn't put into words. It was forgiveness, it was gratitude, and it was a promise that you weren't going anywhere.
Dunk froze for a fraction of a second in sheer shock before his large, good hand wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest with desperate, trembling tenderness. He held you as if you were the only solid thing left in the Seven Kingdoms, his forehead resting against yours as the kiss broke.
"I've got you," he murmured against your skin, his voice steadying. "I've got you now."
Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.
Word Count: 7k+
Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, canon inaccuracies (I'm literally making shit up), age gap
Note: chapter 7, 7k words, heavy mentions of the Faith of the Seven - it's all interlinked. We love some symbolism here (and if you squint, there's hints of the defining characteristics of the Seven scattered throughout this chapter).
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When you were younger, the Septas were always chastising you.
Not because you were a weak student, you had always been diligent in your studies, your father had ensured that such habits had been instilled within you from a young age. He would remind you that Fleabottom was ruthless, that it did not discriminate — you could only escape its grasp if you sought to better yourself.
'The Father Above helps those who help themselves.' He would often remind you, yet ironically his words did not serve to push you closer to the Seven also. You only aimed to better yourself.
It was this very idea that the Septa's did not like, your 'feeble faith'. You would absent-mindedly mumble through your morning prayers, mind distant as you sat in assemblies that preached about the Faith of the Seven and doctrine that you did not truly believe in. And unfortunately, the Septas were proficient in recognising an idle mind.
Your father was often called in when the Septas became tired of your indifference. He would listen attentively to their concerns, of how they feared your soul was at risk, of how you had such great potential. And he would join them in their criticisms. Your father was a believer, and you would often wonder why you did not share his sentiments. You were raised with his ideologies weaved into your childhood, listening time and time again of how the Father had protected the veterinary practice, how the Smith had fixed the business each time it neared collapsed, how the Mother looked after you.
You did not perceive it the same way.
You could not attribute the success of the practice to the gods your father prayed to. You did not see them labouring night after night, sleep-deprived and mind addled with exhaustion — that was your father, not the one Above. It was your father who cared for his patients, it was your father that persevered over the mountain of records that he had collated over the years, it was your father who would pour his life savings in keeping it afloat. It was your father that rescued the business from teetering on the edge of collapse for years.
You could not credit the gods for that.
Even now when you were older, when your life was seasoned with experiences your child mind would not have been able to comprehend, you were still unsure of what you believed in. Perhaps the gods were real; dragons did once reign the skies, how could such great strength exist without being hailed as some great divinity. But the dragons died.
Perhaps your situation was a result of your disbelief. Perhaps this was all punishment for having an idle mind.
You were not shocked to discover that the Targaryens were believers.
Maybe your disbelief was rooted in the circumstances of your upbringing (Fleabottom often taxed a person for all they were worth), but it was clear their faith was founded in their fortune. After all, their blood was of the kings of old, they were the ones to control the dragons. If the dragons were seen as gods, what would that make their riders? Who could demand deities to yield to them?
Yet the Targaryens always had a manner of being able to surprise you. You truthfully did not expect them to be so…festive.
Summerhall had been transformed.
Preparations for Feast Day of Our Father Above were littered across the property, the children had spent days creating origami stars that were to hang from the chandeliers. They had been cut in such a manner that the light flashed through the small decorative holes that Daella had carved into the paper, acting like lanterns. Candles, fresh evergreens and celestial imagery could be found in every single room, not even your bedroom had been spared; the Targaryens were truly committed to the aesthetic.
Baelor had reportedly prepared everything weeks in advance, a fact you only became privy to once Aegon had dragged you to sit on the drawing room's floor, his fingers curling into your skirts as he excitedly chattered.
"Uncle says it's important to celebrate Feast Day, shows that we are grateful for the Father Above." Aegon rambled when you explained that you didn't really celebrate. You had never celebrated to such an extent, not even when your own father was still alive. You would simply visit the Sept in the morning, offering prayers that held no weight as you stared at the carved ornate statues of the Seven, and that would be the extent of your revelries — you would spend the rest of the day at the practice, sat at the desk of the reception while your father continued working. Now you don't even visit the Sept. You haven't stepped foot in the holy building ever since your father's funeral.
Aegon didn't look at you as he spoke, his attention dedicated to the pale oak figurine he was grasping between his hands, painting it in vivid vermilion and cerulean. Apparently Maekar had brought them for all his kids, yet two of the wooden figurines remain in their packaging, void of any paint or personalisation as his eldest two ignored it. Aegon was painting his in the image of his namesake, the paintbrush detailing the Conqueror's crown with impressive precision. However, you couldn't help but notice that he did not paint Aegon I's sword.
Rhae was sat beside him while he spoke, seemingly transfixed by her own figurine that she painted in gilded golden armour grasping a shield that was decorated with a blazing sun. She did not speak to you. In fact, she had avoided doing so ever since your interaction within the kitchen, regardless of how many times you had tried to speak to her.
"It is important." You replied, gaze fixed on the way Rhae painted dark long hair on her figurine, your fingers carding through Meraxes' fur, the small beast purring contentedly on your lap. You were sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, Aegon leaning against your side. "It's nice that you all celebrate together."
Aegon made a face at your words.
"That's just normal." He remarked, lips twisting slightly as he finally raised his gaze to look at you. The pale light of the sun spilled through the large windows, rays falling on his face, exposing the pure violet of his irises. You couldn't believe that you had ever believed they were blue.
You rolled your eyes playfully, smiling as you stroked Meraxes' belly, feeling the tufts of platinum fur.
"Normal for you." You emphasised, feeling Meraxes begin to gnaw at your fingers, her claws digging into your skin as she swatted at your hands. "Most people don't celebrate with their families."
Rhae looked up once you said that, sharing a look of suspicion with her brother for a moment, her gaze tracking your features as if searching for any hint of a lie. She could not find any.
"What do you mean?" She blurted out, sitting up properly as she couldn't suppress the urge to question you.
"Where I'm from, we just don't really celebrate much." You explained, pausing for a moment as you noticed their curious faces. How could you reveal that holidays hold no weight when more essential things take precedence? That you could pray, but it begins to feel futile if no one is listening? Why would you celebrate the gods that ignore you? You couldn't find it in you to sully their understanding, so you offered them a half-truth. "You don't really have the time to celebrate."
They just watched you for a moment, recognising that your candour was marred by information you were withholding. Aegon was the one to break the silence.
"But you're from King's Landing?" He pointed out, lips pressing into a slight frown as Aegon the Conqueror lay forgotten beside him.
"I am." You confirmed, an almost sad smile tugging at your lips. "Just not the same King's Landing as you."
Aegon had a thousand more things to question you on, yet knew better than to. He knew he would only be confused further.
It appeared Rhae shared the same sentiment, and that she had remembered that she was not meant to be speaking to you, a restriction she had imposed onto herself. And with that she remained silent, only addressing Aegon if she required something while she tried to complete, who you quickly realised resembled, Nymeria of Ny Sar.
You were content in remaining in the quietness, to simply listen to the sound of bristles brushing against wood, to the purrs of Meraxes; you had other issues that plagued your mind.
The main being how you had awoken that morning.
It was the scent of flowers that had roused you from your sleep.
It was strange. your mind pulling you out of the grasp of slumber as the unfamiliar scent twirled around you, perfuming the air. Summerhall did not smell of flowers.
It smelled of lingering smoke and chemical disinfectant. It smelled of a cleanliness that erased history, that erased familiarity. It certainly did not smell of blossoms.
It was no wonder your brain had detected the anomaly, that you had immediately noticed the strange outlier within your room. The halls of Summerhall did not carry such a gentle scent: you doubt they would have been able to survive here.
Such gentleness is to be nurtured, protected. Patience is required, and you had yet to witness such patience.
You could not deny that Summerhall had lush gardens, with rows of peonies and roses, and a small section that had been dedicated to gardening — within your first few days here, when you had finally gathered the courage to wander beyond your small corner of the manor, Aegon had forced you outside, excitedly showing you the gardens as he bribed you into playing with him and Rhae.
And now that morning, the eve of Feast Day, you had found a bouquet of those very same blooms enveloped by smooth white opaque wrapping paper, resting on the vanity table of your room, peonies mocking you as you stared at the soft pink petals. There was a small red index card that rested in the centre of the blossoms, supported by a thin plastic stick that was lost amongst the stems. Your eyes had immediately caught onto the card, such a harsh bloodied colour seemed unnatural among the soft hues of the flowers. The card had something written in inky black cursive which you quickly realised must've been High Valyrian. Your grasp on the language was extremely weak, and even with the words before you, you were unsure of their meaning.
'Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss.'
These words held no worth to you, and you suppressed the urge to throw the bouquet into a bin.
The very sight of the flowers irked you; you knew your position here, you were a hostage at the end of the day, you were not afforded the privilege of privacy. Yet the idea of someone entering your room while you were sleeping, while you were vulnerable and unaware of your surroundings, simply served to further your indignation. First it was the necklace, and now the flowers — these gifts, if they could be considered such a condescending thing, were unwanted.
Was Baelor truly trying to buy your compliance? Did he believe that enough pretty glimmering objects would be enough to distract you from the truth of the situation? It was utterly insulting; you refused to believe that anyone would be pathetic enough to fall for such cheap gimmicks.
You would hate to think anyone would perceive you as being so covetous.
This annoyance seemed to only stew throughout the day. And as much as you hated to admit it, it was noticeable. You could offer one hundred excuses pardoning your behaviour but it seemed to boil down to one single reason.
You hated that you were beginning to enjoy Summerhall.
You hated that you looked forward to your moonlit conversations with Daeron, that you liked listening to the ramblings of Aegon, that your heart broke at the fact that Rhae struggled to even look at you. You hated that this was now becoming your new normal.
Unfortunately, your irritation did not remain as veiled as you would have liked. Maekar seemed to have notice immediately.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He questioned, brows furrowing as he watched you washing the same plate for 3 minutes.
You flinched at his sudden voice, the ceramic almost slipping from your grasp, the soap suds blooming against your palms.
"What do you mean?" You argued defensively, scowling as the man prowled closer to you, almost cornering you against the kitchen sink. The Targaryen seemed to have no understanding of the concept of personal space, crowding you in as his gaze flickered to your hand and back to your face. You could just smell him. The scent of sandalwood and lingering soap that bit at the air around you, causing each breath you took to just be full of the essence of him. You hated the fact that your heart began to flitter at his proximity, that the damned organ began to betray you as your annoyance softened, beginning to bleed into an unforgivable emotion. Fondness, how pathetic.
He gestured aimlessly at you, as if that explained everything. "Your face—"
You interrupted him before he could continue, his words would probably become more insulting if given the opportunity. "Real nice, Maekar. You know exactly how to talk to a woman."
He scoffed at you, a disbelieving laugh escaping him as he watched you finally begin to rinse the plate, water cascading down the unblemished porcelain, licking at your hands softly. Your fingers had already began to prune, small wrinkles forming at your fingertips, evidence of your absent-mindedness.
"Don't be dense." Maekar complained, moving to lean against the cabinet beside the sink, his gaze fixed on your face as he watched the small shifts in your features — the minuscule pursing of your lips, the way your eyes narrowed. Something was clearly troubling you. "You know exactly what I mean. What are you thinking about?"
Silence settled for a beat as you thought about his question, the words turning over in your mind while you placed the plate onto the dish drainer, the ceramic clattering against the metal. You were tempted to answer truthfully, to rant to Maekar about every grievance that plagued your mind, yet that would be futile. After all, he was the cause of them.
Instead, you decided to mock him.
"I'm thinking about the gun I have in my drawer." You replied, head tilting up to meet his gaze, your finger grasping at the edge of the sink as you tried to steady yourself. "Some lunatic decided it would be a great idea to give his hostage a lethal weapon. I'm thinking about shooting the lunatic."
Maekar didn't respond immediately, just staring at you as you glared at him.
He began to list familiar names.
"Rowan Waters, Alys Hardyng, Margot Florent—" The list dragged on, every single name that had been documented within your personal files, in order of their proximity and relationship to you.
He simply had to say the names.
He didn't have to threaten, he didn't have to go into detail about how they would receive a bullet in the middle of their forehead, of how the steel would blossom in the soft flesh of their brain — the names were the reason why you never could use the gun against him. The names were leverage enough.
And they had their intended effect.
"You're a real piece of shit, I hope you know that." You rasped out, trying to stop your voice from wavering as you turned the tap off. Fuck, even just hearing the names threatened to break you, threatened to dismantle your defences and leave you a sobbing mess. Even in your annoyance, you were the one to suffer the consequences. A perpetual victim, how embarrassing.
Maekar clicked his tongue at you. "Not very festive of you."
You turned, the edge of the sink digging into the small of your back as you mirrored his stance, leaning against the cabinets, your arms crossing.
"I'm not exactly a festive person."
"Aegon said you don't celebrate." They were talking about you?
You tried to ignore that thought, yet it spiralled in your mind, pirouetting as you found it difficult to discern what the father and son would talk about regarding you. Did Aegon have questions about why you weren't leaving? About how Aerion's condition was improving, and you no longer had a purpose to linger in Summerhall?
"Gossiping, are we?" You chastised mockingly. He stated your name in a warning tone, not patient enough to endure your mocking. You decided to provide him with some honesty, despite the fact that he was wholly undeserving. "Why would I celebrate something I don't believe in?"
He remained silent for a moment, brows furrowing as if noticing an inaccuracy. "I've heard you pray before."
"You have?" You questioned, shocked that he had even remembered such a small detail.
He continued, his head nodding slightly. "With Aerion, you were whispering prayers, but I still heard them. That's not the actions of a disbeliever."
"I suppose I believe when I'm desperate."
He watched you for a moment, and you were unable to decipher the emotion that flashed across his violet eyes. Yet regardless you knew the source of that emotion. He was not expecting you to answer with such genuine sincerity.
"You still think of yourself as a hostage." He commented, changing the topic. It wasn't a question.
"Aren't I?"
He offered you an almost smile, his features surrendering to an expression other than a scowl as amusement flickered in his eyes, leaving you with silence as your answer.
And you found yourself unable to remain in it for long, wandering out of the kitchen as your mind began to spiral once more, ghosting the halls as you tried to find something to distract you.
Instead you found Rhae in Aerion's bedroom.
The older Targaryen was asleep, he seemed to be sleeping more these days, the pain no longer festering within him. You enjoyed it when he was asleep, when his mind was blurred with exhaustion and he no longer had the energy to be cruel or vitriolic. He was kinder then, softer.
And it was a good sign he was able to sleep, the first few days after his incident, he struggled to find unconsciousness no matter how much he craved it. He would snap at anyone near him, and you were often the one to receive the majority of his brutish nature due to your unfortunate proximity. But you knew why he was being so uncooperative — he was in pain. His muscles feeling as if they were continuously being sliced open, as if daggers had carved their place into his abdomen.
He didn't tell you this, unwilling to admit to such 'weakness', but you could just tell; the way he carried himself, clutching the rippled skin that had been forcefully torn open and stitched closed, the way he looked at you silently for help, unable to voice his pleas. You would always help, unable to find it in you to be malevolent when he was in such pain.
You just hoped that you would never have to see Aerion after this was all over.
After. Was it stupid for you to believe that there would be an after? You were not completely sure, you could only hope that this was not your new normal. And although you would never admit it, you would whisper prayers to the Smith each night, hoping that he would mend what was broken, to help return you to your home. You truly had become desperate.
Rhae appeared to just be staring at her brother, her gaze tracing over his sleeping form as if to confirm something she had concocted within her mind. You often found her in Aerion's bedroom as of late, and he would always bark at her to leave, only for her to scream back at him. Yet despite the brutality of their interactions, you would catch a fleeting look of relief as she left, as if she was glad to find him awake.
She swivelled at the sound of the door opening, the hinges creaking lowly as they yielded to your touch, the sound of your slippers scuffing against the dark oak herringbone flooring.
Your heart clenched at the sight of her small frown, the immediate displeasure that tugged at her features. She looked more like Maekar like this.
She made a move to leave, to scutter past you and disappear into the winding halls of Summerhall like she had done any other time you were alone with her.
"Rhae—" You called out quickly, trying to stop her from escaping. She halted when she heard the desperation in your voice. You could feel your heart break the longer she was angry at you, and the sensation only worsened when you realised that anger was not the only emotion she directed towards you. She was disappointed. "Rhae, I am so sorry, I promise that—"
"You shouldn't do that." She mumbled, her hands twisting each other as she turned to face you, her gaze fixed on the floor. "Shouldn't make promises you can't keep."
"But I will keep them." You vowed, keeping your voice even. You didn't want to scare her off, you were unsure of what exactly about you had caused such sudden fear and derision. "I just need to know what I'm promising."
She stayed silent for a moment, her gaze fluttering up as she searched your face. You were unsure of what she was looking for, but she seemed to have found as she inched closer to you, her hand hesitant as it found yours.
"Promise you won't hurt us?"
You crumbled at her small voice, the sheer veracity of her words paining you as you returned her grip, your thumb brushing against the back of her hand.
"Rhae, I promise I would never do that."
"Not even— Not even if someone tells you to?" She continued, the words spilling out of her. You couldn't help but notice the way her hands had began to tremble, even while you were holding them.
"Not then, not ever. I would never do such a thing. I promise." You stated firmly, ensuring that there was no way for her to mistake your words for anything other than honesty.
"And you won't leave us?"
The question caused your mind to stall. Could you promise that? "Rhae…"
She mumbled your name, her voice wavering slightly, her eyes turning glassy as her grip on your hand tightened. "Please, just promise me."
Her lips began to wobble at your lack of answer, the tears beading along her waterline threatening to spill. You could see a tear begin to catch onto her pale lashes.
"Of course—" You quickly interjected, kneeling as you pulled her closer to you, hugging the poor girl. Her arms immediately wrapped around your neck, her head tucked into the slope of your neck as she hid her face in your hair. You could hear her sniffle slightly. "I promise, sweet girl, I won't leave you."
Her grip tightened as you heard a soft wailing cry escape her, tears dripping onto the exposed skin of your neck as she settled onto your lap. Her chest tremored with the pain that had festered within her, and you could only regret not being able to treat such a wound. You caressed her hair gently, finger brushing against the silver-gold locks as you tried to soothe her, whispering soft words of comfort.
Her cries slowly began to settle, and eventually so did her trembling. Her breathing began to even out, and soon you felt her body go limp against you. She had cried herself to sleep; she had been carrying all that devastated energy within her that it had utterly exhausted her.
You began to adjust her body, wrapping your hands around her tightly as you began to shift your own body so that you would be able to stand while carrying her. You should drop her off to her bed. At least she would be able to rest there comfortably.
You heard a low whistle.
"Don't you think it's cruel to lie to her like that?"
Aerion.
His voice was laced with mockery. He didn't even have the decency to act as if he had not witnessed the scene. Yet despite his callous taunts, there was something softer in his gaze that caught you off-guard. His gaze kept dipping, from your face to Rhae sleeping within your grasp. For a moment he didn't think you were holding his sister, for a moment his mind maliciously wandered to the thought that you were holding his child.
You would suit being a mother.
"What?" You murmured, keeping your voice low as to not disturb the sleeping Targaryen. You adjusted her slightly so that the majority of her weight rested upon your hip.
"To make a promise that you will definitely break. You would run at the first opportunity, and if my uncle allows you to leave, I'm certain you would be halfway to Pentos."
"If?" You repeated, your brows furrowing slightly, lips curling into a frown as you narrowed your gaze at the bemused Aerion who began to peel back the covers, grabbing at the clutches beside his bed as he tried to stand.
"You didn't deny that you would leave." He pointed out, ignoring your questioning tone, his grin widening as if he had caught you out on something. As if your lack of denial simply validated his sentiments. The bottom of his clutches clicked against the hardwood flooring as he tried to get closer to you
"You're such a cunt." You hissed, not bothering to entertain him further, turning your back to Aerion as you stormed out of the room. He had such a talent of infuriating you. Yet even now you couldn't decide whether or not he was wrong. You should run if ever given the opportunity; this could not become your life.
To care for mysterious stab wounds and digging out bullets from torn flesh. This was not your purpose in life.
You had already found your purpose — you were content in the little life you had curated, the practice and your friends, you were satisfied with what you had. You did not want what the Targaryen's offered you. You did not want them.
His voice called out after you.
"I thought you didn't give a shit about us!"
You could hear his laughter behind you, slowly fading as you quickened your pace away from his room.
You tried to ignore his words, but they haunted you as you began to pull back Rhae's bed sheets, fingers curling into the soft pink cotton printed small prancing unicorns as you ensured you kept her balanced. And, slowly, you began to rest her body onto the mattress. She rested limply, the skin of her eyelids shifting slightly as if her mind had detected that something had occurred. But she did not rouse from her sleep.
I thought you didn't give a shit about us.
As mocking and cruel as his words were, you hated to admit that they might have carried some truth. You were beginning to care — you could blame it on your circumstances, that the constant proximity had caused some level of Stockholm Syndrome within you (because you were constantly surrounded by dragons, how could emotions not begin to stir, whether those emotions were negative or positive), but you should know better. You shouldn't be making futile promises to soothe the Blood of the Dragon.
Yet even while these very concepts were whizzing through your mind, you found your heart split in two. How could you categorise this child as being the same as your captors — she had no hand in your situation. It was not her fault that the blood of Old Valyria ran through her veins, that she shared their twinkling amethyst irises and silver-gold hair.
You could argue that it was not your duty to comfort Rhae, that you had done nothing wrong. That you had never once acted out of hand, that you did not deserve what was happening to you. But even that was a foolish thought.
Perhaps you did not deserve this injustice, perhaps you had done nothing for the gods to punish you like this — but you were an adult. Rhae was just a child, and her emotions, as tumultuous as they were, were only natural. It was only right for her to be sad, for her to be scared, for her to be angry. You had cycled through these emotions multiple times a day, addicted to the way they would cause you to spiral in your self-pity.
You knew more than anyone how those emotions corroded an individual. And you knew that she did not deserve to experience such cruelty.
Regardless of how you felt, regardless of how you tried to distance yourself from the Targaryens, you knew it was always inevitable. You would have always been cursed to care.
And this would be how Baelor would find you, wallowing in your own thoughts as you laid on the floor of the library, the lights flickering low as only the fairy lights that had been draped across the ceiling illuminated the room. You were staring aimlessly at the ceiling, gaze tracing the crystals that dangled from the ceiling, following the small rainbows that formed when the light hit the facets. You had helped Daella put them up last night, gossiping aimlessly about your university life as you threaded fish wire into the holes that had already been chiselled into the crystals, securing them with tight knots.
You didn't hear him at first. You didn't notice him at all until he joined you on the floor, the fabric of his blazer rustling as he laid beside you.
Your head turned slightly, gaze meeting tender violet and brown, before returning to the wooden ceiling. You hadn't expected him to find you here, you didn't even know that he had returned from King's Landing.
You almost were unsure of where to begin — you rarely spoke to him during the day, the majority of your conversations occurring when the moon brightened the night sky, the stars dotted along the inky canvas, when your inhibitions softened, when your mind was more vulnerable.
But now the sun was still dangling in the pale blue heavens, and you found that your heart had endured enough taxing emotions for the day, your barriers worn down.
"Hello." He murmured, his arms folding over his torso. From your peripheral, you could see he was still staring at you, his head tilted in your direction as he fidgeted with the rings that decorated his fingers.
"Hi." You rasped out, voice low and unsure as you kept your gaze forward, unable to direct your complete attention to him. You cleared your throat slightly before continuing. "I spoke to Rhae today."
"Yeah?" He asked, his voice deeper than you were used to. You hated that your heart began to flutter at just one syllable.
You hummed softly. "She was quite sad, but I hope we solved whatever had been bothering her."
"That's good."
You were unable to control yourself, the words spilling out of you as you felt your eyes sting at the thought of the conversation you had had.
"She made me promise that I wouldn't hurt her." You exposed, your voice trembling slightly as you felt tears begin to form. Fuck, you couldn't believe that you were about to cry. He was unable to respond to your revelation. "Do you know how much that broke my heart, Baelor? To know that she thinks I'm even capable of doing such a thing?"
"She has her reasons." He comforted, his hand finding yours as he brushed his thumb against the rivets of your knuckles, tracing the bones gently. You allowed him to.
"Will you ever tell me what happened?" You questioned, your head turning to finally meet his gaze once more. His brows were furrowed in a soft pity that almost felt mocking to see. You hated that he seemed to want to console you, that his eyes seemed to glimmer in the pain you felt. "I'm not stupid, it's clear that something has happened here."
You felt tempted to list every piece of circumstantial evidence that you had noticed. The lack of household staff, your very presence, Rhae's sudden coldness, for Seven's sake, even the gun that Maekar had given you had very heavy implications. Why would you ever have need for a weapon, unless Summerhall itself could not promise safety?
It was only a matter of time that you would notice the flaws within the manor.
"You're not stupid." He repeated earnestly, his grip tightening a fraction when he noticed that you were finally offering him your attention. He sighed deeply, his lips pressed in a deep line as he tried to think of how to approach the topic. "It's just not easy to explain."
"You just have to begin." You encouraged, manipulating the position of your hands so that the inside of your fingers were flush against his palm, before slowly travelling up to lace with his fingers. His fingers quickly curled against yours, forming a slight lattice as he mirrored your grip. From this distance, you could see the threads of silver in his hair, the flecks of amber that lightened his brown iris. You could feel your breathing stutter for a moment, unable to become accustomed to seeing him in such a soft light.
He was silent for a moment, the only sound was your soft joint breathing. He dragged your hand to his face, his lips pressing against your knuckles in a feather-light kiss, an action that caused your pulse to flutter, your face flushing as you tried to ignore the implications of his gentleness.
"Forgive me, but I cannot."
"Baelor—" You interrupted, aghast at his insistence of keeping you in the dark
"Just know that I'm not just keeping you here for the sake of cruelty." He quickly continued, interrupting you before you could begin to cuss him out. " It's also vital for your welfare for you to remain at Summerhall."
"That's so fucking stupid, my safety was never at risk before you brought me here." You argued, tone laced with incredulity, sitting up as you glared down at him. You tried to pull your hand out of his, but his grip only tightened, as if he were afraid that the moment he let you go, you would run.
He joined you, his arm pushing at the plush carpet as he sat up straight, your joined hands falling onto his thigh.
"Your safety was at risk from the first night you met me." He hissed back, his tone becoming biting as if he couldn't understand why you were becoming so difficult, as if he truly expected you to take his lack of answers dutifully. He did not deserve such understanding. "I came to you with a stab wound. Did you not think the very people who inflicted such an injury would not be able to find who fixed it from becoming fatal?"
Your heart dropped at his questions. You wrenched your hand from his grasp, standing up as you backed away from him.
"So it's my fault for helping you?" You questioned, your voice raising as it bordered on a shout. You couldn't believe the audacity he was emitting.
Baelor mirrored your actions once more, "That's not what I mean—"
"No, that's exactly what you mean." You harshly interrupted, snarling at him. You couldn't even look at him, feeling disgusted by what he suggested. You began to pace, your hand pressing against your brow as you felt a headache begin to brew. "If I had never helped you, you wouldn't have returned when Aerion got shot, and I wouldn't be in this situation!"
"If you didn't help me, I would be dead. Aerion would be dead." He interjected, his head tilting slightly. "Is that what you truly want?"
You stilled, your gaze darting to him and instantly you wanted to apologise, mouth falling open in horror. No, of course you didn't want them dead, how could he say such a thing— wait.
Your brows furrowed as you noticed the evident manipulation of his words. Seven Above, the audacity of this man, how dare he try to manipulate you?
You buried those futile apologies deep within you — with Rhae you had offered them because she was a child, she was not intentionally trying to mislead you and her emotions were rooting in true pain. You could not offer Baelor these same excuses. He was a grown man, father of two; how dare he think you would be stupid to fall for such blatant cons?
"Oh, you're a right piece of work." You laughed, the mirthless giggles escaping your lips. Your hand clasped over your lips as your eyes stung with frustrated tears, spilling as you found yourself unable to stop laughing. "You, Baelor Targaryen, are disgusting. How fucking dare you say that to me?"
He murmured your name, his hand passing over his face in immediate regret. "Please, I didn't—"
"I honestly don't care. All I ask is for some honesty and you can't even offer that."
"I would tell you, believe me I would. It's just better if you don't have all the details."
"Better for who exactly?" You snapped, wiping at the tears that began to bead down your cheeks, the wetness smudging messily as you pointed at him. "Because all I've seen is that you act for yourself. Even your gifts are rooted in selfishness. Do you honestly think you can bribe me with necklaces and flowers?"
"Flowers?" He questioned.
"Yes, flowers." You parroted, your voice dropping in a deeper octave, mocking his voice. "Speaking of which, I don't want them, you can just take them and shove them up your—"
He interrupted your sentence with your name, his irises swirling with confusion. "I never gave you flowers."
"What?"
"I gave you a necklace, yes, but I never gave you flowers. I only just returned an hour ago."
Your brain stalled for a moment. In the morning you had been so caught up in your own anger, at the idea of your privacy being violated, that you had not considered that glaring fact. Baelor had been in King's Landing, it would have been impossible for him to put the flowers in your room.
You shook your head slightly.
"No, Baelor, that doesn't make any sense, who else would've…" You tried but the words died on your tongue as your denial began to ring false. Instead you turned on your heel, swiftly darting out of the room as you practically sprinted up the stairs. You could hear a patter of footsteps behind you, Baelor calling out your name as he chased after you.
You didn't stop at the sound of his voice, instead racing towards the direction of your room, almost crashing into a confused Maekar.
"What the fuck?" You heard him hiss bewilderedly, his gaze frantically flickering between you and his brother that followed you.
You didn't bother apologising to him, instead ripping open the door of your room, the metal handle rattling against the wall as the wood of the door trembled at the sudden force. The flowers were right where you had found them in the morning.
The petals were more wilted now, dehydrated and dry, drained of their vividness as the passing hours of the day aged them. Your heart raced unsteadily within its cage, clamoring against your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath, inhaling short gasps as you found yourself just staring at the flowers.
Baelor quickly entered the room soon after, accompanied by his brother shadowing him. Their presence reminded you of exactly why you had entered the room. You beelined towards the vanity, hands shakily wrapping against the bouquet as you thrust towards Baelor's direction.
"You're saying you didn't put it there, right? Then who did, and why do you all just enter my room when I'm sleeping? Do you not think that's weird?" You hissed at him, hitting the bouquet at his chest, the peonies colliding against his pristine white button-up, erupting into a pile of fallen petals. Your words were punctuated with the blossoms crashing against his front. "Fucking!" Hit. "Weirdo!" Hit. "Behaviour!". Hit.
But Baelor did not offer any rebuttal, instead his gaze was transfixed upon the startling red card that rested in the centre of the blooms. His hand wrapped around yours firmly, preventing you from hitting him once more with the petals as his free hand deftly picked at the card, drawing the plastic stick from out of the blossoms.
He stared at the card, his face setting into a stern look, brows knitting together in displeasure as he flipped the card in his hands.
"You found this in the morning?" He questioned, his gaze roaming over the perimeter of the room as he walked towards Maekar, showing him the card. His next words were directed towards Maekar. "Call Donnel. Now."
It only took Maekar one look at the card for his face to mirror his brother's, a solemn expression carving its way into his features as he didn't spare you another glance, instead immediately abiding by Baelor's orders, fishing his phone out of his pocket as he began to dial a number.
Your heart dropped at their reaction. Baelor's frowns, Maekar's scowls — Maekar often scowled, it often was the only expression that graced his face, yet this was far different to his usual scowl. This was concern, unadulterated peturb.
You hadn't expected this. You were prepared for defensiveness, for them to accuse you of overreacting over such a meaningless issue — not suffocating graveness. They were reacting as if you had just announced someone's funeral.
Baelor called out your name once more, repeating the question. "Are you sure this was here in the morning?"
"Yes — yeah, it was—" You stammered slightly, your face falling as the gravity of the situation began to dawn on you. "Baelor, what's going on? What does it say?"
Maekar's voice cut in, greeting the other person on the line with swift words, his words blurring together as he walked out of the room. "Donnel, you need to…"
Baelor watched his brother leave, gaze trailing after him as he rubbed at his cheeks, fingers brushing against the salt and pepper hairs of his beard.
"Vaoreznuni syt aōha loss." He recited, his gaze dipping to the card within his hand, following the loops of ink that mocked him. The syllables flowed off his tongue naturally, rolling in a way that suited his voice. "It means 'Sorry for your loss'."
Your brows furrowed slightly as you slowly shook your head, your arms crossing as you index finger drummed against your bicep.
"Then clearly that's not meant for me, that makes no sense." You tried, although even as the words exited your mouth, you found yourself unconvinced. And it was clear that Baelor wasn't either.
"It does if it's a threat."
He held the card up, flipping it so that you could clearly see the back, a symbol that had been monogrammed against the continuous crimson, one that you had not noticed previously.
