Maekar Targaryen x Lyonel Baratheon’s Daughter reader
Forced to attend Ashford Tourney and horrendously bored, Lyonel Baratheon’s daughter finds herself in unwelcome and unusual company in the form of the stony prince, Maekar Targaryen
word count: 3,248
cw: mdni, female reader, characters are always above legal age, misogynistic themes, basically flirting arguing with the guy who’s your dads age + your dad hates, sexual implications, baratheon ‘looks’ described (reader), reader is a yapper (we love her for it) - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
Angering Lyonel Baratheon was certainly a difficult task, yet you had managed it with quiet certainty by in his words behaving like a little brat.
Tourney’s were exceptionally boring, you had never met another woman who gave any amount of care to two grown men poking and prodding each other with glorified sticks. It was futile, and petty and boring. Your role throughout was to maintain appearances, not get visibly intoxicated and socialise with the other ladies. There was nothing wrong with the other ladies, but to put it kindly; you were all sick of one another. Your husbands and fathers all thrust you together to gossip and have cake, because they presumed that was all you were good for, if they got on drinking together then their women would get along suitably. You all had your own interests, your own minds, desires and cares. Your only common clause was being women, you would fiercely defend one another - that had no doubt, but you did not necessarily like one another or enjoy the total company. Yet your father seemed to lack this understanding, providing you at the entrance of Lady Ashford’s pavilion each morning so that you would mingle and socialise.
To put it plainly, you were incredibly bored, hence why you had opted to depart from the back exit of the pavilion, a wink to Lady Ashford and her daughter Gwin, who supplied one in return. You wanted to explore, and you intended to do so regardless of instruction. That was one beneficial thing of being a Lady, you would gossip of the court and the men, but of one another was kept minimal, and if the men need not know then they would not find out.
The road was quiet enough. Well really it was less of a road and more of a side path, it led you in the direction of the true meadows that provided Ashford its name. A beautiful place, stoic and changing with each season, but the early spring had provided a new wave of colour to the grasslands of the Reach.
Truly you had only intended to stay an hour, or two. But the sunset hours were so entirely welcoming you could only sit and admire the vast view before your eyes. It was stunning. The flowers had blossomed an array of pinks all the way to blues and yellows, scattered across one another like a childish finger painting. As the colours clashed you could hear the bird song, watching them dance across the now pinkened sky as the hollow sun begun to hang low beneath the horizon, the last thing on your mind was the time. Time felt futile in a place like this, where you could become so enamoured by your surroundings you felt extraterrestrial - time felt unnaturally mundane to such a foreign feeling. So you did not let it consume you, instead you remained.
Amongst the grassland, the heathers begun to part to your left. A wandering fawn and its mother, brown and speckled you smiled. A childish grin for something so naive. With your knees pulled to your chest and your skirts soddened with dried earth you remained still. You did not wish to unnerve such a beautiful creation, they were so easily startled. Despite being the sigil of your house, your home led so close to the coast combined with horrific storms you rarely got such a sight of wildlife, even that of your house sigil. It was a refreshing memory to see one so close again. You had not since you were merely a girl. You admired quietly, contented. It was peaceful, peace you had brought and provided yourself that days in that stuffy tent could have never. It was the footfall of a horse that startled the poor creatures, fleeing back the path they came in a hurry. You frowned in annoyance, turning to see a large white stallion pausing a short distance from you, a pale hardened prince upon its back.
Maekar watched in confusion, undoubtedly you were Baratheon, he could see that a mile off by your black and gold attire - even then if he were in doubt the small stag antlers at the back of your head gave him all the message he needed. Yet the fact you were a woman alone in a field concerned him nonetheless. He lowered from his horse, patting her nose gently as he walked over.
You, seemingly did not care to hold your tongue in the presence of a prince - nor greet one properly.
“Must you be such a brute? You are scaring the animals of this meadow.” You pouted, it appeared childish to him. You were a woman, he knew as such for you had been a contender to marry his eldest son Daeron, but your father had declined upon learning the drunken nature of the man.
“You are Baratheon’s spawn then.” He grunted, he regretted ever stopping for you. But then again, his mother had raised him better than to leave a girl alone and vulnerable no matter the circumstances. “Spawn is a rather insulting term is it not?” You rebutted, you did not stand. Why would you? He was interrupting your private time.
“Should you not be with the other ladies?” He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the state of your undoubtedly expensive skirts now coated with, dampened but drying, mud. The dramatic groan of annoyance you let out caught him off guard, he was struggling to hide the amusement it brought him. He had never met a woman quite so openly dramatic, many saved that for the privacy of the bedchamber - if even then.
“Why does every man think that we ladies want to spend all day with one another cooped up like chickens. It is not enjoyable, it is not fun, and we do not often like each other. Gods forbid I want to enjoy the scenery you men get to frolic in freely - even then you do not use it to your full advantage! Look at the beauty of this place, and entirely undisturbed as well!” The smile of quiet amusement that fell upon his face at your passion was unusual for you to witness. He was spoken to be brazen, stoic, hating of all people including publicly his children. Yet here he was, Maekar the Anvil, grinning at your description of what men were doing wrong. “You can move on, I do not wish for company.”
“I was raised better than to leave a woman vulnerable, even if the scenery is so enticing.” His voice was low, but equally as enticing as the sight before you as you tore your eyes from it to gaze up at him. His words were an indication for you to move on, not waste his time. He had no authority over you, well maybe technically speaking he was a prince so he did, but you were a Baratheon - and stubborn by even those standards.
“Your presence is not wanted nor desired my prince, you best hurry back.” You instructed, in any other circumstance such a tone could end in punishment for your house but seeing as the fact he was bothering you, you deemed it more than appropriate for the situation. However much to your surprise, he sat down in the tall grass to your right. Your brows furrowed at the gesture. “No need to hurry when there is no one waiting on me.” The way he said it even struck a sliver of guilt within your chest, you had not been the one to wound him in such a way but your attitude had likely added to the internal bleeding.
“And why is that?” You asked sincerely, you had no dealings with Targaryens so you had no knowledge of their doings unless your father got drunk enough to start spewing anti-targaryen propaganda disguised as dark humour. “My eldest and youngest sons have strayed from the path on the journey here. Their whereabouts are unknown. My second son… he does not need me truly, he is independent and a man now.” The confession of his children cut deep, you were close in age to his eldest two, slotting right between them in terms of it. You had no siblings of your own so you could not share the sentiment of them. “I didn’t take you for one to confess feelings.” Your smirk was gentle, but telling. Only trying to lighten the mood when he felt so sentimentally dampened by his kin.
“Well. They don’t listen to me, my brother has other occupants to adhere to. And you won’t tell anyone as the last three days I have seen you in no company but your own.” You stared at him, blinking. This man was known to scare off any who dared to tread to close and he was insulting your lack of company? The audacity of a man never failed to impress you.
“So you are watching me now?” You watched him falter at your words, trying to silently regain his composure with a deep breath. “You’re hard to miss.” He admitted, “your father always makes sure you are the best dressed in the room.” There was no doubt within that statement, the finest silks, head to toe gold from crown pieces to earrings to necklaces and rings, intimately sewn adornments onto the black priceless fabrics of your owns all designed and paid for by your father. You were spoken of to be the best dressed in the realm on more occasion than one, envied for the loving coin your father carelessly doused you in.
“Well. I cannot deny my fashion sense outranks yours even if my status does not.”
He chuckled quietly at the bluntness of the statement, among Targaryens at the least he was given the grace of being best dressed. Baelor did not care especially and allowed Jena to adorn him as she saw fit, Aerys had more pressing matters than the intricacies of clothing, and Rhaegel was naked more often than he was clothed. Sure Maekar dabbled in fashion, that was no secret. His time in Dorne as a growing man had taught him a thing or two. What fabrics complimented, what caught an eye - or on the contrary, what forced you to blend in. His children were always styled well of course, he took pride in the cohesion of his boys. Though two were no longer boys, the third he had not seen in over a year, and the fourth would happily run around in a potato sack if he let him. Regardless he could not deny you the truth in your words. You did always look stunning.
“Mm. I could have your tongue for that.” He nodded, eyes narrowed
“But would you go through the effort? You look rather depleted my prince.” Gods he hated that grin, you resembled your father in that alone. The arrogant smirk of the Laughing Storm. Unfortunately in Maekar’s eyes, in his life experience and from reading the history, if a child had a Baratheon parent they were undoubtedly going to come out near identical. There hadn’t been a Baratheon born for centuries without the hair or the eyes. The case was no different in you. You had your own features yes, ones that were not your father’s. But even then, your essence was entirely that of an arrogant stag - attitude and all. “No.” He mumbled, “but I can see why your father hasn’t managed to marry you off yet, what with a tongue like that.”
You glared at him, smirk depleted the same as his energy. But he had gotten under your skin, he knew it and you knew that because he was watching for your reaction, corner of his lips upturned tightly. “If you must know my father is speaking to Leo Tyrell’s father.” You answered proudly. Did you especially care for Leo Tyrell? No. But the Highgarden was said to be the most beautiful standpoint in Westeros, who wouldn’t want to make that their home? If you could not marry for love you would certainly be marrying the man with the nicest house.
Maekar looked as if he’d eaten a particularly sour berry, he scoffed in distaste. “And here I thought you had taste Lady Baratheon, Leo Tyrell would not make a good husband for you.”
“Oh do tell?” You rested your chin upon your knees, listening truly and intently.
“He’s a pushover, he cannot hold a satisfactory conversation, he’s a good fighter i’ll give him that - he’s bested my Aerion a few times but he lacks the wit to keep up with a mouth like yours.” He explained in a way that was subtly animated, his hands following the guidance of his words as you nodded along. “I mean there is always Symon Stark in the north, Winterfell.” You continued, watching him roll his eyes so far back you feared he might blind himself. “Symon Stark would not put up with the insolence you carry. And with a dress as you are currently wearing you’d freeze to death in the north.” Your mouth hung wide, “you said you liked my fashion sense!”
“I never said I liked it i just acknowledged it’s more widely favoured than my own.” His hands fell upward in mock defence as you let out a near animalistic noise. “God’s you are rude Maekar Targaryen! Bloody rude!” You exasperated, he only laughed softly, shaking his head.
You shook your head in annoyance, “Tybolt Lannister was the last who asked. Don’t get me wrong I had my eye on the gold that would come from that alliance but he was so bloody arrogant I wanted to smack him.”
“Should have done it.” Maekar nodded, leaning back lightly as you took a breath, more of a huff really, then continued. “Oh let me tell you Maekar I bloody wanted to, he was all we Lannisters all know how to treat a woman right, and so i said to him is that the reason why I’m the fourth woman this moon you’ve tried to court, and he turned all you’re not the fourth woman-” Maekar was highly amused at the animation of your story, the changes in your voice and tone, not to mention the yapping motion you were making with your hands for yourself and Tybalt Lannister. “Then he went to his father and said he didn’t want anything to do with the Baratheon brat, well, let me tell you my father ripped him a new one. There’s one man who can call me a brat and that’s my father, and I only allow it because he pays for everything.”
“Oh is that so my dear?” He teased as you nodded rapidly, “Yes. He always calls me a spoiled brat but then he’ll say you’re the light in this world, daughter so I don’t really get the chance to be mad at him, or he buys me another necklace. I like necklaces you know, gold. But I think the red and gold is tacky as it reminds me of the Lannisters even though that’s what you can most often find. I prefer gold and sapphires.”
“They are more expensive.” He acknowledged, looking down at you and the sapphire and gold necklace that hung by your collarbone, the pendant a golden stag crowned in the icy blue gems. It was small and subtle, but definitely there, and most certainly worth more than what he was wearing - and for a crown prince that was certainly quite daunting, a Lady of a noble house having a necklace worth more than royal attire. He could only chuckle at the thought.
“They are. But if I desire them, I will get them.”
“You will never find a husband willing to provide the level your father does, not even with a face that can pout like yours.” He responded gruffly, but you supposed there was a compliment dug in there tightly.
“No?” You questioned, eyes gazing up at his as he shook his head, “no. And those men you have told me about are certainly not worth the time of day.”
“But then I am left without a husband.” You pouted, you didn’t especially care either way but you enjoyed toying with this prince, watching the way his emotions played on his face, hitting either side of the scale repeatedly. “Good. You’d be better off without them.” He concluded.
“Why? Would you like to wed and bed me, my prince?” His eyes widened as your laughter filled his ears. He glared at you, cheeks reddening lightly, “and here I thought we were having a genuine conversation.” He stood, dusting off his trousers and whistling his horse. “Well. It was a lovely conversation my prince, enjoy your journey.”
“Don’t be fucking daft.” He grunted, “get on the horse.”
Your eyes widened, lips parting “excuse me?”
“You heard what I said, get on the horse.”
“But I am not done out here!” You protested, yet he clasped your forearm and pulled you to stand, feigned annoyance plastered over his aged features.
“Nobody likes a whiny brat, get on the horse. I already told you I was not leaving you out here, shut up and get on.” You huffed before grabbing your skirts and mounting the horse, he took place on the saddle behind you, his firm chest feel-able even through the fabrics of his tunic and cloak. “Do not call me a brat.” You glared, the only angle you could truly locate his face from, was up. Meaning you were staring directly at that scratchy looking beard that suited him oh so well. “I can see why you have your nickname.” Was the only response you got, not an apology. So you complained again as you begun your journey.
“Apologise.”
“No.”
You watched every passing tree, bush, or even the skyline as it passed you as you ventured back to Ashford castle, wallowing in your last taste of freedom. He noted the travelling of your head, sensing your eyes were tracking the movements of the scenery he prompted his horse to slow, allowing you to watch less hurriedly. Maybe he was perceived as a brute, yes, but he was not unkind. The silence between the pair of you was welcome, neither of you needed to say much else, he was simply your escort home by this point.
You begun to near Ashford, you knew this because you could see the rising pavilions and bonfires. An involuntary sigh escaped you at the sight of the courtyard. A stable boy took the reins of the horse as Maekar stepped down, putting out a hand for you, and only once you were back on firm ground did he guide you in the direction of the nearest Kings Guard. “Please see to it this insolent girl is returned to her father, best he knows she was wandering in the dark and alone in Ashford’s meadow.”
“Why you foul git how-” You begun, but Maekar cut you off with a firm nod of direction and the Kings Guard clasped your upper arm before near dragging you to your father’s tents.
Mentally exhausted from such a taxing, yet amusing, conversation Maekar followed the winding paths up to the guest wing of Ashford castle. Baelor stood in the bay window of the corridor, he turned to eye his younger brother with a small smirk.
“Have a nice accompanied evening did you?” Baelor questioned, an eyebrow raised as he fought back a grin.
“Bloody Baratheon’s.” Was all Maekar could manage in response, shuffling into his bedchamber and slamming the door enough to rattle the hinges.
A/N: guys i have a thing for targaryen men in fields can you tell?? ooc maekar but idrc. hope you guys enjoyed seeing as i haven’t written for maekar in a lil while. but why this was kind of cute as fuck.
Summary: Haunted by dragon dreams that foretell a future she cannot bear, Viserys' second daughter decides to flee her betrothal before it can begin. Her plan falls apart when the very man she's trying to escape finds her climbing over the Red Keep's garden wall.
Song inspo: ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚
Notes: Inspired by Queen Charlotte!! I've seen people rewrite this scene with Valarr and I wanted to do it with Gwayne <3
Gwayne had hoped, above all else, that his future wife would be kind.
It was a small hope, perhaps an unambitious one, but it was the only wish he had allowed himself after his father informed him that King Viserys had accepted the match. Marriage had never been a matter left to younger sons or heirs to decide, and though Gwayne had long since resigned himself to that truth, resignation did not make the prospect any less uncertain. He knew almost nothing about the princess he was to marry beyond the fragments offered by gossip, and gossip was a poor foundation upon which to build a life.
Still, kindness, he thought, could make even an unwanted marriage bearable. Everything else could be learned in time.
The rumors, unfortunately, offered very little hope of that.
Some called the king's younger daughter gentle to the point of foolishness, while others claimed she possessed the wildness of Old Valyria itself. There were whispers that she disappeared from court for days at a time, that she drank wine before the sun had set, that she climbed rooftops with her ladies-in-waiting, wandered the city in disguise, and laughed whenever septas reminded her of her duties. Others dismissed her as odd, insisting she spoke more to ravens than noble lords and spent entire afternoons wandering the castle alone.
No two stories resembled one another. The only detail upon which everyone agreed was that she was... peculiar.
He had intended to reserve judgment until they met. That intention became rather difficult when she failed to appear at all. She did not stand beside her father during his arrival, nor his welcome feast.
His sister and King Viserys greeted him warmly enough upon his arrival, clasping his arm like an old friend and speaking at length about tournaments, knighthood, and the honor of joining their two houses before finally apologizing, almost absentmindedly, for his daughter's absence.
"The princess has been feeling unwell," the king said with a tired smile. "She has retired early."
It sounded innocent enough yet Gwayne did not miss the look and sighs exchanged between his father and sister. She looked toward the doors through which the princess ought to have entered, her disappointment obvious before she carefully concealed it behind practiced courtesy.
No one explained further. No one ever seemed to.
By the end of the feast, Gwayne found himself wondering less about the alliance and more about the girl herself.
Was she truly ill? Or had she simply refused to meet the man she was expected to marry?
-
By the time the castle realized you were gone, you had already vanished into the night.
It was hardly the first time.
The servants searched the places they always searched first, the library, the dragonpit where you often disappeared to sit with the hatchlings long after the keepers had retired, the godswood where you sometimes spent entire afternoons reading beneath the heart tree. Even your ladies-in-waiting were questioned, though they could offer little beyond nervous shrugs and uncertain smiles. They had grown accustomed to your disappearances years ago.
Tonight, however, was different as you had no intention of returning.
You sighed as you reached the wall at the far end of the gardens. For a moment you stood there and pondered about when your father announced your betrothal. Your first thought had been your dreams.
Fragments scattered across years of restless nights, all circling the same terrible feeling that settled deep within your chest whenever you imagined standing beside the man you had been promised to. You had seen cages and felt a sorrow unlike anything you had ever known.
Somewhere between those two moments lay a future you could neither understand nor prevent. And for the first time in your life, you did not wish to discover which vision came first.
So you did the only thing that had ever made sense whenever the dreams became too heavy and you left.
That single thought drowned out every other, beating steadily against your ribs as you gathered your skirts in one hand and planted your slipper against the ancient garden wall. Time seemed to press in from every side so you quickly pushed yourself upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward the thick oak branch that hung just beyond your reach. The bark brushed your fingers before slipping away again.
You frowned, it had seemed much lower when you were a child. Surely you had climbed trees twice this height without a second thought. Determined, you shifted your footing higher against the moss-covered stone, ignoring the way your slippers slipped against the wall.
Just a little farther...
"You appear to be losing your battle."
The voice behind you was warm, low, and entirely too amused.
You startled so violently that your foot slipped from the stone altogether. Landing rather less gracefully than you would have liked, you spun around, silver hair whipping over your shoulder as you searched the darkness for its owner.
A man stood several paces away beneath the shadow of an elm tree, the hood of a dark traveling cloak obscuring most of his face. Moonlight caught only the edge of his jaw and the outline of broad shoulders, leaving the rest hidden in darkness.
You did not recognize him nor did you particularly care to.
You were in far too much of a hurry.
"May I help you?" you asked, though the impatience in your voice made it abundantly clear you hoped he would do precisely the opposite.
"I was going to ask you the same thing," he replied pleasantly. "It seems you are the one in need of assistance."
His tone was infuriatingly calm as though finding a princess attempting to climb the garden wall in the middle of the night was an entirely ordinary occurrence.
"I am not," you answered briskly. "So you may leave."
You turned back toward the wall without waiting for his reply, already reaching for the branch once more. Behind you came the sound of unhurried footsteps.
"I will," he said. "But I confess, I am rather curious as to what you're doing."
You closed your eyes for the briefest moment. "I am not doing anything."
"You are trying to do something."
"I am not."
"You are."
A sigh escaped you. Not the graceful sort of sigh expected of a princess, but one born entirely of exasperation. You turned sharply, fixing the stranger with a look that had intimidated far older men than this.
"Who are you, anyway?" Stepping closer, you tried to make out his face beneath the hood, though the shadows remained stubbornly loyal to him, "Reveal yourself."
"I am simply a guest in the Keep."
The answer only irritated you further, "What an exceptionally mysterious guest." You dismissed him with a wave of your hand before turning back toward the wall yet again. "Well then, perhaps you can make yourself useful and lift me."
There was the briefest pause, "I'm sorry?"
You looked over your shoulder as though he were being intentionally difficult. "If you lift me onto the wall, I can manage the rest."
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the hood. "I see."
"Come now," you urged, gesturing impatiently toward the branch. "Make haste."
His amusement seemed only to deepen. "Well, if I must assist you, I should ask why you intend to climb the wall."
You groaned dramatically. "If you must know..." Your fingers wrapped around the branch again as though the conversation itself inconvenienced you. "...I am leaving."
"Are you?"
"I am taking my dragon," you said matter-of-factly, testing whether the branch might support your weight, "and flying somewhere very far away. And do not trouble yourself with informing the King or my betrothed. I shall be long gone by the time either of them discovers it."
A beat passed.
"Ah." There was laughter hidden beneath the single syllable, "So your betrothed is the reason you're running."
You shrugged, "He is certainly one of them."
"And they won't notice you've disappeared?"
A small, incredulous laugh escaped you. "Well, of course they will," you looked toward the branch again, "Now, please. Enough questions."
You pointed toward the wall with all the authority expected of a princess issuing commands. "If you would simply lift me over the garden wall, I'll reach the dragonpit before anyone notices."
The stranger looked from you to the wall and back again then he sighed with theatrical regret. "I have absolutely no intention of helping you."
You stared incredulously, "I beg your pardon?" You whirled around fully, prepared to remind this remarkably stubborn man exactly who he was refusing. As you did, he reached up almost absentmindedly and pushed back the hood that had hidden his face.
Moonlight settled across familiar features and you instantly recognized the face you had seen in your sleep numerous times. Everything inside you seemed to stop.
"...It's you."
The irritation vanished from your voice so completely that it almost startled you. Gwayne watched the change with quiet fascination. Only moments ago, you had looked ready to order him dragged from the gardens for daring to delay your escape. Now you simply stood there, staring at him with an expression he could not begin to understand.
He smiled despite himself, "You know who I am?"
You didn't answer immediately. Instead, your eyes lingered on his face, searching it with unsettling intensity, as though comparing the man standing before you to someone only you could see.
When you finally spoke, your voice was scarcely louder than the breeze moving through the trees, "I've dreamt of you."
The words were so unexpected that Gwayne forgot entirely what he had meant to say. His smile faded into quiet confusion, "You've... what?"
You seemed almost surprised that the words had escaped you. Your gaze dropped to the ground before lifting once more, softer this time, almost hesitant. "I've dreamt of you."
Silence settled between them.
Gwayne had heard the stories. The king's second daughter was said to possess the old gift of dragon dreams. He had dismissed them as little more than another courtly tale but standing before you now, he found himself less certain.
You did not look mad.
Nor did you resemble the reckless drunk whispered about by servants and lords alike. He noticed there was no heavy scent of wine clinging to your breath, no unsteady sway in your posture, no careless laughter born from too many cups. If you had drunk anything at all, it had been little more than enough to soothe an anxious mind, and judging by the shadows beneath your eyes, even that had failed.
More than anything, you looked tired. Painfully so.
Not the sort of tired that followed a late feast or too much dancing, but the deep exhaustion of someone who had spent far too many nights fighting battles no one else could see.
His expression softened. "Am I so terrible in your dreams," he asked, a small smile returning to his lips, "that you've resorted to climbing garden walls in the middle of the night to escape marrying me?"
He had meant it lightly yet the smile disappeared from your face so quickly that he regretted it almost at once. Your fingers tightened in the folds of your skirts until the silk wrinkled beneath your grasp.
You said nothing.
For the first time since he'd found you, the lively, impatient princess who had argued with him over a wall simply... vanished. In her place stood a frightened young woman trying very hard not to let it show.
His amusement melted into concern, "...Princess?" He took a cautious step forward, "Are you all right?"
You instinctively stepped back.
"I only jest," he said quietly.
Your voice was barely audible, "I must go."
Before he could answer, you slipped past him, gathering your skirts as you hurried back toward the castle, silver hair disappearing into the darkness between the garden paths.
Gwayne remained where he was for several moments after you'd gone. He should have let you leave, instead, he found himself watching the empty path where you had vanished, turning over those four impossible words in his mind.
I've dreamt of you.
Whatever those dreams had shown you, they had filled your eyes not with hatred but with sadness. And though he scarcely knew you, something deep within him recoiled at the thought that he might one day become the cause of it. For reasons he could not explain, he left the gardens that night with only one quiet resolve settling in his heart.
Whatever future your dreams had shown you, he desperately wanted to prove them wrong.
desperate! °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ reader x leon kennedy fic - part 1
˚⋆ summary: spring’s here, and your days of hopeless eternal loneliness appear to be counted as the hottest man you've ever seen moves to your suburban neighborhood!
˚⋆ tags: MDNI, slow burn, reader x leon kennedy, slight age gap (reader is 27, leon is 35), 90s romcom inspired, shy!reader, man obsessed reader, party girl reader, drunk confessions, awkward situations, suggestive topics, upcoming rough smut <3.
˚⋆ w/c: 2.5k
˚⋆ notes: totally inspired by desperate housewives! I wrote this with ID!Leon in mind, but any can older version can fit the story :) this was inspired by "cannibalism!" - slayyyter ❀ hope you guys like it hehe
Sunday, the first warm day after seemingly eternal weeks of annoying snow, frustrating rain and slashing cold winds. Clouds of dust swirled around the moving air as you stormed around your living room, armed with a brand-new pink broom and baby blue microfiber cloths. The radio blared Pop music from somewhere in the sparkling clean kitchen, and all of your furniture seemed to have been scattered around your home by a twisted magic spell.
Everyone in suburbia knew that the first day of the new warm season meant Spring Cleaning. New flowers, new beginnings, new opportunities to start over. After the catastrophic end of your last relationship back in Fall, you were starting to finally feel like yourself again, and you wanted – no, you needed – to move on and start on a clean slate. And get laid.
Well, while it’s a poetic plan, it’s also tricky to put in action. You thought about moving somewhere far away, live in a big city like New York, just like Samantha in Sex and the City, but you had promised your aunt you’d only leave her cozy suburban house on your wedding day. Something told you that day was still very, very far away in your calendar.
After graduating college, you moved to your Aunt Clara’s home. It was all for mutual convenience, as you needed to live somewhere next to your job, and she needed someone to keep her company in that beautiful two-story house, after the death of her second husband, five years ago. You didn’t pay rent, split some of the bills and live comfortably. Life seemed picture-perfect: a huge house with a bedroom suite and an office room all to yourself, a somewhat satisfying job… It needed a crack, a flaw somewhere, right?
Your love life was disgraceful. A stream of bad boyfriends, ranging from pathetically lackluster to downright psychotic freak, plus a bunch of almost-there, almost-fit first dates that never made it to a second one. It seemed like you were cursed to be taunted with the hopes of finally taking a good guy back home to Easter Sunday lunch, only for it to be crushed as soon as they talked for more than 10 minutes.
It was on domestic days like this, cleaning the whole house with your aunt, that your mind wandered to a hopeful future. You daydreamed and pretended that it was your own home, bought with the hard-earned money you and your husband saved up in your joint account; you would be deep cleaning the living room, and he’d be mowing the lawn and fixing something in the backyard (maybe his beloved Harley Davidson motorcycle?). You would yell at him when he’d try to step in the through the kitchen door to get a cold beer, with dirt on his boots threating to mess up the spotless checkered tiles. You would go fetch the beer for him in the fridge, while he stood there looking hot and manly, heat radiating from his sun-kissed skin, hair and forehead wet with perspiration, white tank top transparent with sweat and bare strong legs speckled by tiny grass blades under slutty shorts. You would hand him the ice-cold beer that you put in the freezer earlier just for him, and his huge, calloused hand would wrap around your waist, pull you in for a beer flavored kiss, and you’d throw your arms and deepen the touch, until you could feel his-
“Y/N! What is all that noise?”
You jumped, startled out of your thoughts by your aunt’s screech from the top of the stairs. The floor you swept and the furniture you wiped during your daydream session couldn’t get any cleaner. Straightening up and wiping the sweat off of your forehead with the back of your hand, you finally noticed the loud annoying beep beep beep coming from the street. You tossed the cloth on the polished coffee table as you looked out the open front door and windows, a gentle fresh breeze entering the house.
Coming out on the porch, you looked to your right and saw the source of the sound. A white moving truck, reverse parking in front of the neighbor’s driveway. The engine rumbled and died down as a worker (whoa… he’s kinda cute!) opened the truck’s back doors and another worker (not as cute, but look at those arms!) puts down wide ramps to help a cart move boxes. The driver (nah, too old) hops out the front cabin, holding a pen and a clipboard, and looks around, talking to someone on his phone.
The driver waddled towards the curb, wiping the sweat off his red forehead with his starched white sleeve as he ended the call. His eyes were fixed on the bend on the street ahead, and your gaze followed as a sleek black car turned the corner and drove down the narrow suburban street.
The chubby man disappeared behind his large vehicle, where the black car had just pulled up. You could only see a sliver of the back bumper through the windshield of the moving truck. The engine turned off, and the familiar silenced returned to suburbia; wind rustling through leaves and birds chirping in the late morning sun. You registered the sound of a car door closing and male voices conversing. The workers had stopped unloading the truck to greet the mysterious man that walked towards the house, his steps heavy in the fresh green grass.
The steps and voices got closer, and as soon as you had the thought to back away to hide your curiosity, the mysterious man finally appeared in front of you.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The hottest man you’ve ever laid your eyes upon stood there, 20 feet away from you. Light soft hair falling on his face, beautifully sculpted side profile, tall, broad-shouldered, lean built. His light blue linen shirt had two buttons opened and sleeves rolled up to counter the heat radiating from the concrete pavement under his leather boots. Holy shit.
He hadn’t seen you yet – his attention was focused on talking to the driver and giving instructions to the workers around him. He walked up to the neighbor’s porch as his hand fished out a set of keys from the back pocket of his jeans. His arms were strong and muscular, and there was no ring to be seen. Single?!
The man (Greek god, absolute hunk, Playgirl’s Best, Adonis incarnated) opened the front door swiftly and left it open for the workers moving the boxes. It was then that he finally noticed you, and you instantly felt disheveled and underdressed.
His eyes were blue like the very sky you were under, and his face surely matched the rest of his beauty. You felt a scorching blush crawl up from your neck to your cheeks as his (plush, delicious) lips curved in a small awkward smile, a hand lifting greeting you. You shyly lifted yours with a gingerly smile, and you swore he could hear the way your poor heart fluttered in your chest.
What a man.
“Mr. Kennedy! Step here for a minute, please.” Someone called from the inside of the house, and he gave you a slight nod before turning on his feet and disappearing through the door.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, heart beating quickly. Could it be love at first sight? Well, there was no other way to fall in love with a man like that. You headed back inside as you heard your aunt coming down the stairs, slippers muffling her footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“Help me, dear.” She held a large basket full of used bed linens and towels. You took the basket from her hands and followed her to the kitchen, where the tiny radio had stopped playing. She sighed and pressed random buttons, but it didn’t give any sign of life. “That’s why I don’t trust Susan. She must’ve given me her old batteries, that old hen”. Aunt Clara grabbed two cups from the cupboards and filled them with ice cold lemonade from the fridge. You threw yourself on the kitchen chair, finally feeling your tired body relax.
“So that’s the new neighbor, hm?” Her face lighted up with a raised brow and a playful smile as she sipped on the sweet lemonade. Your cheeks tinted with a slight blush.
“Yeah… And what a neighbor!” Both of you giggled. You two had become as close as best friends in the past three years as housemates. She knew about your dating struggles.
“Oh Lord… Has she finally found her deliverance?” She clasped her hands in prayer, looking up dramatically, following with a laugh.
“Don’t say it like that!” You playfully swatted her hand. “I don’t know this man. He could be married… Widowed… Divorced, I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re alive and single.” She got up and placed the cups in the white sink. “How about you wrap up cleaning while I bake something for your dearest neighbor?”
“I am not going to his house today. He saw me looking like a sweaty mess! Plus, he probably doesn’t even have a table to put a cake on yet.” You got up from your seat, sweaty thighs sticking to the wood, dreading putting the furniture back in their places.
“Y/N, it’s just a welcome treat. If you don’t do it, some other sassy girl will beat you to it. And you can always blame your old aunt forcing you to be the good Samaritan.” She picked up the laundry basket from the table and stormed to the laundry room, leaving you to ponder your choices.
The setting sun painted a delicate watercolor in the Spring sky. Blue, orange, pink and lilac hues were strewn across the sky, and your cozy house smelled clean and divine under the stretching sunset shadows. A soft lavender scent wafted from the rooms, the wood polisher shone on the furniture and Pine-Sol reminded you of the bathrooms back in your childhood home, while the buttery fragrance of freshly baked goods warmed the house from within. Clean linens languidly swayed in the wind, spread on the clothes line in the backyard, the scent of fabric softener coming through your bedroom window every now and then.
You sat in your small vanity, applying moisturizer on your face after a cold, refreshing shower. It would be a lie to deny you were nervous like a schoolgirl. You had spent the rest of the day with your head in the clouds, thinking of what to say to him, what perfume to use, what to wear. Needed to be pretty, but now showy, but still a bit sexy. Maybe he’d fancy something pink? Or maybe something a bit cooler? What kind of girl did he like? Would he think you’re too young for him? Or – worse! – would he think he’s too old for you?
All these thoughts spun in your head as you applied scented lotion on your skin. You picked a simple yellow summer dress and thin leather sandals – enough to look pretty and enhance your possessions, but effortless enough to seem natural and easygoing. You tapped a bit of concealer under your eyes and applied lipgloss on your pouted lips. With your floral perfume discreetly applied to your neck, you left your room and followed the wonderful scent of freshly baked bread.
“Clara, the whole house smells like a bakery!” The woman was in the kitchen, carefully arranging two round loaves of bread on a red gingham cloth napkin inside a wicker basket. It surely looked like Little Red Hiding Hood’s.
“Aw, you look gorgeous, honey. He’ll surely like what he sees.” You could only hope so.
“Well… If my looks are enough, do you think he’ll mind if we keep the bread?” You took a bite of a cut slice of your aunt’s warm bread.
“Don’t be silly! There’s more is in the oven. Now hurry up and go before it gets cold.” She finished adjusting the basket and shooed you out of the kitchen.
You inhaled deeply and left with the small basket in your hands, rehearsing your dialogue options. None of them seemed to be satisfactory or any less awkward, but you moved on anyway.
Ding dong!
You fixed your hair behind your ear and adjusted the basket sliding in your sweaty hands. A faint movement could be heard from behind the door, and you were already feeling sweat collecting on the nape of your neck, under your loose hair. Footsteps got louder and paused near the door, your breath hitching as you figured he was looking through the peephole.
The door opened, revealing the man to you. He looked impossibly better up closely, and you could see the faint stubble on his jaw, dark circles under his baby blue eyes and the plushness of his lips. His slightly damp hair appeared darker, and he smelled of soap and men’s deodorant. A navy blue t-shirt and black sweatpants did little to hide his toned muscular body. The vision was totally domestic. You could get used to this version of him.
“Hi! I’m Y/N, and I’m your neighbor. I saw you moving in today. My aunt and I wanted to welcome you to our neighborhood.” Your voice came out stable, although a bit breathier than you wanted.
“Hello, Y/N. You were the one supervising my move earlier today, weren’t you?” His hand rested on his hip as the other held the door open. Your face instantly got hot with embarrassment, sweaty hands clutching the basket tighter.
“Heh… I-I was… J-Just making sure everything went smoothly, you know how it is.” He let out a genuine chuckle at your joke and leaned on the door frame.
“I’m Leon Kennedy. Nice to meet you.” His eyes finally landed on the basket, with a lift on his eyebrows. “Are these for me?”
“Y-Yeah, my aunt Clara made them for you. It’s homemade. Fresh out of the oven.” You extended your hands and gave him the basket, feeling your fingers quickly brush over his.
“I could smell it from my backyard. If you hadn’t come, I’d probably go there myself to ask for a bite.”
“You can come over any time! F-For the bread, I m-mean. Clara bakes every week.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Y/N.” He smirked at your innuendo and glanced over his shoulder as his cell phone started ringing loudly somewhere in the house.
“I’m gonna go now. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kennedy.” You gingerly waved goodbye to him and slowly headed towards the steps on his porch.
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