The daughter of Tony Stark was supposed to inherit a legacy.
Instead, Morgan Stark inherited abandonment.
Lost in space at eighteen after a mission goes catastrophically wrong, Morgan spends four years away from Earth building herself into something stronger, harsher, and infinitely more difficult to control.
At twenty-two, she returns to a world that moved on without her—except now everyone wants something from her.
Unfortunately for them, Morgan has changed too much to be anyone’s weapon, responsibility, or redemption story.
Non-linear narrative: the story shifts between past and present to gradually reveal what happened during Morgan’s years away from Earth.
🩶The daughter of Mycroft Holmes 0
🌒 Masked Man-Namjoon 1 - 2 - 3
You´re struggling to adjust to korea, when an unexpected clash with a mysterious masked man gives you the comfort you need.
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape — from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: 🔞 MDNI — Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
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The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong — you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
—You've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
—I couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
—I missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
—Don't be so needy, my princess —he murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caress—. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
—But we're not in the camp anymore —you replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
—You are my greatest temptation, my dragon —he said quietly—. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence — lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
—Baelor, please —you let out, your voice breaking into a whimper—. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
—I need you so much —you whispered.
—I need you too —he answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
—That's it, sweetheart —he murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
—Baelor… I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
—I love you too —he said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at once—. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words — though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
—Daena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
—It is a beautiful horse —you said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the world—, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
—Shit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
—Bloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
—Maekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! —Your grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
—Are you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
—Yes… yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
—Sanda —you called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armory—. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
—You!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
—You should not shout like that —you said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything good—. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
—Why are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
—Your father will hear of this —he said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shouting—. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
—Good luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! —you shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
—You are glowing today, my love —she said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosity—. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
—Nothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
—Maekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
—Daena has made a request of me this morning —Baelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good news—. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. —He paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to conceal—. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
—I…
—You are the finest rider in the family —said Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weather—. No one better than you. —He rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affection—. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. —Baelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against it—. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
—Of course —he said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
—Good morning, uncle —she said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
—If you are not capable of behaving yourself —he said—, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
—Then teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
The story follows Daena, Targaryen princess, cherished and sheltered by her royal family, whose orderly court routine is disrupted when a visit from her uncle Maekar, a serious and sullen forty-year-old prince, awakens in her a mischievous impulse and something more.
Content Warnings
The significant age difference (20 and 40 years) was presented as a central element of the romantic dynamic.
Targaryen incest
She had that bearing that septas teach for years but few manage to make their own: straight back without rigidity, chin raised without arrogance, hands always in the right place. A serene aura like still water. But everyone at court knew that beneath that calm lived a tenacious and sharp tongue, capable of dismantling a lord with three words spoken in an absolutely sweet voice. While your brother was educated at Dragonstone with your mother, you stayed with your father at court, the undisputed favorite of your grandparents. The kings had taken care of spoiling you with that particular tenderness that only the old know how to give, the kind that asks nothing in return. Even now, at nineteen years old, they had never forced you to marry, nor had they even subtly suggested it, as if the very idea of giving you away caused them pain.
Your only duty was to rise at dawn, when the air still smelled of cold stone and freshly baked bread, to take a walk with your grandmother toward the village ovens, making sure women and children had their breakfast before the sun finished rising. Then to serve as cupbearer in the council of lords, where you learned to read silences and glances as much as words. Lunch with your grandmother afterward, listening to her stories that mixed advice with memories. Spending the afternoon among ladies of different houses, embroidery threads and conversations that sometimes hid more politics than they showed. And at night, dining with your father and grandparents, with the fire crackling and the red wine gleaming in the cups.
You repeated this day after day, like the verses of a prayer known by heart. Without any disturbance in your routine, without jolts, without surprises.
Until a distraction arrived, a very very amusing one, and you decided that your reputation was solid enough to commit whatever mischief you pleased.
The dining hall was full of laughter that bounced off the stone walls and rose up to the hanging tapestries. The entire royal family had gathered that night, his four sons, their wives and grandchildren, a congregation that occurred so rarely that the servants did not quite know where to look. The long table gleamed with golden wax candelabras, overflowing plates and cups that emptied at an alarming rate. But the loudest, without any doubt, were the sons of your youngest uncle. Daeron could no longer hold his head steady, it fell to one side and then corrected itself clumsily, his cheeks red as ripe plum. Aerion delivered comments with that slow, satisfied cadence of someone who enjoys the damage they cause, words designed to burn, especially cruel toward his younger brother Aegon, who received them with a clenched jaw. The two younger girls did not stay quiet but responded to Aerion's comments with a ferocity disproportionate to their size, defending Aegon with the absolute loyalty of those who are not yet afraid of anything, though the youngest simply opted to throw food at him, a piece of bread that landed on Aerion's shoulder with notable precision.
Fortunately the adults on the other side of the hall ate in relative peace, conversing in low voices, trying to ignore as much as they could the chaos at the childish end of the table. And you were exactly in the middle, between the adults and the children, just after Maekar, at that uncomfortable point where noise arrived from both sides.
Today, after a full day of straightening your back, raising your chin, walking slowly and gracefully, endless protocols to receive the royal family, your responsibility and your duties as princess were beginning to falter like a flame in the wind. You only wanted some fun, something genuinely entertaining that would give you real satisfaction, not the polished pleasure of fulfilling what was expected. And watching your cousins so rowdy, some of that energy clung to you like gold dust, something that hummed in your fingers and made the corner of your lips threaten to lift.
That night Maekar was seated beside you. Forty years he had carried that presence that occupied space without asking for it, his perfectly shaved beard that did not quite manage to fully cover the marks that chickenpox had left on him as a child, small imperfections in his skin that somehow made him seem more real than the rest of the perfectly polished men at court. His size was so immense that you barely reached the top of his shoulders when standing, and sitting the difference was still evident, those broad shoulders that seemed made of rock. All of that plus his furrowed brow, the deep lines between his eyebrows, and his obvious displeasure at having to be there, at the gathering, at the noise, at the world in general that night.
Your grandmother brought you back to the hall with her warm and proud voice:
—Daena has begun practicing advanced equitation, her grandfather brought two Dornish coursers, how have you been getting on, dear?
The pride in your grandmother's voice was tangible as the heat of the fire, and her dazzling smile showed how happy it made her that her granddaughter was following Dornish traditions, that thread connecting to something ancient and hers.
You set your wine cup on the table with a slow and elegant gesture, and your hand rested on the tablecloth a moment before sliding, without hurry, without abruptness, a little further to the right. All the eyes at that end of the table were fixed on you, waiting for your answer.
—It is a beautiful horse —you said, with that voice of yours that always sounded as if you carried all the time in the world—, swift and with a very delicate temperament. But that makes riding it more challenging.
And just as your grandfather burst out in a proud laugh at his brave granddaughter, you let your hand fall with all the calm in the world onto Maekar's groin, squeezing.
—Shit!
Maekar's curse exploded in the hall like a stone in a still lake. He stood up abruptly, the weight of his body pushing the table forward with a screech of wood, his chair falling backward with a dry thud against the stone floor.
—Bloody hell!
The silence that followed was absolute. Every conversation cut short, every cup paused midway, every head turned toward him. The children, who never quieted for anything, stood open-mouthed. The servants approached cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal, trying to gather what had spilled and straighten what had fallen.
—Maekar! Do not say those words in front of your niece! —Your grandfather's voice thundered with that authority that needed no shouting to fill the hall.
—Are you all right, uncle?
You looked at him with the clearest and most detached eyes in your arsenal, and you had them well trained. Your voice emanated nothing but purity and genuine concern, the voice of someone who has done nothing in their life but embroider and pray.
Maekar returned a look that began as pure confusion, eyebrows drawn together, eyes searching for something in your face that would explain the inexplicable, and then that confusion mixed with a hot and controlled anger. But the anger lasted barely a second before the awareness of all the gazes upon him crushed it and transformed it into something that struggled to resemble composure.
—Yes… yes, I just need rest. The journey has brought me a great deal of stress.
He made a short bow toward the king, rigid and too quick to be entirely elegant. And as he walked toward the exit, he glanced at you sideways, with that careful distance someone adopts when they have just understood that something in their world has changed and are not sure whether to run or stay completely still.
At the corner of your lips a small smile formed, barely perceptible, that did not escape Maekar.
The dinner of the previous night, despite the scandal Maekar had caused in the hall, ended in calm. Time did its work, the wine helped, and toward the end of the evening everyone had returned to laughter and family stories, that particular warmth that exists only when people who have known each other all their lives reunite after a long time apart. A sweet and slightly melancholy satisfaction remained in everyone, of catching up, of remembering who they were to one another.
It was early in the small hours, that strange time when night has not quite finished leaving but the day already announces itself in the movements of servants, in the sound of water buckets and brooms dragging across stone corridors. The air was damp and cold, that cold that creeps up sleeves and climbs the neck, and the sky remained completely dark, barely crossed by the grey promise of dawn on the horizon.
You were already completely ready.
The dress was a pale rose that in the torchlight appeared almost white, almost nacre, with that delicate tone only achieved with fabric dyed twice in rose water. The outer silk fell in perfect folds from a fitted bodice that shaped the torso with precision, embroidered in golden thread with small intertwined dragons so fine they resembled lace from a distance. The sleeves were long and flared, falling from the elbow in a more vaporous fabric, almost transparent, that brushed the floor when you walked and made it whisper.
Your hair, platinum white with those copper highlights, was gathered in an elaborate braid interwoven with pink silk ribbons falling loosely between the strands. The diadem resting on your forehead was of fine gold. Your violet eyes, framed by nearly white lashes, held that quiet gleam of someone who knows exactly the effect they produce. Cheeks faintly rosy from the early morning cold, lips a shade darker than the dress.
A too-spoiled girl who had become something difficult to name. Too young to be ignored. Too cherished to be underestimated.
As you advanced down the corridor toward where your grandmother awaited, Sanda walked half a step behind you, her presence as habitual as your own shadow, and the soft sound of your steps on the stone was the loudest thing in that empty hallway.
It was then that you noticed.
Ahead, past the arch that led to the armory, a tall and robust man, almost hunched from the effort, practiced alone against a wooden dummy. His sword fell on the figure with a force that shook the support from its base, again and again, as if the dummy had done something unforgivable. The sound arrived rhythmic and heavy, wood against wood, the weight of an enormous body behind every blow.
Something new was born in you, something that started as mischief but had another component mixed in, a warm excitement without a clear name that you recognized all the same. The display of strength from that man made you imagine many things. The large hands gripping that hilt. The shoulders moving beneath the fabric of his shirt. You stood completely still watching him for a moment, and only then decided.
—Sanda —you called to your handmaid in a low voice, without taking your eyes off the man in the armory—. I am going to greet my uncle. Go ahead and let my grandmother know I will arrive a little late.
Sanda curtsied without asking questions, accustomed as she was to obeying your every whim and your every whisper with the same impeccable dedication. Her steps faded down the corridor and left you alone.
You approached slowly, with that deliberate calm you used when you wanted something to appear accidental. Your feet on the stone made almost no sound in your soft leather boots. You entered the armory, that place you rarely frequented and that smelled of cold metal and sword oil, and advanced without saying anything, studying his back.
But he noticed. He noticed before you understood he had noticed, because in a movement that left no time for anything he spun and leveled the sword at you, the point a few centimeters from your face, eyes narrowed and body taut as a bow.
When he recognized you, his face made the full journey. Confusion. Recognition. And then the memory of the previous night falling over him like cold water.
—You!
He looked at you as if you were a monster or his worst nightmare materialized in the small hours. It was the first time anyone had looked at you like that, with that genuine horror mixed with something resembling panic, and you discovered with some surprise that you liked it. You liked having a man like your grumpiest uncle, the most serious one, the one who never smiled in portraits, like this. You gave him a slow and playful smile, and brought a finger to your lips.
—You should not shout like that —you said softly, with that sweetness of yours that never promised anything good—. You will wake everyone.
Your finger moved from your lips to the blade of his sword, which he had not yet fully lowered. You rested it with studied delicacy on the cold spine of the steel and slid it slowly along the length of the blade, without taking your eyes off his, walking toward him centimeter by centimeter as you did.
—Why are you afraid of me, uncle? It seems something disturbed you last night.
Maekar lowered the sword and set it aside with a dry blow, and the sound of metal on stone echoed through the small space. He turned toward you with that extended finger and pressed lip, overflowing with a rage he had been cooking all morning.
—Your father will hear of this —he said in a low and dangerous voice, which was worse than shouting—. And he will know what kind of woman his daughter is. They have spoiled you far too much and you are shameless.
He advanced as he made his threats, finger pointing at your face, his immense body closing the distance with that storm energy that would have made anyone step back.
You took advantage of exactly that.
You closed the remaining distance at once, rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips so quickly and so chastely that perhaps it did not happen, so brief it was perhaps only the brush of air between two mouths that were too close. And before he finished processing what had occurred, you were already running. Running as you could not remember ever having run, not even as a girl escaping the septas, the soles of your leather boots striking the stone floor, the silk ribbons of your hair flying back, the laughter smothered in your throat because you could not let it out without betraying yourself.
—Good luck getting anyone to believe you, uncle! —you shouted without looking back.
And you left him there, turned to a statue in the middle of the armory, the sword forgotten on the floor, not yet finished reacting. It took a long moment. Several moments. And when his body belonged to him again, he slowly raised his hand to his lips, with an expression that did not know whether it was fury or stupefaction, and felt how a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat grew between his legs as he watched you disappear through the stone arch as if you had never been there at all.
When you reached your grandmother, still breathless, the smile on your face was so wide there was no human way to hide it. Your cheeks gleamed. Your eyes gleamed. You were, in that moment, the exact image of someone who has just done precisely what they wanted and does not regret it at all.
Your grandmother looked up at you with that expression of hers for reading people, the same one that had intimidated kings and lords for decades.
—You are glowing today, my love —she said with a tenderness that held, nonetheless, a note of curiosity—. Did something special happen?
You took your seat beside her with all the grace you had been taught, straightened your back, crossed your hands on your lap, and smiled with that still-water smile of yours.
—Nothing special. I just spoke a little with my uncle Maekar. He is very funny.
Your grandmother frowned for a second, the phrase too strange to ignore, the smile on your face too specific to be innocent. But you were her favorite granddaughter, and there were things a grandmother preferred not to finish understanding.
Maekar had spent two days turning it over.
The image returned on its own, uninvited: her fingers sliding along the blade of his sword with that deliberate calm, her violet eyes holding his gaze without blinking, and then that very brief instant, that brush that perhaps was nothing and yet remained there, pressed to his lips like an ember. He had repeated it to himself enough times to convince himself: he had to speak with Baelor. It was the right thing. It was necessary.
He knocked on the study door with his knuckles, entered without waiting too long, and stopped dead.
She was there.
Standing by the window, in that dark blue silk dress that made her white hair appear made of light, hands crossed with perfect composure, chin at the exact angle. As if she had been waiting for him. As if she had always been there.
Baelor looked up from his desk with a genuine and open smile, the smile he reserved only for his daughter.
—Maekar, what good timing. We were just wanting to speak with you.
We. Maekar noted the plural. He also noted his niece's smile, small and perfectly controlled, with that corner raised barely a millimeter that he had already learned to read.
—Daena has made a request of me this morning —Baelor continued, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man about to deliver good news—. She wants to learn advanced equitation. The horses that arrived from Dorne have a temperament that requires an expert hand, and she wants to rise to the occasion. —He paused, looking at his daughter with that pride he made no attempt to conceal—. And she has specifically asked that you be the one to teach her.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maekar to find words.
—I…
—You are the finest rider in the family —said Baelor with an absolute naturalness, as if commenting on the weather—. No one better than you. —He rose and came around the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder with genuine affection—. This girl has fulfilled everything asked of her without ever complaining. Her duties, her commitments, the court. She has never asked for anything for herself. —Baelor's voice softened with a tenderness that had no defense against it—. She deserves whatever she asks for, Maekar. She has earned it.
Maekar looked at her.
She returned his gaze with an expression of innocence so complete, so absolutely impenetrable, that in that moment he understood with a painful and almost comical clarity that there was nothing he could say to his brother. No words. No accusation. Baelor would not believe him. Not because he was a naive man, but because his daughter was perfect and he knew it and she knew it and now Maekar knew it too.
At the corner of her lips that smile appeared. Only a second. Only for him.
Maekar clenched his jaw.
—Of course —he said in a voice that revealed absolutely nothing.
The morning stables had that particular smell of damp hay and clean leather, and the light came through the high windows drawing golden stripes across the packed-earth floor. The stable hands had discreetly withdrawn as soon as Maekar arrived, as they always did when the prince wanted to work in peace.
They had not counted on the company.
She arrived punctual, which was already in itself a declaration of intent. She dressed for riding, a divided skirt of soft tawny leather over dark hose, a fitted cream wool tunic with her hair gathered in a low and firm bun at the nape, secured with two silver pins. No diadem. No layers of silk. Reduced to the essential, and even so entirely herself.
—Good morning, uncle —she said in a voice of still water.
Maekar did not answer. He pointed to the courser with a dry gesture and began.
The lesson was, on its surface, perfectly normal. He explained the posture, the communication with the animal through legs and reins, the difference between guiding and controlling. She listened with genuine attention, asked the right questions, executed corrections with a swiftness that would have been satisfying in any other context.
The problem was everything else.
When he approached for the first time to correct the position of her elbows, his fingers wrapped around her forearm with the practical intention of repositioning it, and she did not move exactly as she should have but just a centimeter less, so that her shoulder ended up grazing his chest for a second longer than necessary. Maekar withdrew his hands.
When he showed her how to tighten the reins, she turned her head to look at him from atop the horse, and they were too close, her violet eyes directly over his, with that expression that promised nothing good and that was nevertheless difficult to stop looking at.
When she dismounted and he extended his arm to help her down, she took it without taking her eyes off him throughout the entire descent, and when her feet touched the ground she remained there, at a distance that was not that of a niece with her uncle.
Maekar said nothing. He did not step back either.
That was his mistake.
Because she noticed. She noticed with that precision of hers for reading what others tried not to show, and something in her expression changed, became quieter and more certain at the same time, like someone who has just confirmed something they suspected.
The lesson ended. The stable hands were still outside. The light had shifted angle and the stable was quieter than before.
Maekar gathered the courser's reins to lead him back to his place and she walked beside him, and when he stopped in front of the animal's box and turned to say something about the next lesson, she was too close again, and this time there was no sliding of fingers along swords nor excuse of correcting posture.
She rose on tiptoe and kissed him.
Not like the first time.
This time it was a kiss with weight, with intention, with her hands rising to his chest and her mouth claiming his with a determination that had nothing accidental about it. Maekar felt the impact as something physical, a second of absolute paralysis before his body reacted.
She tried to pull away. She tried to turn and run as the time before.
His hand found the bun at her nape before she managed a single step, fingers closing around the silver pins and the secured hair, stopping her with a firmness that did not hurt her but admitted no argument. He pulled her back and brought her close to his face, and when he spoke he did so with his teeth barely parted, his voice low and taut as a string about to snap.
—If you are not capable of behaving yourself —he said—, I will have to teach you how.
There was a silence.
She looked at him from that minimal distance, with flushed cheeks and altered breathing, and in her eyes there was something Maekar had not seen before, something that was not mischief but something deeper and more honest than that. She looked at him directly, without averting her eyes, and said in a voice that was softer than usual:
—Then teach me.
Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand. Without letting go of her hair bun, he led her to the back room, pulled her inside, and then followed her. She stood before him, in that riding dress, her hair bun undone by his hand, and for the first time
He sat down on a bench and held out his hand, pulling her onto his lap with his back straight. Maekar's hand first explored her buttocks with his fingers, then moved down to her groin, making her shudder and let out a moan at the firm pressure.
"Now do you understand how it feels? I'm going to teach you to respect your uncle." With that, his palm moved up and down her buttocks, repeating the motion three more times. His hand was heavy and large; her buttocks were still sensitive, but what truly ached was her throbbing center, and she felt herself becoming wet.
He helps you rise, and you sit on his lap; he cradles you as your head falls unconscious onto his chest. His hand gently strokes your cheeks, bringing you back to consciousness. "Are you alright?" You can only smile and nod, knowing your routine will never be the same again, not now that your new request to your father and grandparents is that they marry you off to Maekar, They were going to allow it even if he didn't want to.
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape — from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: 🔞 MDNI — Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
------------
The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong — you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
—You've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
—I couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
—I missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
—Don't be so needy, my princess —he murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caress—. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
—But we're not in the camp anymore —you replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
—You are my greatest temptation, my dragon —he said quietly—. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence — lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
—Baelor, please —you let out, your voice breaking into a whimper—. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
—I need you so much —you whispered.
—I need you too —he answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
—That's it, sweetheart —he murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
—Baelor… I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
—I love you too —he said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at once—. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words — though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
The journey to Ashford was supposed to be an escape — from the court's whispers, from your grandmother's suffocating lessons, from everything. Instead it left you drained, lonely, and quietly aching for your husband. When Baelor finally walks through your door that night, tense and distant, you realize you're done staying quiet about what you need. Warm water, candlelight, and the first I love you spoken out loud.
Warnings: 🔞 MDNI — Explicit sexual content-Established relationship (married couple)-Consensual intimacy-Bathtub / water sex-Emotional intimacy-Soft!Baelor, needy!reader-Brief emotional tension before resolution-First "I love you"-Hurt/comfort (light)-2nd person POV / Reader insert
------------
The journey to Ashford had left you exhausted in body and soul.
You had insisted on accompanying your husband Baelor, partly to escape the whispers of the court that seemed to grow louder every time he was absent, and partly to free yourself from your grandmother's lessons, which had lately been suffocating you with their weight. You had also seen it as an opportunity to spend time with your siblings, though that hope dissolved the moment they found a gap in the security and vanished without a word, turning the journey into something far lonelier and more tense than you had anticipated, with your grumpy father as your only constant company.
The stress had been building, mostly because of your younger brother Aegon, at the mercy of the sadistic Aerion and the careless Daeron. All you could do was hope he found kind people along the way until he made it home.
Now you were in the bath, letting the warmth of the water undo the knots in your shoulders.
The rooms in Ashford were spacious and high-ceilinged, but the darkness made them feel intimate; only the candles broke through the shadows, casting golden light over the stone walls. The servants had come and gone several times, arranging everything to your requests, until you had asked them to leave you alone.
Submerged to your shoulders, with your head resting against the edge of the tub, you heard the footsteps. You recognized them immediately: heavy, deliberate. Baelor's.
He entered without knocking, as he always did, and didn't even scan the room to look for you. He went straight to the small table and began removing the pin from his cloak and his rings, one by one, as though each piece of metal weighed twice what it should. His shoulders were tense and his gaze was lost somewhere that didn't exist in that room. Something was wrong — you knew it with the same certainty with which you recognized his footsteps.
And you had been swallowing your own complaints for far too long.
—You've been busy the entire journey.
The remark barely seemed to pull him from his thoughts.
—I couldn't even spend the nights with you.
You watched him from the tub, your chin resting on the edge.
—I missed you.
That got his attention.
Something in his expression shifted when he found you like that, bare in the steam and the trembling candlelight. He approached slowly, leaned over you, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, cradling your face in one large, warm hand.
—Don't be so needy, my princess —he murmured. The tenderness in his voice softened the tease until it was barely a tease at all, more like a caress—. I thought of you every night. But if I had come into your tent, I'm not sure your father would have been pleased to hear us.
You let out a nervous laugh. It was the first time the three of you had been together since the wedding, and while your father hadn't openly objected, his weighted silence said enough.
—But we're not in the camp anymore —you replied.
You closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his palm, seeking that warmth. Then you felt the back of his fingers graze your other cheek, trailing down your neck with a deliberate slowness that made every inch of bare skin beneath the water grow more aware of itself. The sensitivity multiplied like that, with nothing to muffle it.
—You are my greatest temptation, my dragon —he said quietly—. You're going to be the end of me.
You opened your eyes and gave him a shameless smile, just before his hand descended to your chest and took hold of you firmly, with that particular blend of strength and possessiveness that belonged only to him. A moan escaped your throat, muffled and urgent, the product of days of contained need. Your back arched on its own; you had to grab his arm to keep yourself from sinking into the water.
Baelor's face showed satisfaction and something close to reverence — lips parted, breathing heavier, letting small curses fall quietly between them. You wanted desperately to kiss him, but instead you turned your face toward the hand cradling your head and pressed a slow kiss to his palm, while his fingers continued their work beneath the water, gently teasing your nipple.
Then he slipped his thumb between your lips. You took it without hesitation, closing your mouth around it, pressing your tongue against it as he pushed deeper. At the same time, his other hand began to descend along your stomach, sliding beneath the warm, clouded water until his fingers found the center of you. He worked you with the precision of someone who knows you by heart, and a tremor moved through your entire body.
—Baelor, please —you let out, your voice breaking into a whimper—. Please.
He answered by bringing his mouth to yours in an urgent, unsteady kiss. You used his closeness to wind both hands around his neck and pull him closer still, while your fingers searched blindly for the buttons of his shirt. Baelor pulled his hand from the water and stood, and you protested with a moan that filled the room.
He removed his outer shirt and you stretched from the tub to pull his trousers down, finding him already halfway there. Completely bare, he lifted one leg into the tub and then the other, settling between your legs with care, bracing himself against the edge to bring his face closer to yours. The kiss he gave you then was the opposite of the last one: tender, slow, as if he had all the time in the world. Kneeling between your legs in the warm water, he held you by the waist.
You pulled back just slightly from the kiss, your lips still grazing his.
—I need you so much —you whispered.
—I need you too —he answered, with the same urgency and the same softness.
Baelor turned you gently until he was the one lying back in the tub and you were draped over his chest, his body warm and solid beneath yours. You pushed yourself upright, braced your hands on his chest, and shifted your legs until you were seated over him, looking down at him.
—That's it, sweetheart —he murmured, his hands steadying you at the hips, guiding you as his body met yours.
You lowered yourself slowly, letting him open you little by little, and pressed your forehead to his shoulder to focus on breathing and keep yourself from losing control entirely. His hands moved along your back unhurriedly, giving you time, giving you something to hold onto.
When you reached the limit, you lifted your head to look him in the eyes.
—Baelor… I love you.
His hands went still on your back. His face softened in a way you rarely saw: the purple eye brighter than ever, the pupil wide and dark, a small and genuine smile that had nothing to do with politics or court. Only with you. He drew you to him and kissed you slowly.
—I love you too —he said when you parted, his voice lower and gentler at once—. You are the light of my life.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, complete in that silence full of heat and water and candlelight.
Then you began to move.
Baelor guided you with his hands at your hips, giving force to each movement, and the two of you lost yourselves in the rhythm you built together, between moans and broken breaths, the water splashing and spilling over the edges of the tub onto the stone floor. The world of the court, of your father, of your vanished siblings, of the whispers, remained entirely outside that dark, candlelit room.
You reached your peak first, with a sigh that was almost his name. Baelor followed shortly after, pulling you against his chest.
Several minutes passed like that, tangled and still in the now-lukewarm water, feeling complete in a way neither of them could have put into words — though, as it happened, they had just found them for the very first time.
warnings: obviously targcest! babytrapping, smut, dubcon? noncon? manipulation, older man/younger woman, woman viewed as a possession, time typical relationship dynamics.
Building off of this and the incredible asks from darkbaelorfreakanon! Mostly doing this to consolidate all the thoughts we've been having on my blog about Baelor if he survived the mega-whack he got.
Baelor survives the trial of seven at Ashford Castle, but he's not the same – the hit of the morningstar damaged the part of his brain responsible for rational thinking and impulse control, as well as the part that held his knowledge of social cues and politeness.
Baelor comes out a changed man, no longer the kind and thoughtful prince who gave hope to the Seven Kingdoms. Now, the people call him the reincarnation of Maegor the Cruel; he's brash, rude and quick to anger, and even his sons tiptoe around him now.
Before his injury, he was content with his widower status. He didn't have any need or desire to remarry, but deep down... he held a shameful secret – he lusted over his younger brother's daughter.
However, he'd never thought properly about acting on his thoughts. You were young, energetic and full of life. Which young woman would wish to be tied to an older, greying man such as him?
He was always eager for Maekar's annual visits to the Red Keep, pleased to spend time in your company. You never minded speaking with him, happy to discuss politics or literature unlike your twin. He grew fond of you, and despite how much he hated the feelings brewing inside of him, he denied himself. It wasn't right.
Maekar tried to betroth you once you were of age, hoping to find someone worthy of your hand, and yet every suitor seemingly fizzled out – either they revoked their offer, or a scandal of theirs would come to light. So here you were, unwed and on the edge of spinsterhood.
And then Baelor's accident happened.
No longer did he feel guilt, disgust, or shame at the sight of you. Instead, he felt young again... lustful, shamelessly this time. His desire to pull you into his lap had never been so strong.
When Maekar receives a letter demanding that you visit the Red Keep, it's clear to him what's happening. And yet, your father can't say anything against it.
Baelor is deceptive – he's gentle at first, reminiscent of the uncle you used to know. You don't feel so bad tending to his wounds or helping pour his wine at council meetings, not even when the looks start to grow. Baelor was growing suspiciously close to his niece now, more than appropriate, they were saying.
You don't even notice when he starts isolating you, replacing your guards from Summerhall with those loyal to him. You're too occupied being by Baelor's side, and his pain is worse now, he says. You spend evenings by his side in his chambers, reading the histories as he requests. But, truly, you've only ever seen him as your uncle.
Never had you wished to follow the strange customs of your ancestors, instead hoping to marry a kind lord far away from the Crownlands and live peacefully.
Soon, Baelor's making his way to his father, demanding the hand of his niece as payment for the grave wound he's suffered. He wants you, and he doesn't want to have to play polite anymore. But it's only been a few months since the trial, and King Daeron is still grateful that his eldest son is alive and healthy... and as a princess, it is your duty to marry.
Even when you're pleading with your father, begging him not to marry you to your uncle, there is nothing he can do. It's been decided. Maekar's guilt grows tenfold; first, he'd almost killed his brother, and now he's gifting his daughter into the arms of the monster he's created.
The wedding, or more aptly, the wedding night, was horrific for everyone except Baelor. He forces Maekar to watch the consummation, pretending it's to make sure he sees his daughter will be treated right. Instead, Baelor is on top of you, heavy and punishing with his thrusts, and you can only lie there and take it. He doesn't stop for hours, moving you however he likes, even when you grow floppy and weak. He's not a brute, though – he's going to bring you to your peak, as many times as he deems necessary, even when you tell him it’s too much. And when you can't move unassisted in the morning (after he's taken you once more)? Well, he knows he's consummated his second marriage properly.
After that, there's no telling what Baelor will do, for he holds no shame. He'll push you up against the stone walls and hike your skirts up, shouting at those around you to leave, lest he order their eyes to be plucked out. He'll make you ride with him through the forest, only to order you to ride him by the riverbank, his hands guiding your hips up and down before he’s dragging you back onto your shared horse, cum seeping down your thighs.
The injury made his hunger all the more insatiable, and he doesn't see anything wrong with taking you wherever he likes, whenever he wants. The court is too scared to say anything, having heard how the last man to comment on the 'prince's whore of a wife' disappeared from court overnight.
The one incident that made the King speak to him was when he demanded you, as his wife, sit on his lap during the council meeting. He made no effort to hide when he rucked your skirts up your thighs halfway through the meeting, slotting you down onto his hardened cock in front of the council members, despite the desperate twists of your head in resistance. He made you sit there with his cock inside for the remainder of the meeting, your cheeks warm and eyes teary with sheer embarrassment, clear to all in the room. But no one can say anything to the Hand of the King, and once they finally leave, he’s flattening you against the table and finally having his way with you.
He isolates you until you have no one but him, burning the letters your father sends you, and then holding you when you cry at your father's neglect. His moods are so volatile – one moment he's sweet, praising you, and making you reminisce on the man your uncle used to be, and then the next, he's telling you that the only way you will ever leave his side is if you kill him yourself. You can never quite keep up.
Speaking of, he's going to give you his babe, that way, you could never leave his side. He is determined to give you more than one, but he knows that the mother of the future King's heirs isn't going to make it far from the Keep if she does manage to get outside the walls. He's already got two sons, but he's whispering to you about how he wants a daughter, a chubby-cheeked thing with your hair and his eyes. How he hopes you'll only give him sweet daughters like you.
He's seen the way you eye the small, giggling children at court and play with your younger siblings – being a mother would suit you so well, whilst occupying all your time with tending to his children. They'll be as needy as he, he guesses, and you’d have no time to fill your head with other fanciful notions. Just him and the life he’s given you.
And well, when your belly starts to swell – much to the horror of your visiting father, he's overjoyed. Now everyone will know who you belong to, and he supposes that you'll warm even more to him when he gives you such a precious gift.
(90 years later, when Joffrey reads the histories, he’s speaking of his favourite couple - King Baelor II and his wife. He speaks of how in love they were, how she bore him a bounty of sons and daughters, and how she never left his side throughout the years… Baelor ensured their history was written to his liking, threatening the lives of those who dared to try and write the truth.)
okay but where is pepper? is she still in morgan’s life or did something happen between them?
some of this will be revealed throughout the story, so the relationships can feel a little confusing at first because the timeline jumps between the distant past and the more recent past.
but morgan and pepper’s relationship really fell apart after tony died. pepper went through an incredibly heavy period of grief, and with the weight of stark industries on her shoulders, she barely had time to take care of herself, much less focus on morgan.
as time passed, morgan basically grew up without a mother. she only saw pepper maybe once a month and was mostly raised by nannies, though she was always so independent that even they barely felt necessary.
morgan started acting out to get her mother’s attention. she literally set houses on fire multiple times, but pepper always saw it as accidents and never really looked deeper into it. over time, the “accidents” kept piling up, and morgan became convinced her mother didn’t love her enough to actually pay attention to her.
eventually, she stopped trying to impress her or get her attention at all, and naturally her behavior got worse. she became more reckless, more troublesome, eventually turning into a juvenile delinquent and a constant scandal in the news. the few times they did interact usually ended in screaming matches and mutual resentment.
their relationship became deeply poisoned by years of neglect, grief, and projection. pepper saw too much of tony in morgan, and morgan saw her mother as the person who abandoned her. both of them started viewing each other as obstacles in their own lives.
pepper knows she failed as a mother, but there are too many wounds between them now for either of them to apologize. morgan’s biggest childhood trauma is her mother, and pepper’s greatest regret is leaving morgan behind. but in pepper’s mind, if she hadn’t distanced herself, she probably never would have survived tony’s death or the collapse of the family life they built together.
pepper never really acted like a mother beyond financially providing for her. she just left money on morgan’s cards and let her do whatever she wanted.
and since happy was grieving may, rhodey was dealing with his own issues (and the skrull situation), morgan basically grew up without any real family around her.
pepper’s guilt over morgan’s childhood turned into permissiveness. she let morgan get away with almost anything, constantly covering up scandals as best as she could, but never actually correcting her.
so by the time morgan was 12, she was basically free to do whatever she wanted. when morgan turned 12, pepper remarried william and had another child. (pepper is around 43 when she has her second baby), and she becomes focused on building a new family and trying to do things right this time.
the fact that pepper genuinely tries with her son, but never really did with morgan, only deepens morgan’s resentment.
if anything, pepper overcompensates with her second child because she doesn’t want to repeat the irreversible mistakes she made with morgan.
for morgan, this only reinforces everything she already believed growing up: that she was never truly wanted, just tolerated.
every time she had to be around pepper’s new family, she felt completely out of place in what was supposed to be her own home.
eventually, after a serious incident, morgan and pepper have a fight so intense that morgan ends up hurting her mother. that moment becomes the final fracture in their relationship.
after that, there’s really no going back.
by 13, morgan starts living alone because pepper sees her as a danger to her son and as a mistake she no longer knows how to fix.
and morgan accepts it, because by that point, she believes it too.
synopsis: something's wrong and deep down you know what it is
warning: brief mention of hospitals & medical terminology, angst, sort of drawn out, tiniest mention of tony being taken in IM1
a/n: let this one marinate for too ling in the drafts. i tried to keep everything together and coherent, but this chapter is canonically supposed to take place over a few days up until tony and taken at the beginning of IM. next chapters will be during IM1.
word count: 5.8k
masterlist || next part
tony stark x daughter!reader
[gif from pinterest]
It was bright and early in Malibu. Despite it being early February, the still sun beamed down. Pepper sat in the living room, laptop open and scrolling down a catalog of designer dresses totally unaware of the figure approaching from behind her. She frowned in concentration, looking through pictures of one dress. She makes a small tut noise, disliking the dress, and clicks off and onto another dress that had caught her eye.
“What are you doing?”
She lets out a gasp, her heart jumping in her chest and whips her head around to find you standing there, half awake and still in your PJ’s. “Oh, my god! You scared me.”
You leaned over the back of the couch, as if you hadn't just scared the bejesus out of the poor overworked woman. You purse your lips together into a small pout, something you’ve been doing since you were a kid, eyes skimming the catalog on screen. It was some posh high designer brand, one that you didn’t even know existed. The price tag on the dress was enough to make your head spin.
Jeez, high tax-braked shopping happening over here.
“Which one are you getting?” You asked.
Pepper blinks, her heart finally settled and moves the cursor towards a purple backless dress. “I’m thinking about this one, or this one,” she moves the cursor onto a green dress.
“No.” You made a face in disagreement, nose scrunched and a light scowl on your face at the color and design of the dresses. You leaned over, arm reaching over her shoulder and started scrolling through the catalog yourself. “What’s the occasion?”
“My birthday.”
You stopped, surprised “today?”
“No,” she smiled, “it’s in two days.”
You stared at her for a moment, cataloging the information, before turning your back to the laptop. You’d have to take Happy and one of Tony’s cards to go find her something. You silently scrolled for a few seconds before coming across a navy blue backless dress.
“This one.”
Pepper took over, scrolling through the photos for her own inspection. Her green eyes take in every detail of the dress. You watched as her eyes lit up, as if this was the one. “It’s perfect.”
You smiled back, “good.”
You stood up straight, yawning aloud. Your eyes pricked with tears and you glanced back at the empty living room, “where’s the ogre?"
She tries to hold in a laugh, ducking her head to hide her smile. She clears her throat as she watches you walk around and face plant into the absurdly high priced couch. “Ahem, Tony’s out with Happy. They’re out getting him some new suits for his trip tomorrow.”
“Hm.” You nod, face still pressed into the cushions. “He’s going to the award thing, right?”
Pepper nods, not that you would see that. She clicks off of the website, having placed the order for the dress, and onto Tony’s schedule where everything was meticulously planned for him to follow– if he felt like it. “He leaves for Las Vegas tonight with Happy, Rhode, and Obi.”
“Ah,” you hummed, lifting your head up at the mean girl's name. “May the force be with you.”
Pepper softly smiled, “and then he has a flight to Bagram Air Base at six in the morning.”
“He’s not making it at six.” You point out. The concept of Tony Stark being on time.
“No he won’t,” Pepper agreed, well aware of her bosses tendencies with ‘being on time’.
As if on que, the front doors swing open and Tony waltzes in with Happy in toe with his brand new designer suits. He makes a B-line towards you and Pepper, taking off his dark sunglasses with a flare of sass. He makes an array of hand gestures at you, “what is this? It’s midday and you’re still in your My Little Pony pajamas.”
All you could do was gawk at him, mildly annoyed that he had to speak to you so early in the morning and for him to just lie out of his ass. “They’re pink pajamas,” you narrowed your eyes at him, enunciating every word at him, “and it’s 8 in the morning.”
He makes a face, hands coming up in defeat. He goes to say something– a joke about how it’s probably that time of the month for you– but stops remembering that the last time he’d made that joke he had to dodge an array of projectiles aimed at his head from you.
“Again,” you sat up, “go to work. Be a productive member of society.”
“Hmm,” Tony puts a finger on his chin as he puts on a performance, as if he was actually considering your words. “No.”
You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at his theatrics. Surprisingly after Tony’s night out with Obadiah he was back to normal (or whatever is considered normal for him). You’d thought with the reaction he had he’d be a lot more standoff-ish with you, not that you cared if he was or wasn’t upset with you. You watched as he came around and sat next to Pepper.
“Did you talk to them?” You asked, hopeful.
Tony glanced at Pepper's laptop and then you. “It’s a no-go.” He shrugged, “something about hospital policy.”
“Oh no,” Pepper frowned, empathetic. “I really thought they’d let you stay for a day or two.”
You frowned, deflated. Great, now I’ll need to have a babysitter.
“But, hey, no big deal.” Tony said, pulling out his phone. “You’re grown enough to be by yourself.”
“Tony,” Pepper starts.
“What? You know what I was doing at her age?”
“Please, don’t,” you cringed. If he was this promiscuous now at his grown age, imagine what he was like as a teen.
“Look, you’ll be fine.” He turned towards Pepper, “she’ll be fine.”
“I know she’ll be fine, it’s just-”
“You know why she’ll be fine? Because you’re gonna be here.”
The two go off into one of their tangents, bouncing off one another like an old married couple. You watched, entertained and thought to yourself that maybe they wouldn’t be that bad of a pair.
Tony claps his hand together, “it’s settled. Pepper’s gonna come and check in.”
Satisfied you get up to go change out of your PJ’s and into a ruffled dress, denim vest, and slouched boots. Before you can go back downstairs, you’re overwhelmed with a need to call your mom.
The phone rings once, twice, three times before it’s picked up on the fourth.
“Hello?”
You softly smiled at the sound of her voice. “Hi, mom. I didn’t wake you up did I?”
“No, honey, you’re fine. I was already awake.”
You fall into easy conversation, asking each other what you ate for breakfast, what your plans were, but despite that there’s still this uneasiness that you feel.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten yet, you try to rationalize.
“Hey, mom,” you suddenly grow hesitant, “I was wondering what time I should come over.”
There’s silence on the other side for a moment and you hold your breath. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m not feeling well.”
You quickly replied, dejected. “Oh, no, it’s fine– I get it. Maybe tomorrow?”
There’s shuffling on the other end, “I’ll let you know, sweetie.”
You smile, “okay, mom, uh, I’m gonna let you go. I’ll call you later– oh, make sure you eat and take all your medicine, and make sure you drink lots of water..”
“Okay honey,” She softly chuckled. “I’ll do just that. You take care of yourself too. Bye.”
The phone goes silent and you just stand there in your room. She sounds okay, a little tired but that can just be chalked up to the medication she and the time of day. But, the way she took too long to answer made something in you jolt. With a sigh, you walk back down to the living room.
Pepper’s the first to notice your subtle change and asks, “are you okay.”
“Yeah,” you brushed off. “I’m fine. Just a little hungry.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t push any further and you’re able to head to the kitchen without any more questioning. You make your breakfast– something simple and light, otherwise it’d make you nauseous, and sit down at the table.
No visitation today, no big deal. That just means I have time to look for the right present for Pepper.
–
You couldn't help but gawk at all the people who were eagerly shopping away at 8 in the morning. But then again, this is Rodeo Drive, one of the most lavish and prestigious shopping areas that spanned three blocks. It was a magnet for those who shop luxury and for tourists. But still, shopping at 8 in the morning? Absolutely not, I’d rather be in bed.
But you’re not. Instead, you’re just like everyone else, shopping at 8 in the morning. You’ve just spent a good hour at the Louis Vuitton store finding the right pair of heels for Pepper, wondering if it was good enough for the women whose shoe collection you would die for. Feeling a bit doubtful you decide to duck into a Cartier store and buy her a sleek watch and hope that she didn’t have the same kind at home.
The drive back was quiet. Happy would occasionally glance back to you in the back passenger seats, staring off, in the rearview mirror. Surprisingly, Happy himself had been quiet, seemingly aware of the gloomy aura you’ve had around you since yesterday morning. Your phone clenched in your hand and Happy takes it as a sign that once again, you were denied visitation.
He takes a gamble, “you okay?” Your eyes flicker from out the window to his in the mirror. Happy almost cringes when you don’t respond right away, is she okay? No she’s not okay– she looks like she’s about to scream.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You sure, cause you’re doing this thing with your face and–” I really need to shut up.
“It’s just,” you sigh, slumping into the backseat, “I think something is up with my mom. She keeps saying that I can't visit which means something is wrong, but she’s not telling me and I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you tried to talk to Tony?"
You frowned. “No, why would I? It’s not like he can do anything.”
“Who knows,” he shrugs. “Maybe you should.”
The two of you settle into silence for the rest of the ride back to Malibu. Talk to Tony? Mr. Emotionally Constipated? No way. What can he say anyway? “Wow that sucks, anyways I’m gonna party,” Yeah, no. I’d rather take my chances with a Magic Eight Ball.
The car comes to a stop and you do your best to sneak the presents up stairs without Pepper noticing. Thankfully, she was preoccupied down in the workshop, no doubt talking Tony’s ear off and reminding him the importance of being on time for the awards. You hide them in your closet next to the tape and red gift bag that you’d already stashed.
Not bad for some last-minute birthday shopping.
You’re interrupted by a commotion downstairs, peeling you out of your room and perched by the railing of the upstairs balcony that overlooked the bottom floor. You could hear Tony (shocker) yapping away with two other people. You step down the stairs to get a better view and find Obadiah and Rhode.
Obadiah sits sprawled out across the couch like he owned the place and Rhode stood by the mini cart-bar, pouring themselves a drink. He turns and catches a glimpse of you coming down the stairs, calling out your name, catching the attention of Obadiah.
“Hey,” you replied, giving him a small smile.
You had met Rhode before and had immediately deemed him as the other sane person in this mess. The first meeting was actually the day you’d moved into Tony’s place. The Colonel had come storming in, ready to rip Tony a new one for ditching a high-stakes meeting with representatives of the military, but stopped in his tracks the minute he saw you.
It looked like he had short circuited when he was told that you were his daughter and that you would be staying with Tony for some time. He’d fallen into a sputtering mess, confused as to how it was possible (not him having a kid, that was obvious, but how Tony was able to have custody of you). To be honest, he was ready to file for emergency custody, well aware that his best friend wasn’t the fittest of dads (no offense to Tony).
Ultimately, he’d decided to keep an eye on the situation rather than taking any action prematurely. Instead, he’d swing by every couple of days to check in on you and make sure everything was running smoothly.
“Young Stark!” Obadiah cheers from his place on the couch. You cringed at the nickname, ignoring him as you crossed the threshold.
You eye the glasses in Rhode’s hands and then at the clock 10:53 a.m. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to be drinking?”
Rhode walks over, giving you half a chuckle, and hands Obadiah his glass. “You try being on a flight with Tony.”
You grimace, “yeah, nevermind.”
The two men laugh at your ‘joke’ and you deliberately take a seat away from Obadiah. You could feel his eyes on you, as if he was assessing your every move like he was trying to do before at the company. It sends a shiver down your spine, his gaze reminding you of an apex predator hunting his prey. Thankfully, it’s short lived as Tony’s voice could be heard coming down the stairs while giving Pepper orders.
“Great the gangs here,” he snaps his fingers in some rhythm, pointing his direction to the two other men. He’s wearing a jet black suit with a maroon button up and red tinted aviator glasses. His hair’s slicked back and there’s an expensive designer watch on his wrists.
“Right, let's get this show on the road.” Obadiah says, throwing the rest of his drink back and standing up, and you swore you could hear his knees pop a little.
“Happy’s loading the car and the jet is ready for take off.” Pepper says, dutiful as ever, hoping that Tony would leave on time for once.
Rhode and Obadiah start making their way to the front door and Tony goes to follow, but stops and pivots back to you, “hold on,” he reached into his pockets pulling out his wallet, reaching in and pulling out a couple of bills for you, “here, get yourself some pizza.”
Rhode gawks from the side, “Tony that’s five hundred dollars.” But Tony just shrugs.
His eyes linger on you for a second before he turns away, “if you’re gonna throw any parties make sure you take lots of good photos.”
You watch him, Rhode, Obadiah, and Pepper walk out and to the car where Happy waited for them. Once the three were situated into the Rolls Royce Phantom, Happy takes his place behind the wheel and drives off leaving you and Pepper.
Thankfully, the rest of the day is uneventful. Pepper stayed for a couple of hours to make sure you were fine, while you were upstairs wrapping her gifts, before she went back to the office and then her place, promising to come back so that you two would have dinner together.
The moment she was gone you reached for your phone and dialed the number for your moms hospital. Okay, if you couldn’t visit her then at least you could talk to her, but the phone kept going to voicemail, over and over again. You called her phone number, the clinic number, her doctor's number, but came up with nothing which in turn grew the pit in your stomach where anxiety happily settled into.
“Maybe they’re just busy,” Pepper had said that night after she’d gotten the information out of you. “She’ll call you when she can, now eat.” She nudged a slice of pizza your way.
Eventually, she had to leave (though she did try to stay, but you couldn’t have her around while your brain spiraled), leaving you alone. You tried to go to bed, but the anxiety wouldn’t let you. Maybe you just needed a change of scenery, which is what led you to the kitchen with a midnight snack. You sat at the table, slumped over a plate of an eaten grilled cheese sandwich, leaving the crust untouched.
Maybe Pepper should have stayed the night. You sighed, trying to shoo away the negative thoughts that had clouded you for most of the day. You should have known better. Being left alone with your never-ending thoughts never went well for you especially when you were pledged with anxiety. Somehow, the pit in your stomach had grown, making it harder to breathe.
She’ll be fine, she’ll be fine.
You’re so deep in your thoughts that you don’t hear the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, or the laughter and flirtatious giggling that traveled up to the second floor, or the footsteps that grow closer to the kitchen.
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
Tony watched as your body flinched that the sound of his voice, as if it cut deep into you. Slowly, you turn to face him and Tony pauses at your watery eyes and frowns.
“What the…” he muttered under his breath, shit, he wasn’t ready for this. “Um, what’s with the long face?”
You shake your head, wiping your eyes and standing up with your plate in one hand. “It’s, uh, it’s nothing.”
Tony wordlessly watched as you threw away the crust and set the plate down in the sink. What the hell was he supposed to do? Hug you? Sing you a lullaby? Console you? Fuck. This was not Tony’s forte. He’d be the first to admit it, but him and emotions never go well together. He couldn’t even deal with his, how the hell was he supposed to deal with a fourteen year old’s emotion?
Okay, think. She’s sad. What do you do when someone’s sad? Console. Got it.
He opens his mouth and hesitates before letting the first time that comes to his mind out. “You sure it’s nothing, because your face looks like a mess.”
God-fucking-damnit. Great going.
Your mouth goes agape and tears start to well in your eyes, “what?”
Tony groaned, I need a drink. He walked over, poured a drink, and gulped it one go. “Look,” he starts firm, setting the glass down in front of him, “I know I’m not qualified for this conversation,” or any “but, what’s up?”
He peeks over his left shoulder and finds you staring back at him. Surprisingly, you take his words into consideration. “It’s,” you sharply exhale, “it’s my mom. I’ve been, uh, trying to see her past few days, but she’s not feeling well and they’re not telling me anything they just keep saying that I can’t see her, but I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do.”
You had started to ramble mid-way through, and you would have gone further if Tony hadn’t stopped you.
“I know.”
You blinked. “What?”
He just leaned back against the counter, “yeah, I’ve known.”
“You knew?”
“They give me reports almost everyday.” He said, practically nonchalant as if he couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“You knew and you told me nothing?” The disbelief in your voice was clear as well as the simmering anger. “You knew something was wrong and you didn’t tell me?”
“Tust me, you didn’t need to know.”
You nearly scoffed, “I didn’t need to know? I have every right to know. That’s my mother.”
“Look, you’re a kid–”
“No, you look. This wasn’t part of our deal, remember? You’re supposed to tell me these things, it’s my right to know them.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he tried to back track, well aware of how angry you were growing, “she’s a little sick right now, but she’ll get better in a few days and then you can go see her.”
You scoffed, “right because I should listen to you– someone who has no medical knowledge."
Tony clenched his jaw, growing annoyed by the constant back-talk, “I’m your father, which means I know what I’m doing.”
“What you are is a sperm-donor. You had fourteen years to step up, but you didn’t so don’t act like you’re my dad now.” You didn’t have it in you to be in the same room as his let alone look at his stupid face, so you stormed out of the kitchen with tears burning in your eyes.
You practically ran up the stairs and into your room, face planting right into your pillows and breaking into a sob.
God, you hated this place, and hated him the most.
–
You couldn’t sleep the entire night.
You tossed and turned, took another warm shower, and even had some melatonin gimmies, but you just couldn’t fall asleep. You laid there, waiting for JARVIS to give his typical morning rundown.
“Good Morning Miss. It’s 7 a.m. The weather is 48 degrees Fahrenheit with scattered clouds. The surf conditions are fair with waist-to-shoulder high lines. High tide will be at 10:52 a.m.”
“Has he left?” Your voice came out rough and heavy.
“No, Mr. Stark has not left.”
You let out something that’s in between a groan and a sigh. If you went downstairs now then there’s a chance you’d run into him, but if you didn’t that’d mean you’d have to stay upstairs until he left (which could be hours). You mentally weigh your options, creating a pros and cons list, but it all goes out the window when your stomach decides to make itself (and its hunger) known.
“Fine,” you muttered to yourself, crawling out of bed. You walk over to the bathroom sink and nearly flinch at your own reflection. Guess a night of no rest and the occasional crying session really did a number on you.
You sighed, nothing a little concealer couldn’t fix.
Thankfully, it did help mask the bags under your eyes, but they did nothing for the redness around your iris. You stared at yourself in the mirror, face almost pressed up against the reflective material, while deciding how you wanted to deal with the redness. Eyedrops, maybe? Or Sunglasses, like the oversized ones that Paris Hilton wore.
You decided to stick with the eyedrops for now, deciding that sunglasses indoors were just a little bit too much for you. You could hear shuffling and someone talking downstairs, assuming that it was either Pepper or Tony (or both), and reached for your gifts for the strawberry blonde.
Gift bag in hand you walked down the steps expecting to find Pepper, not an unknown blonde woman wearing a white dress shirt and her underwear.
What the fuck?
Pepper stood facing your way whilst the unknown woman had her back towards you. “That's JARVIS. He runs the house. I've got your clothes here. They've been dry-cleaned and pressed, and there's a car waiting for you outside that will take you anywhere you'd like to go.”
“You must be the famous Pepper Potts,” the woman says, as if she was trying to size up against Pepper. You stood back, watching it all unfold, who is this chick?
“Indeed I am.” Pepper replied with a nicely masked passive aggressive smile and a hand off of the woman's clothes.
She eyes her dry-cleaned and pressed clothes that had been pushed her way and decides to dig her grave, “after all these years, Tony still has you picking up his dry-cleaning.”
Your jaw nearly falls open at the woman's audacious comment.
Pepper, however, handles the comment with more grace and elegance than you admittedly could. “I do anything and everything that Mr. Stark requires, including, occasionally, taking out the trash. Will that be all?”
The woman's haughty attitude quickly simmers down as the result of Peppers comment, but you however, don’t think it’s enough. Just who does she think she is talking to Pepper like that?
You decide to do what your father does best and put on a little act. “Um, hello?” Your voice comes out small, hesitant even, catching the attention of both of the women. Pepper looks surprised to see you up and the blonde woman looks like a mix of shock and mortification. Suddenly, she becomes aware of the fact that she’d been exploring her one-night stands home in nothing but a shirt and panties. One hand comes to her front, pulling the shirt down as if it could magically grow longer and reach floor length.
Sorry lady, I’m a girl’s girl, but you decided to go after Pepper for literally no reason.
Pepper says your name and steps forwards as if she were subconsciously trying to block the other women from your view. Too late, Pep. I’ve already seen all of it.
You walk down the rest of the steps, hiding the bag behind you the best that you could, and barely glanced at the blonde. You gave Pepper a nice smile and brought forward the bag, surprising her. “Happy Birthday, Pep.”
Her eyes flickered from you to the bag, not expecting the sudden gift, and smiled. “Thank you, oh, when did you have the time to get this?” She takes the bag and you give her a hug, which she gladly accepts.
The women watched stunned, watching the affectionate exchange between me and Tony Stark's 'Assistant’. “I’m sorry, but– are you– are you Tony’s kid?”
You let the words linger for a moment while you honed your best Kardashianesque cattyness. You slowly glanced over to her, almost startling her, and responded. “Are you still standing in my living room barely dressed?”
Her face flushes and she gives off a quick apology and makes a run for it for Tony’s room to get changed and out of the house. You watched her go and Pepper said your name in a chastising way, “you didn’t have to do that.”
You shrugged, “she started it by being rude to you.” You hooked your arm around hers, pulling her to the couch, “is this why you try to hide Tony’s late night flings from me? So I don’t get to see how weird they are?”
“Partially.” she replied.
You sit side-by-side and eagerly encourage her to open the gifts. She pulled out the shoe box first and opened it to reveal a pair of Louis Vuitton Red Bottoms. She lets out a gasp, maneuvering the shoe around in her hand to get a full view of the highly coveted shoes.
“Try them.”
She sets the right shoe down, takes off her heel, and slips her foot into the new one. Her head snaps towards you, “how did you know my exact size?”
You shrugged, “magic.” It wasn’t. You had tried to sneak a glance at the size of shoe she was wearing the day you saw her looking for a dress, but that failed so instead, you turned towards JARVIS. “Okay, next ones.”
She reached for the Cartier box, opening it to reveal a watch made of stainless steel. The face of the watch was a rectangle while a clock facing was squared; there was a row of diamonds coming down vertically on both sides (eleven from what you’d been told), with a blue stoned dial.
“Oh, my god,” her jaw fell open as she took in the watch. Her fingers lightly trailed the face of the watch while it was still in the box. She glanced towards you, “you didn’t have to–’”
“Yes I did,” you replied. “You didn’t sign up for whatever bullshit Tony and I have going on so, let me at least repay you like this.”
She gave you a soft smile, thankful for the gifts. She starts to put back the gifts into their boxes when her eyes flicker towards the watch again and then back at you, “did you?..”
“Take Tony’s card? Yup. How else do you think I could afford all that?”
Her phone starts to ring, Rhode’s name appearing on the screen, and she sighs, picking it up. She gets up, giving you one last glance and walks over to the stairs to the workshop. “No, James, I totally understand… I told him last night that he couldn’t be late… yes, I know… I’m gonna try again, right now.”
She disappeared under the stairs and you decided to make yourself breakfast. Last night's grill cheese, and conversation, sat uncomfortably in your gut so you opted for something more light; a piece of toast with strawberry jam. You take note, right as you close the fridge door, of the bottles of organic apple juice. By the time you’ve eaten and washed the few dishes you used, the blonde woman was gone and Tony was dressed in jeans, black shirt, and black leather jacket and a pair of red tinted sunglasses.
He glanced at you, but didn't say anything, which you were glad for. Happy was already waiting for Tony at the airstrip, packed and ready, while Pepper gentle-parented him. “You can’t delay this anymore, Tony, this was your idea.”
Tony puts on one of his watches while either pretended to listen to Pepper or just zoned her out. They make their way towards the front door and you decide to follow after without much thought. Happy stands outside, waiting for Tony with the car packed and ready, but Tony decides to take the Audi, wanting to race Happy all the way to the airstrip.
Pepper glanced at you and tried to nudge you to say bye to Tony, no doubt feeling the tension, as if a ‘bye’ would fix everything. He walks towards his Audi R8, pauses, and turns back around. Pepper nearly has a conniption, almost stepping forwards and probably willing to drive Tony to the airstrip herself, but stops when she sees him make a B-line to you.
You stood leaned against the door frame with your arms crossed, tensing as he approached you. He stands around an armlength away and says nothing (and neither do you). You debate walking back inside considering the yap-aholic had suddenly gone mute when he finally speaks, albeit hesitantly.
“I should have told you, I get it. And when I come back we’ll talk about all of it, okay?” His tones surprisingly somber, as if it had taken a lot for him to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong (which it did).
You chew at the inside of your cheek, wanting to throw another quip at him, but the sudden humbleness (sort of) catches you off guard.
“Okay.”
And as if a light had switched, he goes back to his perky self and walks over to the car. You watched as he opened the door and sent a smug smile your way, “don’t miss me too much.”
The Audi comes alive and Tony swiftly pulls out of the driveway, leaving you and Pepper. With a light groan you head back inside with Pepper right behind you and collapse onto the couch.
Maybe I should have thrown my shoe at him.
–
You’re startled awake by the sound of your phone ringing right next to you. Half-asleep, you answer it and bring it to your ear.
“Yeah?” you murmured, voice heavy with sleep.
“This is Dr. Williams from the Hope Cancer Center,” the somberness in the person’s voice is enough to pull you out of sleep. You sit up in bed as the doctor explains what's happened in the past few days. “Your mothers been quiet sick for some days and last night she caught an infections, and unfortunately she’s just slipped into a coma–”
The doctor goes on, but you can’t hear him anymore even if you tried. Only four words echo in your ears, sending a wave of nausea over you.
“Slipped into a coma”
How does that happen? How do you go from having a cold to being in a coma?
“Hello? Hello?”
Your throat tightened and closed, the words dying before they could even be spoken. You felt as if your entire world had just stopped, because quite frankly it had.
“I understand that this is quite hard and difficult to understand, but if you could be here that would really help.”
“‘M– ’m coming.” You choke out the words and eventually the phone calls ends, leaving you in your dark room surrounded by silence. Your entire body shakes with shivers and your face is wet with tears you didn’t even know you had shed.
The next few hours were a blur for you. Somehow you’d managed to call Pepper (you didn’t, you were so out of it that JARVIS had to call her) who’d rushed over to pick you up and drive to the clinic. She’d barely had enough time to put the car in park when you’d rushed out of the car and into the clinic. The attendants were able to usher you into the ICU where Dr. Williams was already waiting for you. He started to explain things further, but your attention was on your mother who laid on the hospital bed hooked up to machines and monitors. She looked so weak and lifeless, nothing like the women you know who single handedly raised you with such grace and vibrancy.
Your fingers tightly wrapped around her frail hand, bringing it up so you could press it against your cheek. Tears fell down your face as your eyes stayed on her and the state that she was in. You’d only been away a few days. She was fine then, smiling and laughing at your antics, so how could it all go south so quickly? It was a few days, not weeks, or months, but a few days.
You sat there, holding her hand, for hours. Pepper spoke with the doctors for you, planning for the next steps; observation, diagnosis, treatment. She spent nearly an hour calling other doctors and hospitals that your mother could be transferred to all over California, and then she left Tony a message explaining the severity of the situation before coming to sit with you. She sat near the back of the room, keeping her distant while also giving her support.
You both sat in silence, the only sound in the room coming from the monitor that tracked her heart rate and the light sound of her breathing through the oxygen mask. Your eyes would flicker between her and the monitor, suddenly hyperaware of everything– every breath she’d take, every upward and downward spike on her heart monitor.
It wasn’t until 8 in the morning when that painful silence was broken. Pepper’s phone rang with a call. Quietly, she answered and stepped out of the room, “Rhode?”
His voice comes out ragged and panic-filled. “Tony’s been kidnapped.”
I remembered that I had a crush on this man in 2020, so intense that it made me watch all of TWD
Jeffrey Dean Morgan, only you and I know all the fanfics I read and all the romances we had, my dad's friend, my teacher, my neighbor, the mafia king, my coach, or a stranger in the bar. 🧑🦽🌧️🥵
okay but where is pepper? is she still in morgan’s life or did something happen between them?
some of this will be revealed throughout the story, so the relationships can feel a little confusing at first because the timeline jumps between the distant past and the more recent past.
but morgan and pepper’s relationship really fell apart after tony died. pepper went through an incredibly heavy period of grief, and with the weight of stark industries on her shoulders, she barely had time to take care of herself, much less focus on morgan.
as time passed, morgan basically grew up without a mother. she only saw pepper maybe once a month and was mostly raised by nannies, though she was always so independent that even they barely felt necessary.
morgan started acting out to get her mother’s attention. she literally set houses on fire multiple times, but pepper always saw it as accidents and never really looked deeper into it. over time, the “accidents” kept piling up, and morgan became convinced her mother didn’t love her enough to actually pay attention to her.
eventually, she stopped trying to impress her or get her attention at all, and naturally her behavior got worse. she became more reckless, more troublesome, eventually turning into a juvenile delinquent and a constant scandal in the news. the few times they did interact usually ended in screaming matches and mutual resentment.
their relationship became deeply poisoned by years of neglect, grief, and projection. pepper saw too much of tony in morgan, and morgan saw her mother as the person who abandoned her. both of them started viewing each other as obstacles in their own lives.
pepper knows she failed as a mother, but there are too many wounds between them now for either of them to apologize. morgan’s biggest childhood trauma is her mother, and pepper’s greatest regret is leaving morgan behind. but in pepper’s mind, if she hadn’t distanced herself, she probably never would have survived tony’s death or the collapse of the family life they built together.
pepper never really acted like a mother beyond financially providing for her. she just left money on morgan’s cards and let her do whatever she wanted.
and since happy was grieving may, rhodey was dealing with his own issues (and the skrull situation), morgan basically grew up without any real family around her.
pepper’s guilt over morgan’s childhood turned into permissiveness. she let morgan get away with almost anything, constantly covering up scandals as best as she could, but never actually correcting her.
so by the time morgan was 12, she was basically free to do whatever she wanted. when morgan turned 12, pepper remarried william and had another child. (pepper is around 43 when she has her second baby), and she becomes focused on building a new family and trying to do things right this time.
the fact that pepper genuinely tries with her son, but never really did with morgan, only deepens morgan’s resentment.
if anything, pepper overcompensates with her second child because she doesn’t want to repeat the irreversible mistakes she made with morgan.
for morgan, this only reinforces everything she already believed growing up: that she was never truly wanted, just tolerated.
every time she had to be around pepper’s new family, she felt completely out of place in what was supposed to be her own home.
eventually, after a serious incident, morgan and pepper have a fight so intense that morgan ends up hurting her mother. that moment becomes the final fracture in their relationship.
after that, there’s really no going back.
by 13, morgan starts living alone because pepper sees her as a danger to her son and as a mistake she no longer knows how to fix.
and morgan accepts it, because by that point, she believes it too.
That night Morgan decided to leave Tony Stark in the laboratory and decided that the best thing to do was go to bed and rest, but she never managed to fall asleep.
The room remained submerged in darkness, barely tinted by the faint blue light slipping through the curtains. For a few seconds she stayed still, staring at the ceiling, with that familiar restlessness pressing against her chest like a silent presence.
She could not keep sleeping.
Her mind was too awake, too loud. As if something inside her had activated before the rest of the world.
She turned her face slightly.
At her side, Bucky Barnes was sleeping deeply.
Even asleep he looked ridiculously serious.
He was lying on his back, one hand resting over his abdomen and the other slightly tilted toward Morgan’s side, as if even unconsciously he needed to make sure she was still there.
Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, softening his usually tense features a little.
Asleep he looked younger.
Less burdened by everything.
Morgan watched him in silence for a few seconds.
There was something strangely peaceful about seeing him like this. Something she still had not fully gotten used to.
For too many years, waking up alone had been the norm.
Too many years in which silence meant isolation and not peace.
Her gaze lowered to the slight crease between his brows, the one that never fully disappeared even while sleeping.
Morgan stretched out a hand, carefully brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.
Bucky barely moved, exhaling slowly.
That pulled a small smile from her.
A real one.
Brief, but real.
She did not want to wake him.
Carefully, she pushed the blankets aside and slipped out of bed, placing her bare feet on the cold floor.
Even so, that feeling was still there.
That strange emptiness.
As if something was missing.
As if her body was searching for something it still could not find.
She placed a light robe over her shoulders and quietly left the room, walking directly toward Becca’s bedroom.
She opened the door carefully.
The girl was sleeping deeply, wrapped in soft blankets, with messy blonde hair spread across the pillow and an expression of peace that always managed to soften Morgan a little.
Morgan approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. She brushed a strand of hair away from her daughter’s face and stroked her head with a tenderness that barely fit inside her chest.
Becca shifted slightly, scrunching her nose a little before slowly opening her eyes.
Those huge eyes, intensely blue, exactly like her father’s.
When she managed to focus on Morgan, her expression shifted from sleepy confusion into a small bright smile, one of those smiles that inevitably reminded Morgan of Becca when she had only been a few months old. Sometimes it was hard to accept how quickly time moved, other times, seeing her like this, she thought maybe her daughter was still her baby.
“Good morning, little witch.”
Becca’s face wrinkled immediately at the nickname. Morgan let out a small laugh and reached out to smooth her daughter’s sleepy frown with her thumb.
Both of them ended up laughing.
“I want to keep sleeping, mommy...” Becca murmured, settling back into the pillows and dramatically closing her eyes, pretending she had fallen asleep again.
But the smile on her lips betrayed her.
Morgan crossed her arms, pretending disappointment.
“What a shame. I was thinking about going horseback riding to watch the sunrise. I thought you would like coming with me, but I guess little witches prefer sleeping late.”
A second later, a stuffed animal hit her directly in the face.
Morgan caught it with one eyebrow raised.
“I am not a witch,” Becca protested, now completely awake and visibly offended.
“Oh really? Then you will have to prove it.”
Morgan threw the stuffed animal behind her and with one quick pull removed the blankets.
Becca let out an offended squeal between laughter, holding uselessly onto the sheets while trying to get them back.
“Mom!”
“Very little energy for someone who claims not to be a nocturnal creature.”
The little girl finally let out a defeated laugh.
“Fine, fine... I will go.”
It was almost a tradition between them.
Bucky Barnes had never liked horseback riding. He had tried it once, only once, and had declared with complete seriousness that he found it unnatural to trust his own life to “an animal with free will and legs that are far too long.”
For Morgan, on the other hand, riding was the closest thing to feeling free.
Ironically, horseback riding lessons had been one of the best things Pepper forced her to attend in her desperate attempt to control her when she was a child. Between stables, mud, and the smell of leather, Morgan had found a place where the noise in her head finally quieted down a little.
And it was also where she met Kate Bishop.
Kate was older, worked as a volunteer at the club, and always seemed to enjoy teaching far too much while making sarcastic comments. Morgan had connected with her almost immediately.
And then there was Becca.
Her daughter had loved horses since she was a baby. She could barely hold her own head up and already seemed fascinated by them.
When she started talking and discovering that she could demand things from the universe, she asked for her own horse so she could stop riding with Morgan and do it by herself.
Morgan granted it practically immediately and even allowed her to choose it herself.
Bucky nearly had a heart attack.
He called Morgan an enabler for an entire week.
Though deep down, both of them knew that nobody in that house could ever change Becca’s mind once she decided something.
She was far too stubborn.
Far too spoiled.
Maybe far too much like Morgan.
Their house was comfortable. For anyone else it would probably still be considered a huge house, with six bedrooms, a large kitchen, a cozy living room, two floors and an entire basement, but for Morgan it was fairly ordinary. She had grown up surrounded by impossibly large mansions, endless ceilings, endless hallways and spaces so perfectly designed that they rarely felt like real homes. Those houses had always felt more like extensions of the Stark name than places where someone actually lived.
This one, on the other hand, was different.
It did not look like any of her previous houses. It was smaller, warmer, much more to Bucky Barnes’ taste than her own. There was more wood than metal, more warm lighting than clinical white, more comfort than pretense. Only the basement still felt completely hers: converted into an almost obsessive laboratory, filled with technology, prototypes, holographic screens and enough security systems to concern any international organization.
Outside of that, the property was enormous. Most of it was forest, a real one, wide and quiet, crossed by trails that led to a lake. Beyond that, almost at the very edge, there was a small cliff from which the sunrise always looked almost unreal. That place had somehow become Morgan and Becca’s favorite.
They always went there.
Becca had practically grown up free across the entire property. She ran through the house, the stables, the trails and the forest with an almost absurd confidence, as if the whole world belonged to her. Bucky spent most of his time chasing after her to keep her from wandering too deep into the forest or, worse, sneaking down into Morgan’s laboratory.
The second one was almost impossible to prevent.
The more something was forbidden, the more Becca seemed obsessed with doing it. Morgan constantly defended herself by claiming she simply trusted her daughter, though reality was far less relaxed. The entire house was surrounded by technological security designed specifically by an absurdly worried mother. Sensors, biometric locks, facial recognition, restricted access and automatic systems that, in theory, made it impossible for a child to get into certain places.
In theory.
Because Becca always found a way to break it.
Several times they had found her inside the laboratory, sitting among tools and screens as if she belonged there, and nobody understood how she had managed to get past all of her mother’s security systems.
Not even Morgan.
Which, honestly, made her feel prouder than it probably should have.
Becca was precocious, brilliant and charming to dangerous levels. The kind of child who managed to win over anyone within minutes. Although, sometimes, she still had little moments where she really did seem like a child her age.
Especially when Morgan did not come home.
On those nights she asked too many questions. Where was her mother, what time would she come back, why was she still working so much. Bucky did everything possible to distract her, but Becca always seemed unsettled until Morgan returned. As if she still did not fully understand why her mother sometimes simply disappeared so often.
That was why Morgan valued those rides.
They felt like compensation.
Maybe not enough, probably never enough, but at least for a few hours Becca seemed to forget everything else.
And so did Morgan.
After the ride, the improvised races and sitting for a while watching the sun rise reflected over the lake, they decided to head back home. Morgan could already imagine Bucky slightly impatient, probably making breakfast and checking the time as if taking a child out before sunrise was a federal crime.
When they arrived at the house, there was a car outside. She recognized it, it was Eli Bradley’s, knowing her day had been ruined from early on, she decided to enter as fast as possible, putting the horses back in their stable. When she entered the house, everyone was eating, she did not remember ever seeing a dining room so full and so noisy, Morgan’s expression showed bitterness but Becca seemed to love the new atmosphere, especially when she was being so spoiled, being called by Black Widow and Tony Stark so they could personally feed her, although her father had already served her a plate of her own and told her she had to finish it.
“Good morning.”
Everyone returned the greeting, the atmosphere was much more relaxed than the night before.
“Where is he?” she asked her husband, her husband let out a sigh because he knew the peace was over.
“First I want to tell you that you should not be taking Becca out of bed that early, her sleep schedule gets ruined, and she will be tired for ballet class, and do not tell me it is better if she skips it, her recital is soon, she needs to practice.”
Her husband let out the usual lecture that had already become routine, Bucky needed to say it even if no one really took him seriously, because Morgan would keep doing it anyway. She walked further into the kitchen following her husband.
“My daughter does not need practice, she already does it great,” she annoyed her husband a little while throwing a proud glance at her daughter, who seemed delighted by the compliments while her mouth was still full of breakfast.
“You should see her,” Bucky said under his breath in a teasing tone, because he knew Becca liked creating her own routines much more than following the teacher.
“You are so mean,” Morgan answered Bucky in an equally low voice, keeping their conversation hidden from everyone else, as well as the small laughs they both let out.
“I do not want fights here, Morgan, he just wants to talk, he looks worried, you should help him,” Bucky told her more seriously now while handing her a plate of breakfast. “And eat, please.”
“Last night you were asking me to spend more time with Becca and now you are asking me to take on more things, I cannot do both,” Morgan replied with a tired voice.
“But you are still trying to do both, and you will never be able to split yourself in two, eventually you will have to completely let go of one of them.”
Silence settled between them.
“He is downstairs, and eat, please.”
Morgan grabbed the plate, without taking her eyes off Bucky Barnes, giving him a crooked smile before leaving the kitchen.
Everything was still the same outside, the dining room was still controlled chaos, and Becca was completely focused on negotiating parts of her breakfast with the people around her, trying to exchange the food she did not like for things she preferred.
“I will give you my fruit for your pancakes,” she said very seriously, extending her fork toward someone else’s plate.
“That is not a fair negotiation,” Tony Stark commented, amused.
“It is for me.”
Morgan almost smiled.
As if she had some kind of instinct, Becca looked toward her parents and immediately stuffed part of her breakfast into her mouth.
Bucky came out of the kitchen just in time to see it.
“It is delicious, daddy, thank you.”
And with that alone, Bucky was completely defeated.
His expression softened automatically, hopelessly in love with his daughter.
Morgan barely shook her head before heading downstairs to the laboratory.
The atmosphere in the laboratory was completely different, it felt much colder, the lighting was entirely white, and there was a constant background sound that never stopped, like objects moving endlessly.
Eli Bradley was standing with his arms crossed, his back turned to the door, when he heard footsteps he turned to look at her, his face reflected nothing but determination, almost a challenging look directed at Morgan.
“What a horrible visit,” Morgan commented while placing the plate on a table. “Tell me what brings you here to ruin my day, Elijah, do you need more serum so your muscles grow bigger, maybe something for your brain too?”
“How lovely to see you, Morgan, as always, charming.”
Morgan tilted her head as if agreeing with him.
“But I did not come here for fun, something really bad is happening.”
Elijah’s face hardened, and for the first time since she entered, his posture faltered while his gaze drifted toward the ceiling as if searching for his thoughts.
“I need your help.”
Morgan let out a dry laugh.
“God, it must be something serious for you to obey Fury and come beg me like this.”
The warmth in her chest was almost prideful, humiliating Elijah always brought her a shamefully satisfying feeling.
“That is the problem,” he replied, ignoring the mockery. “I cannot contact Fury, I cannot communicate with Billy Kaplan, Captain Marvel was supposed to arrive on Earth today. I tried contacting Wakanda to find out something about Carol but—”
“Relax, soldier, if something had happened I would know.”
Morgan began typing on one of the screens with little real interest.
“Maybe you just did not get the memo and they kicked you out of the team, honestly I do not see you as that necessary.”
Elijah clenched his jaw.
“This is serious, Morgan, I do not know why I came to you, you are unbelievably arrogant.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Billy would not leave like this, we are worried, please, Morgan.”
The last part came out differently.
Lower.
More honest.
That made Morgan sigh in annoyance more than anything else.
She walked toward another screen.
“Fine, calm down, I will call Fury.”
Morgan started typing more seriously now, completely sure everything was still under control, but the call was not answered, something unusual since Fury always answered the few or almost nonexistent calls Morgan ever made to him, they had always maintained a direct communication channel.
Morgan’s face shifted slightly.
“Okay, maybe he just has bad reception in space.”
Elijah looked at her as if he could not decide whether to strangle her or beg harder.
Before he could say anything else, Bucky appeared at the laboratory entrance.
“You both need to see this.”
Something in his voice made both of them look up immediately.
Morgan stopped typing.
There was no trace of his usual domestic annoyance now.
Only seriousness.
That alone was enough to make her move.
Elijah and Morgan followed Bucky upstairs toward the living room, where everyone was already gathered around the television.
“Becca, come here,” Bucky called immediately, motioning for his daughter to step away from the screen.
Becca protested.
“Why? I’m watching.”
“Now, Becca.”
His tone left no room for argument, and after a dramatic sigh, she walked over to him while still trying to glance at the television.
The screen flickered with interference for a second before abruptly switching to an emergency transmission.
The screen split in two.
On one side, the bright red BREAKING NEWS logo.
On the other, live aerial footage of Manhattan.
The reporter was speaking too fast, with the particular tension of someone desperately trying to sound professional while the world behind her was visibly collapsing.
“We interrupt regular programming to report a critical situation unfolding in central New York, where multiple enhanced young individuals, apparently linked to the group known as the Young Avengers, are currently involved in a large-scale confrontation.”
The camera shook violently.
And with it, Elijah seemed to freeze.
A building appeared with several shattered windows.
Gray smoke rose between blocked avenues.
Sirens, trapped traffic horns and distant screams blended together beneath the reporter’s voice.
The transmission switched to helicopter footage.
Below, complete disaster.
Cassie Lang was giant-sized, stumbling between two buildings as if she could barely remain conscious. Every one of her steps made the ground tremble, cars looking like crushed toys beneath her feet.
Scott Lang immediately stood up from where he had been sitting.
Pure panic crossed his face.
“Oh my God.”
The reporter’s voice trembled slightly.
“Cassie Lang appears unable to return to her normal size.”
Morgan let out an involuntary laugh.
Pure instinct.
Several heads turned toward her.
Elijah gave her a murderous look.
Scott looked equally offended.
“What?” Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow. “It is visually a little funny.”
“That is my daughter destroying Manhattan,” Scott replied, horrified.
“Yes, that is admittedly the less funny part.”
The image shifted again.
Ironheart crossed the sky like a red and gold missile, thrusters burning violently.
Her armor sparked erratically.
Something was clearly malfunctioning.
“Ironheart appears to be attempting to contain the situation, although it is unclear whether she still maintains full control over her technology.”
An energy blast fired accidentally and tore through part of a nearby building.
The transmission cut out for a second.
“This is what I meant, Morgan,” Elijah said, voice sharper now. “I need your help. Something is seriously wrong. Fury, Carol, Billy are all missing, who knows how many others too, and now my team is under attack.”
Morgan was already prepared to dismiss him again.
Tell him to leave.
Tell him none of this was her problem.
Then something on the screen caught her attention.
Her gaze sharpened.
Hulkling.
Partially transformed.
Wings incomplete.
Skin flickering between green tones and unstable alien features, as if his body could not decide what shape to hold.
He was shouting something inaudible.
He lifted a bus almost reflexively.
Then released it.
But it never fell.
A web caught it midair.
The camera shifted sharply.
Spider-Man.
Swinging directly into the chaos.
Morgan narrowed her eyes.
Something else caught her attention.
A small light.
White.
At Hulkling’s neck.
“I.R.I.S., get me enhanced visuals on Hulkling.”
Her watch lit up immediately.
She turned around and walked quickly back toward the laboratory.
Elijah followed closely behind, nearly tripping over himself to keep pace.
Several Avengers followed too, almost by instinct.
Inside the lab, holographic screens lit up around Morgan as the footage was transferred onto a larger display.
She zoomed in.
Closer.
Closer.
There it was.
A small white device attached near Hulkling’s neck.
“What is that?” Elijah asked, clear panic slipping into his voice now.
Morgan’s expression hardened.
“A biomolecular modifier.”
Everyone in the room looked at her.
“It is interfering directly with Hulkling’s physiology. It is forcing his genetic structures into conflict.”
“In English?” Sam asked.
Morgan barely glanced at him.
“It is messing with his powers and preventing him from regulating his transformations.”
The footage continued playing beside them while Morgan moved quickly toward one of her workstations.
“Call Kate.”
Elijah immediately pulled out a communicator.
“She’s not answering.”
“Of course she isn’t,” Morgan muttered. “Useless.”
“Always a pleasure working with you too.”
“I.R.I.S., call Riri.”
“The communication with Ironheart is unavailable. Natalie has sustained severe damage. Karen is available. Would you like to contact Spider-Man?”
“Yes.”
A second later, Peter Parker’s voice came through the speakers, accompanied by background explosions, shouting and what sounded like something very large collapsing.
“Okay, wow, hi, terrible timing, little busy trying not to die.”
Morgan rolled her eyes.
“Peter, listen carefully.”
“Oh good, the terrifying Stark voice. That usually means something horrible is happening.”
Elijah stepped closer to the communication system.
“Spider-Man, you need to deliver an electrical discharge directly to Hulkling’s neck.”
There was a brief silence.
Then Peter again.
“Quick question. Is this actual science or are we improvising murder?”
“It is science,” Morgan replied flatly.
“Comforting. Weirdly not comforting, but okay.”
Morgan had already stopped paying attention.
She moved toward another metallic station, activating several surfaces with a swipe of her hand.
Drawers opened automatically.
Multiple transparent vials slid forward.
She grabbed one.
Then another.
Then a third.
A translucent blue solution.
A metallic silver compound.
A pale amber liquid.
Her hands moved with practiced precision, combining the substances inside a cylindrical vial.
The reaction was immediate.
The liquid shifted.
Orange.
Soft at first.
Then brighter.
More saturated.
Until it became a vivid luminous orange, almost glowing under the white laboratory lights like trapped fire.
The vial emitted faint heat against her fingers.
Elijah stared at it.
“What exactly is that?”
Morgan barely looked at him.
“A temporary biomolecular stabilizer.”
Silence.
“In English?” Sam repeated.
Morgan sighed.
“I am forcing Hulkling’s body to temporarily choose one physiological line before that device completely destroys his internal regulation.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.”
Behind them, everyone’s attention remained fixed on the television.
On screen, Spider-Man was weaving between collapsing debris while dodging Hulkling’s attacks.
“Kate, I need one of your electric arrows!”
Kate’s voice barely came through in the background.
“You better not waste my arrows.”
“Always so supportive.”
Morgan continued working, adjusting calculations across floating holographic panels.
The enlarged image of Hulkling remained displayed beside her.
The white device continued pulsing.
Irregularly.
Aggressively.
Morgan frowned harder.
“It is forcing both biological systems to remain active simultaneously.”
“And that means?” Elijah asked, watching her every movement.
“It means his DNA is actively fighting itself.”
Not good.
Morgan adjusted another parameter.
The orange liquid rotated slowly inside the vial.
Stabilizing.
Brightening.
She finally lifted it.
The white lights reflected through the glass, making the substance glow almost unnaturally.
“Tell Spider-Man to bring Hulkling here.”
Elijah immediately leaned toward the communicator.
“Spider-Man, do you copy?”
Static.
Sirens.
Heavy breathing.
Then Peter again.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Morgan says you need to bring Hulkling to her lab. Immediately.”
“Copy that. The Young Avengers are already being evacuated.”
On the television, one of Morgan’s black Quinjets was descending through smoke and debris while agents helped the Young Avengers onboard.
Peter kept talking through exhausted breaths.
“Your ridiculously dramatic aircraft just got here, Stark. The kids are heading your way.”
Morgan did not correct the surname.
Only kept staring at the orange vial in her hand.
“And you?” Elijah asked.
“Me?” Peter replied. “I’m staying here to help prevent New York from hating me even more than usual.”
That earned a few tense laughs in the room.
Even Morgan smiled faintly.
“Miraculously responsible.”
“I know. Character development.”
The communication ended.
Silence settled again, interrupted only by the constant hum of the laboratory.
Morgan carefully placed the orange vial on the table and crossed her arms.
“Good.”
Her eyes lifted toward the screen where the Quinjet was beginning to ascend.
The previous one didn't translate well, so I'm putting it together again. The idea is to narrate various parts of their relationship and why they ended so badly. I think Supergirl, and this one in particular, has a lot of depth, which is quite rare in female superhero movies.So enjoy and wait for the other parts.
Girl x Girl
××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
You thought that breaking up with her meant never seeing her again. That her golden hair and blue eyes would vanish from your life along with the final goodbye. But it didn’t happen that way. Every day, just like always, her face was still there—on the front pages of newspapers, on the morning news, on café screens, and all over social media, endlessly repeating her name.
Your neighbors spoke of her with admiration, your friends mentioned her as a symbol, and at work her image surfaced in every casual conversation. The beautiful, strong Supergirl. No one suspected what lay behind the icon, behind the perfect smile and the immaculate suit. If they only knew she was an alcoholic, depressed, with self-destructive tendencies… your ex Supergirl. Or, as you truly knew her: Kara.
Tenth grade – age 16
It was halfway through the school year when you met her. The classroom was heavy with the constant noise of bored teenagers—chairs scraping against the floor, scattered laughter, restless murmurs. She stood out without even trying. Her distant eyes made it clear she didn’t want to talk to anyone… and no one wanted to talk to her. The new girl. Unknown. Awkward. She looked out of place, as if she had landed in the wrong spot. Almost from another world.
You couldn’t help but be intrigued by the gossip circulating about her. They said she was a distant niece of the Danvers, that she had moved there recently because her parents had died. The story changed slightly depending on who told it, but it always sounded just as tragic.
“I heard she caused a huge mess at her previous school, and that’s why she transferred,” your best friend Lily said, using that curious tone she shared with you whenever you talked about other people’s lives. “The only thing that’s certain is that she’s here alone. No visits from family. Other than that, we just know she still hasn’t adjusted… and that it looks like she never washes her hair.”
“Well, at least she has something in common with you then,” you replied dryly.
You were about to continue when Lily’s eyes shifted past you.
“Here comes the mystery girl.”
You turned your head to find her among the students gathered in the cafeteria. The smell of hot food, the constant hum of voices, and the clatter of trays filled the air. Then you saw her. Her steps were hesitant, and when her eyes met yours, the world seemed to shrink into that single, uncomfortable moment. Lily let out a stifled laugh. Your exaggerated reaction had given you away—it was obvious you were talking about her.
“Could you be any more obvious?” Lily whispered.
You hadn’t stopped looking at her, and she hadn’t stopped looking at you either. She walked between the tables, searching for an empty seat. Maybe the embarrassment from your impulsive reaction made you think it couldn’t possibly get worse. You raised your hand and waved her over.
“Why don’t we satisfy our curiosity?”
Lily choked on her food, startled, but it was already too late. Kara was walking toward you, just as confused as she looked.
You tried to put on your best face as you greeted her.
“Hi, you’re Kara, right? We were talking about y— you.”
You didn’t even get to finish the sentence. Suddenly, you felt the cold, thick impact of food sliding down from the top of your head to your face. Kara stood in front of you, the tray split in two in her hands. Silence crashed over the cafeteria like a blunt blow. Everyone was staring.
“ARE YOU CRAZY?! What is wrong with you?!”
You were frozen in shock by how unexpected it was, but a teacher’s shout from the back of the cafeteria snapped you back to reality. Your face twisted as you felt the mashed food soaking into your shirt. Kara just stared at you, unblinking, expressionless. Maybe she really had been a bully at her old school—but you weren’t about to let yourself be intimidated.
Before the teacher could reach you, and encouraged by Lily’s screams at Kara, you shoved your hand inside your shirt to wipe yourself off and smeared the food straight onto the blonde’s head. The murmurs multiplied; several people pulled out their phones to record.
“Maybe now you’ll finally wash your hair, psycho.”
Satisfied when you saw her face turn nearly red with rage, you wiped the remaining food from your head. Kara, panting, tried to pull the mess out from between her golden strands.
“Do you think this is funny? Seriously?” the teacher’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’re going to get a great joke out of this—you’re both in detention. I’ll see you after classes, girls.”
With the food still in your hands after your improvised cleaning, you threw it straight into the blonde’s face, who stood there with her mouth open, trying to clean her hair.
“THAT’S ENOUGH!” the teacher yelled. “You earned that, (last name)! You two will clean the entire cafeteria.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. See you after school, lunatic,” you said, glaring at Kara with pure disdain.
You left the cafeteria amid laughter, comments, and recording cameras, trying to contain the anger burning inside you. The one good thing you did… and this is what you got.
---
Looking back on how they met, maybe that beginning was an omen of how their relationship would eventually end.
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