Hi,Jo(She/Her)🇨🇦. 26,GED graduate, studying to be able to work as a technician in social and community work, ADHD/Fibromyalgia/Chronic pain. Multiple Fandoms, speaks French/English.
It's been 2 months already that we're in 2025 and I just realized that it's been 2 months that my boyfriend and I have been together for 10 years. Holy moly. Also, I got this wonderful art piece of me and my boyfriend. made by Catherine Taylor. A great friend of mine. Here's her website:
Welcome to Catherine Taylor Artist Blog! My name is Catherine and I'm a Canadian Illustrator and Animator. I've recently graduated from New
She also has an Instagram: catherine_sketchbook
She's open for commissions. I love her to bits, and I'm so glad she did the commission.
SUMMARY - Having met as children and reuniting once you've grown into a woman, Aerion's previous suspicion of you grows into the softest spot imaginable.
CONTAINS - pure fluff, reader is extremely kind, aerion is only kind to reader, classic sunshine x grumpy
A/N - i personally couldn't stop giggling while writing the "pastry" scene. Ughh i need him
The blazing sun over Summerhall was unforgiving, but it did nothing to melt the sour disposition of Prince Aerion.
At barely ten name days old, the boy was already terror embodied. He sat on a smooth rock by the edge of the river, a fishing rod held tight in his small, tense hands.
His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.
“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.
Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.
Instead, he saw you.
You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.
While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.
You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.
“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”
“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.
You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”
“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.
But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”
Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.
You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.
The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.
“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”
Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.
Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.
But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”
Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.
“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”
“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.
Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.
Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.
Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.
From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.
To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.
He waited for you to finally lose your cool.
But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.
You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.
A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.
“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”
You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.
An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.
Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.
“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”
“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.
Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.
“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”
You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.
“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”
He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.
“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”
“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”
The room went silent before you spoke again.
“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”
The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.
A breathless laugh escaped him.
“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.
He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.’ Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”
Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”
“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.
He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”
“Of course,” you smiled.
As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.
Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.
The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.
You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.
“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”
“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”
“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”
“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.
The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.
Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.
Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.
“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.
“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.
“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.
Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.
You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”
“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.
That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.
During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.
He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.
“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”
Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.
Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.
“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”
His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.
The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.
Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.
Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.
A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.
You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.
Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.
“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.
“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”
Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.
Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.
Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.
You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.
Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.
However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.
The feast was deafeningly loud.
You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.
Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.
He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.
Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.
But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.
He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.
“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”
“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”
Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.
His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.
The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.
You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”
Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”
Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.
“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”
“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.
A faint smile broke across his face. “Watch me,” he repeated, guiding your head to rest on his shoulder. “Now hold still and let me fix it.”
The Dream (Maekar Targaryen x Wife!reader, Maekarlings x Mum!reader)
Request
A/N: Got this awesome request a while ago but I put on some sad music and finally got to it today. I should be sleeping right now but I hit flow state y’all. Edit: I made myself cry with this one…
Summary: Daeron has been uneasy from the moment you told your children you were with child once more. He cannot explain it, only that he sees things and that they make him uneasy. You and Maekar do your best to comfort him, but as the child begins to arrive, the sorts of things the boy sees begin to come to pass.
Word count: ~3.7k
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, ANGST, pregnancy, birthing miscomplications (descriptions of blood), major character death, no happy ending, just pure plain angst and fear and death :(, never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
Daeron shoved some hair out of his face as he sat nervously at your bedside. He chewed on his lip, tapped his little foot, but his anxious eyes never strayed from you. You were tired, he could see it painted around your eyes and mouth, the way you groaned if you shifted and how your breaths were often heavier than not. He could see it in the way you attempted to smile but could never reach it fully, the way your eyes fluttered every once in a while and you threatened to fall back into sleep. He could even see it in the way you caressed your own belly, round and protruding from under the sheets, ready to release the babe at any moment.
“I can almost see the thoughts running around in your head like little people, my little owl,” you called to him, smiling a bit brighter than before when he glanced up to your face. You held out your hand to him and he abandoned the stool he had been sitting on to slip in beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the sheet and turning to snuggle heavily into you. He wrapped his arm over you, in the lower space between your belly and chest, and then pressed his face to your neck, sighing long and low. He was practically trembling in your arms and you frowned as you began caressing his back, soft little motions of your fingertips up and down the lenght of his spine.
“What is it, my little owl?” You asked quietly, tilting your head to press a kiss to the top of his head. You loved his bronzey curls, soft and so different to your Aerion and Aemon’s pale white hair, to your little Daella’s hair so perfectly matching your own. He did not say anything at first, just lay there and breathed you in before slowly lifting his head up and asking,
“Why do you call me a little owl?” He looked sad asking it, pouting, but you just huffed a tired laugh and reached out to press your index finger to his nose. Your boy was ten namedays old now, and he was smarter by the minute.
“Owls are creatures of the night, you know. They stay up all the evening long, live their lives in the evening, and they fly silently, barely noticeable, but they are intelligent, known to be wise. You are like my own little owl,” at this you smiled and caressed his soft face, his forehead and plump cheeks, tickling him under the chin. “When you were a babe, you would stay up all night, even when you were not crying, you would simply stay awake and blink up at the ceiling. Even now, though you attempt to pretend otherwise, I know you are awake most nights. And though you are quiet, my little one, I know how clever and how wise you are, right up here,” you tapped his forehead again.
Daeron nodded then sat up and leaned against your belly, resting his head there on top of his folded hands. He blinked slowly at you, then began tracing the embroidery on the bedsheets, circling flowers and leaves. You could sense his worry, could sense that he wished to speak but did not know how, so you simply reached out and continued to caress his hair as you spoke.
“It is the same way Aerion is my little dragon. He is fierce, he has the temper of one. He used to scream and cry like a dragon roars. He would go so red I once thought perhaps he would breathe fire.” At this Daeron huffed a small giggle, pressing his face to your stomach to hide it.
“And Aemon is my little fawn, because though he is timid, he loves being around his family. And Daella is a little mouse, because she is still very small, and sometimes when she scrunches her nose it reminds me of a mouse,” you giggled at yourself, at the nicknames you came up with for your children, random but fun. Daeron nodded, as if it was all very serious and important.
“What will the new babe be?” He asked then, his voice going quieter, more grave, and you hummed in thought.
“Hm, our Aegon,” you pondered aloud, and then you furrowed your brows and looked down at Daeron. “I am not sure yet. What do you think he will be, little owl?”
Daeron too hummed in thought, still tracing the patterns on the sheets. He did not answer for a while.
“I think,” he began mumbling, “he will be like a dragon too. But not in the way Aerion is.” He frowned a little, pinching and releasing the fabric now instead of simply tracing it. “I think he will be like those large old dragons, like Balerion and Vhagar. Regal and majestic, not- not angry.”
You smiled at that, pinching his cheek and humming in delight.
“That makes me very happy,” you told him softly.
Daeron did not say anything for a little while, just lay against you and listened to you hum, but then he opened his mouth once more and mumbled, “I have been having dreams again.” You paused, going very still, and looked down at him. You shifted, sitting up a little, then returned your attention fully to your son. You caressed his head once more, nodding at him to go on. “They scare me.” You could feel his lips moving against your stomach with the way he pressed himself down to you, and your heart panged in your chest. “I cannot understand what they are trying to tell me. I just…” he murmured something you could not understand this time, but you prompted him to repeat it with a little ‘hm?’ of your own. “I hear the babe crying. It is screaming and crying and cannot be soothed. And… And I hear you. I can hear you screaming. I see you in the bed,” and he began to cry, soft little whimpers, tears rushing to his eyes as his breaths began to shake. “I can see you, mother, and you are all bloody, all over. And-and-” his hands clenched into the bedsheets, into your dress underneath them. “You are crying first, mother, you are crying and shaking your head and begging, and then you just stop. And sometimes you are just laying there, eyes closed, and sometimes you are all clean again and holding the babe and smiling at it and-”
“Shh, shh,” you quickly reached out and waited until Daeron had crawled back up, had thrown himself over you and wrapped his arms tight around your neck. You hushed him, softly and gently, kissing the side of his little head as your throat filled with a lump you could not swallow. “Hush now, little one, hush now,” you soothed, clenching your own eyes shut as you hugged him tight. He was still bony the way some children were at this age, all gangly limbs that he would slowly grow into, and you simply clutched him as tight as you could, attempting to breathe slowly as the images he had conjured filled your mind. But no, no, you could not focus on that either.
“Mother, please, do not- do not-” he began blubbering too much before he could say anything else and your own face crumpled, eyes filling with tears as you shook your head and shushed your boy again.
“No, no, do not even think such thoughts dearest,” you whispered to him, rubbing your hand up and down his back, kissing his hair, his forehead. “It is only a dream. Sometimes dreams can be very scary. Sometimes they scare us even when we are awake. But it is alright. Mother’s here.”
You clutched your boy tighter and silently cried against the top of his head. You felt like a liar. You knew the realities of the birthing bed. Though your past pregnancies had done well enough, you could never be promised true safety. You could not make any promises to your son. And it made you feel sick. It made you feel like a sick, sick, liar.
“Mother’s here,” you whispered to him once more, and he nodded, though he continued crying for a while longer.
By the time Maekar returned to your chambers, both Aerion and Aemon had come to join you and Daeron as well. Daella had already been put to sleep by the nursemaid, but Aerion and Aemon refused to leave your side, just as their brother. Daeron curled up under one of your arms, Aerion took the other, and little Aemon, still a chubby toddler to you, clambered all over your pregnant belly (sometimes making you huff when he knocked the wind out of you).
Though Maekar let out a long groan at the sight of his bed full of children, he was secretly pleased to see his brood all smiling and laughing, curled up with their mother. It filled his heart right to the brim.
You smiled brightly at him as walked over, reaching your hand out to him. He rounded the bed and first leaned down to press a tender kiss to your lips before he began tickling and ruffling up all the boys on the bed. He paused in his mission to check on you, reaching up and cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to him. He frowned at what he saw, noting the tiredness in your eyes, the darker tint underneath, and he was instantly all business once more.
“All of you, to your own beds now,” he ordered, picking Aemon up and waving his hand at Aerion and Daeron. Aerion pouted, brows furrowing with anger as he began to argue, but Daeron just curled up further and pressed to your arm. “I said now,” Maekar repeated firmly, glaring at Aerion until the boy huffed, pressed an angry kiss to your cheek, murmured a ‘goodnight, muña’, and then stomped off. “You as well, Daeron,” Maekar ordered, now turning his gaze to his eldest son, but the boy had his eyes closed and pressed his face to your arm.
You frowned a little at him. Your boy had always been clingy, had always preferred to stick to you more than anyone else, but he had not been like this, not for a long time anyway. You caressed his head once more, noted how fragile he still looked, but sighed and nudged his nose with the tip of your finger.
“It is alright, little owl,” you whispered, coaxing him to look at you. “Father will put you to bed, he will tuck you up tight, give you enough kisses from the both of us, and when tomorrow comes, you and I will find ourselves something fun to do together, just us.”
Daeron pulled away from you finally, blinking his big eyes up at you with a spark of hope. You wanted to cry, wanted to gather him up and keep him secure with you forever.
“Promise, mother? Just us?” He asked, voice small, and you nodded, leaning forward and pressing a firm kiss to his forehead.
“Promise, just us.”
Daeron nodded then, kissed your cheek one last time, and hauled himself off the bed, reaching up to hold Maekar’s hand as he walked both boys out of your room. Your husband turned to offer you one last look, murmuring how he would return shortly, and you only blew him a kiss in return.
It was late that evening, when all the candles had been blown out and the hearths had dimmed down to embers, when the owls hooted and all the princes and princesses slept, that the birth began.
Daeron was not meant to be awake. He should have been asleep. He knew both mother and father would be cross at him for being awake. But he had heard footsteps rushing outside of his door, and sleep never came easy in the evenings, so he could do nothing but leave and follow.
He caught a maid just turning the corner at the end of the hall, running quickly and disappearing, her plain gown just a flutter. He frowned, rubbing the residual tiredness from his eyes, and followed. He could hear more commotion around the corner, and he found all the flurry of activity outside his mother and father’s bedchambers.
“We need more water, hot and cold both. And cloths, Minara, more cloths!”
“Someone have the fire stoked-”
“Where is Septa Cyren-”
“Has the maester been-”
Daeron shoved himself close to the wall and stayed there, his heart pounding. His eyes flitted this way and that, following all the people who came rushing in or out of the chambers. He caught snippets of conversation, words that trailed off when the doors opened, and then screaming.
It was loud. A curdling scream, pure pain. Daeron had never heard anything like that. It was a howl, really, something a dying animal might make, he guessed. His hands trembled further as the scream began to die off. He could only see the wood of the chamber doors, the barest peak in when they opened, but nothing past the wall, nothing actually within the chambers themselves.
“...she has been asking for you, over and over, and though we usually would not call, she seems very distressed this time. We do not want her wasting energy on this.” His father appeared around the corner as well, dressed simply the way he would be in the evenings, eyes puffy and hair more mussed than usual. He was frowning, though it was not his usual scowl but more one of worry. Daeron watched his body go rigid at the words of the Septa, watched his eyes dart to the door to the chambers.
Just as Maekar reached them, he looked down the hall and noticed Daeron cowering by one of the end tables, pressed to the wall as if to hide. His frown deepened and he sighed, half frustrated and half tired. He marched over to his son, beckoning him to stand and glaring down at him.
“Why are you awake? You should be in bed.”
Daeron just blinked up at him at first, chewing on his lip, then he glanced in the direction of the chamber doors. Maekar’s face softened, just a tad, and he gently ran his hand over Daeron’s head, pressing the boy to his leg in a pseudo-hug before letting him go. He opened his mouth to speak when the screaming began again.
It was far too loud even from behind closed doors, and Maekar’s head snapped in its direction. He let go of Daeron and rushed into the doors, slamming them shut behind him. Daeron retreated to his spot against the wall, his entire body trembling. He blinked his eyes, quickly then slowly but hard, but nothing made the world change. Nothing made the screaming stop or magically found him back in his bed.
“What is the meaning of this…” He heard his father’s growl behind the door, the sound of sobbing, loud and pained. He knew it was his mother. He knew it. Daeron clenched his hands into his tunic and simply stared at the chamber doors.
“What the fuck do you mean complications, speak it plainly…”
“...breach, my prince…. The wrong way…”
“How the fuck do you fix it then? Do not blather…”
The screaming began again and Daeron clenched his eyes shut, pressed himself harder to the wall, until it hurt, until dust stuck to his shirt and trousers and his skin throbbed with pain. He pressed his hands to his ears and whimpered, but the screaming dissolved into sobbing and he cried too. He could hear his mother crying, he knew it was her. He wanted to be with her. He did not want to her mother crying, he wanted her crying to stop.
“Daeron?” A small mumble, he turned around to find Aerion come pattering up the hall, cheeks and lips puffed out as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. “Who is screaming?” He asked, blinking blearily up at his big brother.
Daeron could not find words to say to him. He did not know what to say. He finally managed to break out, “the babe is coming.”
“Oh,” Aerion nodded, then frowned at the doors to the chambers where now there was scuffling and thuds and their father’s voice but unintelligible. “Does it hurt to have a babe?”
Daeron only nodded. He was overcome with fear, overcome with the images of his dreams. He could hear it so clearly, see it so clearly, his mother on the bed, writhing in pain, begging for something he could not give, did not know how to give.
“...fucking save her damnit!”
Daeron’s breath stuttered in his chest when something banged loudly from inside the room. Aerion too jumped at the noise, his face falling now, his lower lip trembling and a fearful little pout coming onto his lips. The younger boy stepped closer to Daeron, clutching at his loose shirt, and Daeron simply stood there beside his brother, trembling as they listened to the loud sobbing through the door.
“Is that muña?” Aerion asked, his voice gaining a higher pitch. The boy trembled more than Daeron now, both his fists coming to hold onto Daeron’s shirt. Soft sniffles started to shake him, his lower lip gaining a tremor.
“...what can be done? Please, tell me what can be done, I will…”
Daeron pressed harder to the wall once more, blinking harshly as the fear burned in him, as his eyes stung with it. He had never heard his father like that. Had never heard his father so… begging. Maekar was always firm, the warrior. Maekar never wavered. Why did Maekar sound like that?
Daeron saw it again, his mother on the bed, covered in blood, twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then still. Twitching then-
“I do not fucking care! Save her fucking life you-”
Aerion whimpered then, pressing his face to Daeron’s back, and Daeron could only reach and touch his head softly. He stared at the hallway, empty now of the rushing maids and septas. He saw the sconces, the fire flickering in them, the dark sky outside the window at the end of the hall, crystal clear with stars blinking.
The screaming began again, long and even more pained than before, mixing with Aerion’s whimpering as he hugged his brother tight. But this time when the screaming faded, there was another sound, wailing, long and high pitched, crackling from fresh lungs. Aerion hugged Daeron even tighter, but tilted his head up at that, frowning as he blinked through tears.
“That is the babe,” Daeron muttered, a spark of hope inside him, no bigger than a kernel of fire. The babe was out then. The babe was out and mother could rest, and tomorrow, tomorrow it would be just them. She would wipe the nightmares away, would tell him that the dreams had simply scared him while he was awake, but Mother was there. Mother was there.
Daeron held tight to Aerion, let his eyes flutter shut, leaned into the wall, but amidst the babe’s crying, other voices rose, high and hurried, not yelling but loud and panicked.
“...too much blood, stop the bleeding…”
This time the crying was quieter, not the babe’s, but yours. Daeron closed his eyes and shook his head, tried to shake the sound right out of it, but it would not go. You were crying, pained and tired, and he could hear it over the babe’s quieted whimpering.
“...it is alright…” that was his father, quieter than he had been all evening.
“...my boys… all my beautiful boys…” Daeron shuddered, lurched forward toward the door. He stumbled, Aerion yelping, still clutching tight to the shirt on his back, almost bringing him down. Daeron shoved him off and continued forward, breath ragged. He reached the door, gripped the handle and shoved, stepping in. He could hear mother, surely she was calling for them, Aerion stumbling into his back.
There you lay, closer to the left side of the bed where you always lay in the evenings. Father was at your side, clutching your hand tightly between both of his and staring at your face, saying something, anguished. Your hair was splayed around you, stuck to you with your sweat. You were red, or, no, your dress was red, drenched really. Down your legs, up to your waist and stomach. Your face was pained, clenched into some expression Daeron had never seen on you before. He could only see the red, a bright wash. Then a Septa was gasping, pressing her hands to his shoulders and shoving him back out of the door and slamming it shut.
But Daeron could still see it, the red blood seeping through your clothes. He could see you twitching and going still. Was it the dream still, or had he just seen it? He blinked his eyes, once, then twice, then hurriedly a few times. But the image stayed, the image stayed pressed there as if someone held it there.
Aerion cried profusely now, clinging to Daeron, shaking and sobbing and yelling for muña. He pressed his face to Daeron’s stomach, clenched his hands into Daeron’s shirt, and sobbed. Daeron held tight to Aerion in return. Or maybe he did not. He could not quite tell what his limbs did. He too only wanted Mother. You had promised tomorrow would be just you two. You had promised.
Then there was a loud long moan of pain. It was like an animal dying. It was like the last sound a stag made before the hunt slaughtered it. It was like the lone wolf, crying out for it’s mate. It was the last dragon’s dying breath. Daeron stared at the door through which the sound came, through which his Father made that sound.
Daeron fell back against the wall, taking Aerion with him. His little brother curled up against him, sobbing in fear and confusion, begging for his mother. Daeron curled up around Aerion, pressing his face to the back of the boy’s head the way you always did when they snuggled into you. He clenched his eyes shut. You promised. You had promised.
Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens. Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
The raven was a greedy, ungrateful beast, and you loved it dearly.
You had named him Pebble, for no greater reason than the smooth grey of his breast feathers, which reminded you of the stones along the Mander where you had played as a child. He came to your windowsill each morning, croaking his hoarse demands, and you obliged him with crumbs of bread and shreds of cold meat saved from your supper. In return, he permitted you to stroke the ruff of his neck and mutter your foolish secrets into the space between his blinking black eyes. It was a small, pitiful comfort.
The Tower of the Hand was a cold place, despite the braziers that burned in every chamber. You had been given rooms near the top, close enough to the Hand’s own solar that you might, in theory, encounter your husband on the winding stair. In practice, you saw his servants more often: the silent men in their grey wool cloaks, the Raven’s Teeth who guarded his door with bows strung across their backs. They nodded to you when you passed, respectful but distant, as though you were a ghost they had been instructed not to disturb.
You were a ghost, in a way. A shade drifting through the Red Keep in your pale gowns, your House’s green and gold folded away in chests because wearing them felt like a provocation. Oakheart. The name sat heavy on your tongue these days, a fruit gone bitter on the branch. Your father had played his double game during the rebellion and lost, and you were the price of his redemption, a trueborn daughter gifted to a legitimized bastard, a man who had not wanted you, who had asked for another woman’s hand a thousand times and been refused, and who had accepted you as a lord might accept a parcel of land he had no intention of farming.
You tried not to think of Shiera Seastar. It was impossible.
Her name was everywhere in the Red Keep, whispered by serving girls and sung by minstrels, painted in miniature on ivory pendants that his paramours wore at their throats. The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, they called her, and when they said it in your hearing, their eyes would dart to you with something between pity and amusement. See the Oakheart girl, their glances said. See how plain she looks beside the memory of Seastar’s shimmer.
Back in the Reach, you had been called beautiful. You had believed it. Here, you were a candle held up against the sun. Back in the Reach, you were praised as a proper lady, and Shiera was called a shameless whore with nothing more than derision. But King's Landing valued influence, the ability to captivate and draw interest, which Shiera had in abundance.
You did not hate her. Hatred required energy you did not possess. But you feared her. You feared the day she would return to court, trailing silk and scandal behind her, and you would have to stand beside your husband and watch his single eye follow her across the hall. You feared the quiet, courteous dismissal that would surely follow. You had married a man who loved another woman. It was a common enough fate for highborn ladies, you knew, but knowing it did not make your marriage bed any warmer.
You spent your days wandering. The gardens, with their rose trellises and marble fountains, their sharp-scented herbs and imported lemon trees shivering in the sea wind. The library, where you read histories of the Seven Kingdoms until the words blurred before your eyes. The sept, where you knelt before the Maiden and asked for guidance that never came. And the stairway that spiraled up to the Hand’s solar, where you would sometimes sit on the cold stone steps with a book open on your lap, close enough to hear the murmur of voices beyond the iron-banded door, the scratch of a quill, the rustle of parchment. You never knocked. You were too afraid of being turned away.
It was on one of those steps, three moons into your marriage, that Brynden Rivers finally spoke to you about the raven.
You had Pebble on your knee, feeding him strips of roasted capon you had wrapped in a napkin and smuggled from the kitchens. The bird was growing stout, you could see it in the way his breast swelled over his claws, the way he waddled rather than hopped when he moved along the windowsill. You had noticed but you had not cared. You had to keep feeding him so he wouldn't leave you as well.
“What am I doing, Pebble?” you whispered. “What am I doing here? My husband does not want me. The court does not see me. My family’s name is a jest and a warning both. I am a wife in name only, and I do not know how to become anything more. I was not taught how to be a wife to a man like him. I was taught how to be a wife to a lord who wanted a gentle lady to manage his household and bear his children. But Lord Bloodraven has a household that manages itself and no desire for children of his body, or so they say.” You paused, your fingers stilling on the raven’s feathers. “Perhaps he would want children if they were Shiera’s.”
The raven croaked.
You stroked the raven’s feathers again, and your voice cracked. “I am even afraid that you will leave me, Pebble. You are the only friend I have in this place. Please do not fly away.”
The door to the solar opened. You scrambled to your feet, the napkin falling from your lap, capon scattering across the stone. Pebble let out an indignant caw and flapped onto the windowsill, his wings laboring under his weight.
Lord Bloodraven stood in the doorway.
His hair, silver-white, fell straight to his shoulders, and his skin was so pale it seemed to drink the light. The red birthmark that crept up his neck and cheek, the source of his name, was vivid as a splash of wine against snow. He wore black, and the eye that fixed on you now was the deep, unsettling red of dying embers.
The other eye was gone. A pale, smooth scar ran from brow to cheekbone, and beneath it, a dark hollow that seemed to see more than any living eye could.
“My lady wife,” he said. His voice was quiet, precise, each word placed as carefully as a stone on a cyvasse board.
“My lord.” You dropped into a curtsy, your heart hammering. You had not expected him to emerge. He rarely did before the hour of the bat. “Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you. I was only...”
His gaze had moved past you to the raven. Pebble was worrying at a shred of capon, his beak tearing at the meat with smug contentment. Bloodraven’s expression did not change, but the air shifted, a faint tightening like the pause before a thunderclap.
“That is my raven,” he said.
“Yes, my lord. I hope you do not mind. He comes to my window, and I...”
“He is fat.”
The words fell like a stone into still water. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, the familiar burn of mortification. Your fingers twisted in the folds of your skirt, a pale lavender silk, pretty and demure. Here in the grey light of the tower it seemed washed-out and childish. You were a woman grown, a wife, and yet you felt like a girl being scolded by her septa for some minor transgression.
“I have been feeding him,” you admitted in a small voice.
Bloodraven stepped forward. His movements were unsettlingly smooth. He lifted one long-fingered hand, and the raven, your Pebble, your greedy, ungrateful Pebble, fluttered up to perch on his wrist without the slightest hesitation, as though you had never existed.
“A raven of the Tower must be lean,” Bloodraven said, stroking the bird’s breast with one pale thumb. Pebble closed his eyes in bliss. “He must fly swiftly over distances that would exhaust a lesser bird. He must carry messages through weather that would kill a hawk. He must be quick, clever, and sharp as a blade.”
He turned that burning red eye back to you.
“You have made him useless.”
The words struck harder than they should have. You had not thought yourself capable of tears, you had not wept once since leaving the Reach, not at your wedding, not on your wedding night when your husband failed to come to your bed, not in all the lonely days that followed, but now your throat tightened and your vision swam. You blinked rapidly, fighting it down, but a single tear escaped and traced a burning path down your cheek.
You ducked your head, hoping he had not seen. The silence stretched, unbearable.
“I am sorry,” you whispered. “I did not know. He came to me. He seemed friendly. I only offered him kindness.”
“Friendly.” He said the word as if it were a foreign concept. His blood-eye seemed to gleam in the half-light, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the raven’s reflection in it, a dark bird within a darker pool. “Ravens are tools, my lady. They are not pets. This one has been made useless by your kindness.”
The word useless stung again. You dropped your gaze to the floor again, studying the worn flagstones beneath your slippers. “I apologise. I will not feed it anymore.”
You did not wait for a response. You gathered your skirts and fled down the winding stair, your slippers slapping against the stone, your breath coming in short, hitching gasps. You did not stop until you reached your chambers, where you threw yourself onto the great empty bed and buried your face in the pillows and wept until there was nothing left inside you.
You did not go to the Tower the next day, nor the day after that. You kept to your rooms, claiming a headache when your maids inquired. You took your meals alone, the food tasteless on your tongue. You did not open your shutters, though you heard the scratch of claws on the sill more than once. You could not bear to see Pebble, to see the raven who had abandoned you as easily as breathing, who had flown to his master’s hand without a backward glance.
It was on the third day that a servant knocked at your door and informed you that the Hand of the King required your presence in his solar.
You dressed carefully, your hands trembling on the laces of your gown. You chose a dress of pale green, the color of new leaves, the closest you dared come to the Oakheart colors. You pinned your hair up in a simple coil. You looked, you thought, like a woman preparing for an execution.
The solar was warm, lit by a fire in the great hearth and by candles in iron holders. Books lined the walls, more books than you had ever seen in a private chamber, their spines cracked and worn from use. Maps and charts covered a long table, and in the corner, a perch held three ravens, their heads tucked under their wings.
Bloodraven sat behind a desk of dark oak, a quill in his hand. He did not rise when you entered, but he set the quill down and gestured to a chair across from him.
“Sit,” he said.
You sat. Your hands folded in your lap, the picture of a well-bred lady. You had been trained for this, after all: to be still, to be silent, to be pleasing. It was the only weapon you had ever been given.
Bloodraven regarded you for a long moment. In the firelight, the port-wine stain on his cheek seemed to shift and writhe like something alive. His eye, that terrible red eye, seemed to see straight through you, past the careful composure and the pretty dress and into the hollow ache at your center.
“You have not been to the Tower,” he said.
“I did not wish to disturb you, my lord.”
“You have not been to the gardens, either. Nor the library. Nor the sept.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his long fingers. “My birds tell me things.”
Your heart lurched. The ravens. Of course. You had forgotten, in your misery, the whispers that surrounded your husband like a cloak of shadows. He could see through the eyes of his birds, they said. He could watch the whole of the Seven Kingdoms from his Tower, and nothing escaped his notice. You had thought it a fanciful tale, a legend spun to explain the unerring accuracy of his spy network. But the way he looked at you now made you wonder.
“I have been tired,” you said, which was not entirely a lie.
“You have been crying.”
The words were blunt, without softening. You flinched, your gaze dropping to your hands.
“My lady,” Bloodraven said, his tone had shifted. It was not kind, you did not think kindness was in his nature, but it was less cold than before. “Look at me.”
You raised your eyes.
“The raven,” he said. “You named him.”
It was not a question. You nodded anyway.
“Pebble,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because of his breast feathers. They reminded me of home.”
Bloodraven was silent for a moment. Then he rose from his chair and crossed to the window, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight.
“I have had many ravens,” he said. “Hundreds, over the years. I breed them in the Tower, train them, dispatch them across the realm. They are tools, nothing more. I have never given one a name.”
He turned, his single eye finding you again.
“No one has ever named one of my ravens before.”
You did not know what to say. You sat frozen, your heart beating a nervous rhythm against your ribs.
“He is not useless,” Bloodraven said, and there was something akin to curiosity in his voice. “I examined him this morning. He is plump, yes, but he is healthy. His plumage is glossy. His eyes are bright. He is more docile than the others, more accustomed to human touch. There are uses for such a raven.”
He took a step toward you, then another, until he stood before your chair, looking down at you with an expression you could not read.
“I have been a poor husband,” he said.
Your mouth opened but no sound came out.
“I did not ask for this marriage,” he continued, “and neither did you. We were both bound by the king’s will, and I have not made the binding easier for you. I have been…absent. Preoccupied.” He paused. “Unkind.”
“My lord, you have been...”
“Do not,” he said, lifting a hand to stop your protest, “be polite. I am surrounded by polite people. I find it exhausting.”
You closed your mouth.
Bloodraven lowered his hand. “I loved Shiera,” he said, and the name was a blade between your ribs. “For many years. I asked for her hand more times than I can count. She always refused. Perhaps she was wise.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of old pain crossing his pale features. “But she is not my wife. You are.”
He reached down, and before you could react, his fingers closed around your hand. His skin was cool, dry. But his grip was steady.
“I cannot promise you love,” he said. “I am not a man given to tender feeling. The whispers about me are not all false. I am a sorcerer, of a kind. I do see through the eyes of my ravens. I have done things that would make you flinch to hear, and I will likely do more before I am through. I have little patience for the courtly games that fill the days of most highborn ladies.”
He paused, and his thumb brushed once across your knuckles.
“But I am not cruel without cause. I do not take pleasure in suffering. And I have watched you these three moons, my lady. Through the eyes of my ravens, yes. I have seen you in the gardens, sitting alone on the stone benches. I have seen you in the library, reading the same page over and over because your mind is elsewhere. I have seen you feeding my raven, speaking to him as though he were a friend, because you had no one else to speak to.”
Your face was burning. You wanted to look away, to hide, but his eye held you as surely as a pin holds a butterfly.
“I did not intend to spy,” he said, and there was a note in his voice that might have been regret. “At first, I was merely curious. Then I was...concerned. You are withering, my lady. Like a flower deprived of light. And I am the one who has kept you in the dark.”
He released your hand and stepped back.
“I would like to propose a truce,” he said. “A beginning. I will not pretend to be something I am not. I will always be busy with the affairs of the realm, always be strange, secretive and perhaps a little frightening for your liking. But I will make an effort to be present. To speak with you. To…know you.” He tilted his head, a gesture eerily reminiscent of his ravens. “If you will permit it.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. This was not what you had expected. This was not the cold dismissal, the polite abandonment, the quiet return to separate lives. This was an opening, a crack in the armor.
“I would like that,” your voice came out steadier than you had hoped. “My lord.”
“Brynden,” he corrected. “If we are to attempt this, you may as well use my name.”
You swallowed. “Brynden.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile. “See? Not so difficult.”
He returned to his desk and picked up his quill, but he did not dismiss you. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller table near the fire, where a tray of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of wine had been laid out.
“Stay,” he said. “Eat. You have been hiding in your rooms for three days, and I suspect you have not been eating properly.”
You rose from your chair, your legs unsteady beneath you. As you crossed to the table, you saw a perch near the window, separate from the others. On it sat Pebble, his head cocked, his black eyes fixed on you with reproach.
“He has been sulking,” Brynden said, not looking up from his parchment. “He does not understand why you stopped coming.”
You reached out a trembling hand and stroked the raven’s breast. Pebble made a soft sound and pressed his head against your fingers.
“I am sorry,” you murmured to him. “I am here now.”
Behind you, you heard the scratch of the quill pause for just a moment, and then resume.
From that day, you took your evening meals in the solar with Brynden, sitting at the small table by the fire while he worked at his desk. He did not speak much, but he answered when you asked questions, and sometimes he would pause in his writing to ask one of his own. Small things at first: how you found the Red Keep, whether the sea air agreed with you, what books you had been reading. You answered honestly, and he listened with a focus that was almost unnerving, his eye fixed on you as though every word you spoke were a piece of intelligence to be filed away.
Then he started inquiring about your life, so you told him. Your father had pledged fealty to both King Daeron and Daemon Blackfyre, sending one gold and the other men. King Daeron had kept his crown, and House Oakheart's reputation had suffered. Instead of emerging unscathed either way, as Lord Oakheart had intended, the King inflicted punishments on him. His eldest son, your older brother, was assigned to become a Kingsguard. He had to refute his title, land and future of marriage and instead serve as a guard to the same King he had fought against. You, the eldest daughter, were given to Hand of the King as a reward he didn't ask for. A legitimate lady to solidify his standing. Your mother had acted as if everything was fine, which you suspected was for your sake, although you didn't want such strained treatment. And you scarcely saw your brother since arriving in King's Landing, even though you both lived at the Red Keep.
You learned things about him in return. He had been born with the birthmark, with hair already white, and his mother had wept when she first saw him. He had been a poor swordsman as a boy, too thin and frail, so he had turned to the bow out of desperation. He loved his Blackwood sisters. He did not sleep well. He never had.
One evening, a fortnight after your conversation in the solar, you gathered your courage and asked the question that had been burning in your throat since the day you arrived.
“Do you wish I were her?”
The quill stopped. The fire crackled in the silence. Pebble, perched on the back of your chair, shifted his weight from one claw to the other.
Brynden set the quill down slowly. “That is a foolish question.”
“I am not afraid of the answer.” You were, of course. You were terrified. But you had spent months living in the shadow of a ghost and you could not do it any longer.
He rose from his desk and came to stand before the fire. The flames cast his face in red and gold, the birthmark nearly invisible against the glow. His back was to you.
“I wished for many things,” he said at last. “I wished for her to love me. I wished for her to choose me, just once, over all the others. I wished for a great many foolish things that a wiser man would have let go long ago.” He turned to look at you. “But I do not wish you were her. You are not her. You are nothing like her, and that is…not a bad thing.”
“I have heard she is the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms,” you said, and you hated the smallness of your voice, the jealousy that crept in despite your best efforts.
“She is,” Brynden said, and your heart sank. “But beauty is a strange thing. Shiera’s beauty is like wildfire: brilliant, consuming, and utterly indifferent to what it destroys. I spent years burning in it, and I have the scars to show. You are different. Your beauty is like…” He paused, searching for the word. “Like the first green shoots after winter. Blooming. Steady. Something that grows rather than blazes.”
You did not know what to say. Your face felt hot.
“I am not good at this,” Brynden said with a flicker of frustration in his voice. “I am no poet. I do not know how to court my own wife.”
A laugh bubbled up in your throat, unexpected and slightly hysterical. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stifle it, but it escaped anyway, a small, surprised sound that made Brynden’s eye widen a fraction.
“I do not know how to be courted,” you admitted. “I was taught to be a lady, not a wife. No one ever told me what to do with a husband who did not want a wife.”
“I never said I did not want a wife.” He took a step toward you. “I said I did not ask for this marriage. There is a difference.”
“Is there?”
Another step. He was close enough that you could smell the faint scent of ink and old parchment that clung to his clothes. Close enough that you could see the tiredness around his eye.
“I am learning,” he murmured, “that I may have wanted something I did not know I did.”
His hand rose, and this time, he did not stop at your fingers. His cool palm cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with a gentleness that contradicted everything you had heard about him: the cold sorcerer, the ruthless spymaster, the man who had killed Daemon Blackfyre and his sons with arrows guided by dark magic. In this moment, he was only a man, touching his wife’s face for the first time.
“You are trembling,” he said.
“I am afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of this ending.” Your voice cracked. “Of Shiera returning. Of waking up tomorrow and finding that you have remembered you do not want me after all.”
His eye searched your face. You had the unsettling sensation that he was seeing more than your skin and bone, more than the fear in your eyes. Seeing into you, the way he saw through the eyes of his ravens.
“Shiera is in Lys,” he said. “She left months ago, before our wedding. She may return someday, she always does, but she is not here now, and she has no claim on me. Whatever I felt for her, it is done. I have been a fool for her long enough.”
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“As for waking up tomorrow,” he murmured, “that is simple. You shall wake up in my bed.”
Your breath caught.
“The bedding ceremony was waived,” he continued, “because I requested it. I did not think it fair to subject you to the court’s crude jests when we were strangers. But we are not strangers now. Not entirely. And I find that I am tired of sleeping alone in my cold solar while my wife sleeps alone in her cold tower.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw.
“If you are willing,” he added, and the hesitation in his voice, the faint uncertainty, undid you completely.
“I am willing,” you whispered.
He kissed you. His lips were cool, like his hands. The kiss was cautious, almost experimental, as though he were tasting a new wine and trying to decide if he liked the vintage. But it deepened, slowly, his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. You felt a knot of tension loosen in your chest.
When he pulled back, his breathing was slightly unsteady.
“You will not be alone.” He took your hand again, this time, he laced his fingers through yours. “I have a thousand eyes. Some of them will always be watching over you.”
It was perhaps the strangest declaration of affection any woman had ever received. But you found yourself smiling anyway, a real smile, the first you had worn since leaving the Reach.
That night, you did not return to your lonely tower rooms. You slept in the Hand’s bed, in the Hand’s arms, and though he did not sleep, he had told you he rarely did, he held you in the darkness, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder.
In the morning, you woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with the pale dawn light on his hair. He turned when he heard you stir.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning, Brynden.”
He crossed to the bed and sat on its edge. From behind his back, he produced a single winter rose, its petals white as fresh snow, its center a deep, vivid blue.
“There are no winter roses in King’s Landing,” you said, taking it with trembling fingers. “How did you...?”
“I have my ways,” he said, the faint smile on his lips was no longer tentative. It was the smile of a man who had unraveled a mystery and found the answer rather pleasing.
You lifted the rose to your nose and breathed in its sweet, cold scent. Through the window, you saw a raven circling against the pale sky, not Pebble but another, its black wings cutting the air with swift precision. It was returning home, carrying something in its beak.
“What is he bringing?” you asked.
“A letter,” Brynden said. “From the Arbor. Lord Redwyne is plotting something tedious involving wine tariffs.” He paused. “Would you like to watch me unravel it?”
“Yes,” you said. “I would like that very much.”
He offered you his hand, you took it.
Pebble, watching from his perch, let out a satisfied croak and followed you and your husband up the winding stair to the solar.
Part 2: coming soon...
a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out.
a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist. Rn I'm tagging those who went along with my freaky birdman propaganda.
Could you write about Gwayne x reader where she is Rhaenyra’s sister, is his wife. She is pregnant around the same time that Joffrey is born. They are visiting King's Landing with Daeron who calls her mom since she has raised him, so Alicent hates her, when she gives birth Alicent calls to see the baby as she did with Rhaenyra thinking that Gwayne wasn’t with her, so he and Daeron go all protective and stand up to Alicent.
My wife
Gwayne being the man you and your sister need. Sorry this has taken longer than I planned I’ve been busy but I hope you enjoy xx
Content: labor, cute children and a dream husband
“You’re doing so well my love.” Gwayne says brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. Him refusing to leave your side while you give birth, you and Rhaenyra’s labors starting at the same time. “You to Rhaenyra.” He says to your sister, her wanting to be by your side given this is your first labor. Her own not stopping her. “You’re both doing so well.”
“Get this baby out of me!” You cry just wanting the pain to stop and to be able to hold your baby in your arms. “You are never touching me again!”
“Fuck!” Rhaenyra interjects shouting at the midwives. “You’re such a cunt!”
“As you wish my love.” Gwayne says knowing you’ll change your mind but willing to do anything you ask.
“One more push princess.” Both you and Rhaenyra’s midwives say in unison. Both you and your sister screaming while you push Gwayne between you both. Both of his hands being squeezed beyond belief.
“It’s a boy.” Rhaenyra’s midwife says wrapping the crying babe in a blanket before passing him to his mother.
“It’s a girl.” Your midwife says not even a moment after, doing the same with your babe. Gwayne being given both baby’s while you and Rhaenyra deliver the afterbirth.
-
“Princess’? The queen wishes to see the babes.” An apocalyptic servant says from the doorway, feeling guilty for just following orders. Her having waited a few more minutes after the screams stoped before entering. “I can take them.”
“No I’m taking my son myself.” Rhaenyra responds stubbornly, sharing a look with the midwives at the queens audacity. Just about to attempt getting up when Gwayne stops her.
“Rhaenyra don’t you dare get up.” Your husband commands, not willing to let any of this slide. Consequences be damed. “Tell my sister that if she’s so desperate to see them she can use her legs and walk to us.”
“Ser-.” The maid attempts to interject before getting interrupted by Gwayne. Him giving the girl a look, almost as if daring her to test him.
“Go.” He demands not giving her an opinion to argue back. “And send Daeron in while you’re at it I know he’s hiding behind the door.”
“Muña! Nyra!” Daeron whisper shouts having been told multiple times that when he sees you after the birth he has to be quiet. Him claiming up into bed with you and your sister. The sheets having been changed and most remnants of labor cleaned up.
“Hello darling.” You say softly to your eldest, he may be your brother by blood but he’s your son by love. “Do you want to see your sister?”
“You know the queen won’t be happy?” Rhaenyra says to her brother by law, noticing him poke his head out the door and send a servant away. Before he makes his way back to her side, leaving Daeron to talk with you while he checks on your sister.
“My sister should know better than to make a woman who’s just giving birth walk that far or at all.” He says back, disappointed in his sister. She used to be kind, but that’s what living with Otto will get you he thinks. Knowing if not for his father his sister would be much better off.
“She’ll say she gave the option of a servant taking the babe.” Rhaenyra counters worried about the fall out.
“And I will say just because she’s fine not caring for her child doesn’t mean we are.” He whispers into Rhaenyra’s ear, not wanting Daeron to overhear. “He’s adorable, boy number three.” He says more loudly, making your son think he was just talking about the new babes. “He’ll make a remarkable knight one day.”
“Thank you.” Rhaenyra smiles happy her sister has such a kind and loving husband.
“Are you ready to move to your apartments?” The midwife asks you and Rhaenyra, thinking you’d both be more comfortable there than the birthing chamber.
“I’ll help muña.” Daeron offers wanting to help in anyway he can.
“Thank you darling.” You say softly knowing there’s nothing your son can really do apart from just be with you but that’s more than enough.
-
“Laenor is helping Rhaenyra back to their apartments.” Gwayne tells you as soon as he enters yours. Him knowing that’s the first thing you’ll ask, you loving your sister. “I’ve also made it clear I’m the one who denied Alicent her ‘request’ so Rhaenyra shouldn’t get in too much trouble.”
“Thank you my love.” You say giving him a quick kiss when he bends down to look at the babe in your arms. Daeron having been telling you some of the things he did with his cousins, him being a similar age to Luke.
“Have you thought of a name yet?” Gwayne asks the boy, you having agreed he can help name your newborn. Wanting Daeron to be reassured that he’s still important to you.
“Aemma.” Daeron says having been speaking with Jace and Luke about ideas. All three boys thinking their mothers would like that and Rhaenyra confirming that would be a good choice.
“I love it.” You say, looking down at the little girl in your arms, her having little tufts of sliver and copper hair already on her head. “Princess Aemma Hightower.”
You’re intrupted from continuing your conversation when the guard opens the door and announces your father and his wife. “The king and queen.”
“Father.” You greet offerings him a weak smile, still unsure how to act around him all these years later after he caused you mother and brother’s death.
“A girl I hear!” He says excitedly, having just come from meeting baby Joffrey. “Marvellous news, have you picked a name?”
“Aemma, after mother.” You explain letting him look at the girl.
“She’d like that.” He says softly, looking at the girl who’s already the perfect mix of you and Gwayne.“Alicent what do you think?”
“Lovely.” She says tightly, silently seething after what you, Rhaenyra and Gwayne did. It ruining her plans of humiliating you both. “Gwayne may I speak with you?”
“Now isn’t a good time, my wife having just given birth and all.” Gwayne says passive aggressively, not having looked at his sister since she entered.
“Muña do you want a cupcake?” Daeron asks innocently, him thinking you might be hungry. Completely forgetting he’s in the presence of his birth parents. “I did them with Luke and Jace after getting the egg!”
“Ohh cake can I have one?” Your father asks the boy, only thinking of cake.
“Yes grandsire.” Daeron says sweetly taking two cakes from the table and giving you the best looking one.
“He’s your father remember darling? Like Alicent is your mother.” You correct, not wanting anymore issues today. Taking the cake of the boy and offering him a thank you.
“No, you and Kepa are my mother and father.” He responds, tilting his head to the side. Knowing it’s true but viewing you and Gwayne as his real parents.
“Daeron-.”
“I’m fine being the boys Grandsire, you two have raised him.” Visarys says interrupting his wife without realising or caring. “Now about this cake.”
-
“How dare you.” Alicent shouts at her brother, him having been ignoring her for the past few days. Him refusing to leave your side. “I’m your queen!”
“Yes, but before that you will always be my little sister who’s treating my wife and her sister horribly!” He shouts back, not caring that Cristian Cole is in the corner glaring at him.
“You don’t get to speak to me that way!”
“I apologise for speaking facts your grace, however I do not apologise for protecting women as that’s part of my vow as a knight and husband.” He snaps, fed up with the whole thing. Looking forward to when you’re healed and you can go back home to oldtown.
“Leave, you’ve turned my son against me!” Alicent screams, hating that her son loves you so much. Not thinking about the fact you’re the one who’s raised him while she was busy plotting with her father.
“No, you turned him against you by sending him away in the first place! And even then you could have written or tried to visit! We’re only here because Rhaenyra asked us to! You haven’t written since his 2nd name day!”
“You can’t speak to the queen like that.” Cristian Cole says in an attempt of a threatening tone, instead Gwayne just finds him pathetic.
“Oh fuck off Cole.” Gwayne snaps rolling his eyes while he leaves not bothering to ask his sister’s permission.
-
“We’re going back to oldtown tomorrow.” You say to Rhaenyra while you sit together having tea, watching the boys play outside. Joffrey and Aemma both sleeping in their mother’s arms. “He loves being with you and the children but, Alicent and her sons just upset him.”
“I understand that.” She says a selfish part of her wanting you to stay but knowing it for the best. You deserving to be happy. “I’m thinking of moving to dragonstone but I don’t wish to leave father and laenor wants to stay.”
“That’s understandable, I hope you two can come to an agreement.”
“Me too, we’ll come and visit you soon though.” She says changing the subject, not wanting to dwell. “The boys adore Daeron and Gwayne.”
“Me to.” You say cheekily, smile one your face as you watch the young boys play in the gardens. “My boys love yours as well.”
pious, devout and charming— your knight is hopelessly in love more than ever when you are expecting your first child! however, not everything is smooth sailing...
genre/warnings:
suggestive, pregnancy, lots of romance, arguments, hurt/comfort, brief description of childbirth, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! from house of the dragon season 1 and 3
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen. just gwayne being a protective husband <3 sigh he's so delectable i want to eat him
Despite how your marital bed was rarely cold and the frequency of your nightly activities, it had actually taken you years to conceive a child.
It had come as a blessing because you adored children and Gwayne, who was so fond of his nephew Daeron and had watched him grow up, had hoped for the day you would bear a child of his own to love wholeheartedly—
“You are... truly? A child…?”
And now, that day is finally here.
The brilliant blue of his eyes shone the moment the words left your lips, unblinking, afraid if he had misheard.
But when sweet, ethereal you nodded with the brightest of smiles, he himself was come undone, a breathless, boyish smile breaking across his face then.
“This is— oh, most splendid news—!”
Gwayne couldn’t help himself— he pulled you into his arms and into a searing kiss. It was full of pure, unfiltered giddiness, the kind that had him laughing softly against your lips in boundless joy.
“Oh, Gwayne...” you sighed into him, relief washed over you at how elated he was. You felt so blessed to have such a kind man as a husband.
He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as his eyes bored into yours.
“I love you. I love you. I swear to you and the Seven above, I will do everything in my power to protect both you and our child.”
If he had loved you deeply before, he was enamored to the point of no return now. In the moons that followed, everything blurred into bliss.
To Gwayne, you were akin to a Valyrian goddess, and he was nothing less than your sworn sword— you could do no wrong, and your word was his absolute law.
And mayhaps those old midwives’ tales held truth, or you were just taking immaculate care of yourself. Then again, chances were higher that he was a simple fool blinded by love, but Gwayne could have sworn... ever since then, you were glowing.
Your smile seemed sweeter now, and the way you would place a hand on your growing belly out of instinct was adorable. The fact that you carried his child, and the radiant joy it brought to your eyes never failed to leave him weak in the knees—
—because the Gods know he loves you so damned much too.
“The Princess… she is absolutely radiant, is she not?”
And as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who had noticed.
The rank-and-file soldiers were in the middle of their daily drills when you passed by the courtyard. A sudden breeze swept through, catching the silk of your gown and sending a few stray locks of your hair dancing across your face. It was a picture of effortless grace— and, to a yard full of sweat-drenched men, an absolute sight for sore eyes.
A pair of low-ranking footmen at the back of the line completely forgot their footwork, utterly spellbound.
“Aye,” the second one murmured, his eyes wide and completely glazed over as he watched you walk. “Like a maiden stepping right out of a tapestry...”
Gwayne’s head snapped toward them, the warm smile he had been wearing just a heartbeat prior when he stared at you vanishing in an instant.
“You there!” he barked, his voice ringing across the cobblestones.
The two footmen jumped and turned to him, faces instantly draining of color. Gwayne strode toward them, his chest puffed out, putting on the airs of a proud and arrogant knight.
“Unless you expect the Princess to wield a blade in your stead, I suggest you keep your eyes on your opponent.”
“Y-Yes, sire—”
Hmph. Now they were cowering before him. How did they forget whose wife they had been ogling just now?
“Ten more laps around the yard,” Gwayne commanded to their dismay, his eyes cold as he lifted his chin up. “And if I catch your eyes wandering from your duties again, I will personally pluck your eyes out and ensure you spend your next rotation cleaning Ormund’s chambers... Now move!”
As the panicked footmen scrambled to begin their laps, Gwayne threw them a dirty look, bridled with utter satisfaction.
He turned back toward where you stood, expecting to find you continuing on your way, blissfully unaware. Instead, he found you standing still, watching the entire exchange with an amused sparkle in your eyes— a delicate hand to your lips to hide your giggle.
Gwayne’s haughty expression crumbled. A flustered flush crept rapidly up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty pink. Suddenly acutely self-conscious of how loud he had been, he cleared his throat and blinked several times, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.
He offered you a sheepish frown, his eyes pleading for you not to tease him too much when you were finally behind closed doors.
. . .
“What has displeased you, hm, husband?”
That night, Gwayne had just stepped out of the bath, his dark hair still damp, and sleepiness softening his usually sharp features as he took his side of the bed. He wore only a loose, simple linen robe, tied haphazardly at his waist.
“Hm...?” he mumbled, mid-yawn, as he turned to you.
However, his sleep-addled mind was entirely unprepared for the sight of you.
Seven save me, he thought, his throat suddenly dry.
There you were, a gorgeous temptress intent to ruin him in your... what was that? An almost see-through loose night gown?
You didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, you slithered onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Gwayne’s hands instinctively flew to your waist to steady you, his touch warm as you draped both of your hands over his broad shoulders.
“I only ask,” you murmured teasingly, leaning in close enough that your breath fanned over his lips, “because you looked ready to torment two perfectly well-behaved footmen today. Over a harmless glance.”
Gwayne let out a low, rumbling groan, his eyelids fluttering half-closed as he looked up at you.
“They were staring,” he replied in defense. His gaze drifted down your form, lingering on the widening of your hips where his child now grew. “Rather boldly, I’d say. They should use their ungrateful eyes to look at their targets, not at my wife. Not when you are... like this.”
You tilted your head in a mock cluelessness. “Like what?”
“Ravishing,” he breathed, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as his grip tightening on your hips. “Breathtaking. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill through you. Leaning up, he captured you mouth in a slow, deeply sensual kiss. You parted your lips instantly to welcome him— and he tasted of mint and warm water.
“Mmhm... ah...” The kiss deepened, growing heavier and more desperate by the second. Your hands slid from his shoulders to wrap around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted your weight, slowly and deliberately grinding your hips against his lap.
Gwayne let out a ragged gasp against your mouth. The friction of your body against his through the thin linen of his robe sent a shiver through his spine, his hands clenching tightly onto your hips to guide the rhythm. His skin was a feverish contrast to the cool night air of the room, as he hardened rapidly against you, consumed by the weight of your warmth pressing so directly into his groin—
“Damn...”
He kissed you fiercely now, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to press against him, humping him with an intoxicating persistence that had him trembling beneath you.
But just as the heat in the room threatened to boil over, Gwayne suddenly stilled you, gently but firmly halting your movements.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as his chest heaved, his breathing shallow and labored. His blue eyes watered, dark with desire, searching your face.
“No, darling, we must stop,” he panted. He swallowed, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the side of your abdomen. “I love you more than my own life— but I will not risk the babe. As much as this tortures me... this is as far as I am willing to indulge us tonight.”
You let out a soft whine, resting your chin on his shoulder. You knew he was only acting out of a protective love for you and the child you carried, but the warmth of him was far too addictive to let go of just yet.
“Very well,” you murmured against his neck, nipping softly at his pulse point. “But I have one request.”
Gwayne let out a breathless chuckle, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. “Anything. You know you have only to ask.”
“Take off your robe,” you petulantly poked his chest. “I want to feel your skin against mine while we sleep.”
“A wanton through and though,” he snorted.
“The babe demands it.”
A hopelessly devoted smile broke across Gwayne’s face. “A punishment and a reward all at once, then.”
Without another word, he obliged. Untying the sash, he shrugged the linen robe off his shoulders. He pulled you back down against him, tucking you securely under the velvet blankets. His toned body was solid, warm, and his skin was surprisingly soft to the touch— a comforting weight you could never tire of.
Pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, he wrapped his arms tightly around you, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand resting protectively over your stomach as you both drifted off to sleep.
Days and weeks drifted by, and soon, the weight of your belly could no longer be hidden beneath your dresses.
By all accounts, your life was a blissful one. You had a husband who worshipped the ground you walked on, and you were counting the days until you could finally hold the child you had been waiting for. Even for a princess of the Seven Kingdoms, it was the kind of fairy tale most could only dream of.
Still, even the most beautiful tapestries have frayed edges, do they not?
Though Gwayne’s devotion was sweeter than words could say, his constant hovering these days had begun to feel like... a suffocation.
The tipping point had come on a morning when a sharp, fleeting cramp had made you wince. He had been the one who went pale, immediately ushering you back toward the bed.
“You must lie down,” he had insisted, his voice tight with worry. “I will have the maester brew something. No more walking today.”
“Gwayne, it was a momentary ache, nothing more,” you had sighed. “I cannot spend the next two moons staring at the canopy of this bed.”
But he would frown and your heart would lurch, seeing his pure concern for you.
“For my own peace of mind and for the babe, please?”
His fretfulness felt like a velvet cage, even when you knew it came from a place of pure love.
. . .
In a rare event in which you finally managed to slip away while he was distracted with other things, you retreated to the sanctuary of the gardens, the cool breeze a welcome relief against your skin.
But your quiet peace was short-lived.
As you rounded a stone archway, you caught sight of a figure cowering behind a massive marble pillar, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“Daeron...?” you murmured in surprise, stepping closer.
The youngest of Alicent’s three sons and a ward of Oldtown, the young prince was unlike his misguided brothers, and you had known him to be a gentle and sensitive soul. Now five and ten, he was thrust into the grueling world of knighthood, all under the watchful eye of your husband’s cousin.
The boy gasped, hastily wiping his tear-streaked cheeks with the back of his sleeve as he stood.
“Y-Your Grace,” he stammered, his voice thick as he tried to put on a brave face. “Forgive me. I... I did not hear you approach.”
“What is it, sweet boy? Why are you crying?” you gently took his hands, feeling your heart twinge at the sight of his tears.
A skepticism settled in your chest. You had seen how Ormund Hightower conducted himself— and you highly doubted his patience with a sensitive young boy.
“Has he been too harsh with you during your lessons?” you asked gently.
Daeron vigorously shook his head, his eyes wide with fear of causing trouble. “No! No, my lord is... he is only doing what is right. It is my fault for I have failed to meet his expectations.”
That arrogant, demanding windbag, you thought bitterly. To place such crushing weight on a child’s shoulders was reprehensible, and you fully intended to have a very pointed, very unpleasant word with Ormund Hightower later.
But for now, your only concern was the boy before you. Taking Daeron’s hand in yours, you offered him a warm, reassuring smile.
“Very well, if you said so... Now, come with me. Let me show you your uncle’s new collection of swords. He truly can never have too many, or so he claims.”
Your attempt to cheer him up was working. Daeron’s frown was replaced with pure joy as you showed him around Gwayne’s hidden stash of blades, and by the end of the day, he was laughing along with you.
“When will the babe come, Auntie?” he asked, looking up at you with a genuine smile. It slipped out so naturally he didn’t even notice he had reverted to that fond title he used to call you years ago.
“Soon. Mayhaps in six weeks or so.” You patted your swollen belly, and the young prince’s eyes followed your hand, before cautiously placing his palm over the curve.
In that very moment, the child gave him a firm kick, and he gasped, his blue eyes widened in wonder.
“In awe, are you?” you laughed softly, gently ruffling his hair. “Truthfully, sometimes I still wonder how there is a whole living human inside me, too.”
But he didn’t laugh, nor did he pull his hand away. Instead, he looked up at you, his features settling into an earnestness.
“If it is a girl... I promise I will protect her,” he declared solemnly. “I will grow strong enough so that no one can ever hurt her. I will be her champion.”
Your heart swelled at his words, a lump forming in your throat at the purity of his devotion. In certain lights, he did look like Gwayne.
“I have no doubt you will be the finest champion a girl could ever ask for, Daeron.”
. . .
“Where were you?”
You had only just returned to your bedchambers after quietly escorting Daeron back to his quarters, and the very first thing that greeted you was your husband’s scathing tone.
Gwayne stood near the hearth, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid. His usually warm eyes were clouded with a coldness you rarely saw in him.
“I have been searching everywhere for you,” he stated, his voice thick with suppressed irritation. “You vanished without even telling any of your maids—”
“I was just in the gardens—” you said, your voice already tight with exhaustion, but he cared not of what you had to say in defense.
“Do you have any idea what went through my head? You are weeks away from labor, you’ve been having cramps, and—”
This had been going on for a while, and honestly, a headache was forming in the back of your head. The accusation, piled on top of days of feeling watched and managed, finally broke the last dam of your patience—
“Can you just... not?!”
You followed the impulse in your chest to yell, the volume of your voice echoing sharply.
“I am sick and tired of being treated as if I am an invalid!” you cried, your chest heaving as tears of frustration pricked the corners of your eyes. “I cannot take a single step, look out a window, or even have a quiet moment to myself— without you hovering over me like a warden!”
It felt satisfying to let this go, but then you looked at him, and—
Immediately you regretted raising your voice. Gwayne looked as though you had struck him across the face.
The worry in his eyes shattered into utter heartbreak, his shoulder slumping. His lips wobbled, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before he forced himself to look back up at you.
“I...” his voice cracked. “I am… sorry. I did not— I never wished to make you feel like a prisoner. Or to make you feel sick.”
You parted your lips, immense guilt overwhelming you at the sight of him. “Gwayne, I—”
“You are right, I have been way overbearing as of late.
His expression was somber, his eyes repeatedly straying from your face as if looking at you pained him, while he struggled to voice the words.
“I selfishly thought that since it’s our first child, I have to do everything to ensure your comfort. But in my own misguided sense of... righteousness— I failed to consider how you might feel.”
How did you forget that at the core of his very being, he was just a kind man who would sooner offer himself as sacrifice than allow even the slightest harm to reach you?
He offered you a small, bittersweet smile then—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were shining with unshed tears.
“Tonight, I will leave you to your peace and not disturb you, I promise.”
Your heart clenched when he backtracked towards the door. Just before he reached for the latch, he paused, his eyes softening at you with that same, hopeless devotion.
“But if you should ever need anything— a glass of water, a blanket, or... or if the pain returns... please, tell me. Let me do that much for you.”
Gwayne had stood by his word. Ever since then, there was a subtle distance between the two of you.
True to his promise, he no longer invaded your privacy, but his frequent absences made you incredibly antsy. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on you— for weeks, you had begged for space, but now that you had it, you found yourself restlessly searching the corridors for a glimpse of him.
You craved his warmth. You wanted his solid, comforting embrace, because an unsettling gut feeling had taken root in your chest—a dark intuition that something was amiss, though you couldn’t put your finger on it.
Seeking a distraction to soothe yourself, you decided to spend the afternoon in the gardens, but the summer heat only made you uncomfortable. Deciding you had pushed yourself far too much, you turned to your handmaiden.
“Accompany me back to my chambers,” you instructed softly, feeling the beginning of a cramp building in your abdomen. “I think I need to lie down.”
As you made your way back, your path took you past the oak doors of Ormund Hightower’s private study.
You would have walked right past it, had a certain voice not drifted through the slightly ajar door, freezing the blood in your veins.
“So the King is truly poor in health?” Ormund’s voice echoed from within, entirely devoid of any grief. “I would wager he will soon perish from whatever ailment he is suffering. We must ensure our pieces are perfectly placed on the board the moment he does.”
Your breath hitched. You stood entirely paralyzed, the maid stopping beside you with wide, frightened eyes.
The King. Your father.
You knew Viserys had not been in best health since the last you saw him, but to hear Ormund speak of his imminent death with such casual certainty sent a jolt of panic straight to your heart.
If he died, this fragile peace would shatter. The greens and the blacks would tear the realm apart—
—and both you and Gwayne would be caught right in the center of the storm.
Panic clawing at your throat, you didn’t wait to hear another word. You gathered your skirts and hurried down the hall as fast as your body would allow. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as the sheer weight of what this meant crashing down on you—
But just as you were about to reach your bedchamber, a sudden spasm of pain ripped through your lower abdomen, so intense it stole the air straight from your lungs—
“Your Grace!” your handmaiden cried.
It wasn’t the fleeting, mild cramps from before— this was a white-hot, tearing contraction that buckled your knees. A cry of agony escaped your lips as you leaned sideways, your hands clutching the curve of your belly as you sank onto the cold floor.
You gasped for breath, but another wave of agonizing pressure rolled over you. The hallway began to tilt precariously, and trembling, you reached blindly down inside your dress when you felt warmth trickling down your thighs— and the sight made your heart stop.
Your fingers were stained a slick crimson. Blood.
A cold dread seized you as your head spun. No, you thought desperately, not the babe. Please, not the babe.
Your vision swam violently, but just as you were losing the last threads of your consciousness, you heard shouts of your name and a strong pair of arms hauled you into his embrace.
Gwayne Hightower. The man who had your heart since you were but a young girl. The man who was besotted enough to court you despite your rejections of him.
He always, always managed to be your knight in shining armor.
He was on his knees beside you, his face completely drained of color, his blue eyes wide with a frantic terror you had never seen in him before.
You could no longer hear the words tearing from his throat, but as the world faded entirely to black, a profound comfort washed over you—
If he is here, then I am safe.
“How did this happen...?”
Your consciousness faded in and out, but you heard bits and pieces.
Gwayne was questioning the maester with his voice cracking more times than not. You knew he was near you as you could feel the constant warmth of his hands gripping yours, trying to pull you back to the surface.
“Oh, my darling,” he whispered against your ear at one point, almost in tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry... I should have been there. I should have never left your side.”
When you finally managed to flutter your eyelids open hours later, the morning sun was filtering through the curtains of your bedchamber. The blinding pain in your abdomen had ebbed into a dull ache.
You tried to shift, a faint groan escaping your dry throat, and immediately felt a weight resting against the edge of the mattress.
Turning your head slowly, you found Gwayne.
He was collapsed in a miserable position on a small wooden stool right beside your bed. His legs were awkwardly bent, one of his arms slung over the mattress to keep his fingers intertwined with yours, while his forehead rested against the edge of the sheets. He was still wearing the same doublet from yesterday, now wrinkled, and his hair was a mess.
Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as though he was having a bad dream— the very sight of a man who had spent the night burning himself alive with worry.
Your heart squeezed with a aching tenderness at the sight of him. Ignoring the dull throb in your body, you weakly squeezed his hand, your thumb gently brushing over his knuckles to wake him.
At your touch, he was roused awake. Gwayne sat up instantly, his head snapping up as a ragged breath caught in his throat. His eyes—bloodshot—scanned the bed frantically until they locked onto your open eyes.
“Darling...?” he asked in a hoarse voice, and when you offered him a tired smile, the wall of defense crumbled completely.
He slid off the stool and onto his knees by the bedside as he pressed a kiss on your hand. His broad shoulders shook as a choked, breathless sob escaped him.
“You’re awake,” he breathed against your skin, peppering your hand with trembling kisses. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought... when I saw the blood, I thought I had lost you— I thought I lost both of you.”
“Is—” you croaked, “our babe—”
“You are both fine. For now,” he supplied, pressing one last kiss on the back of your hand before he straightened himself. He let go of you to sit on the edge of the mattress, slipping his strong arm behind your back to gently lift you so you could drink.
Once you swallowed the cool water and sat comfortably, he set the cup down and placed his large hand gently over your belly. A bitter smile broke through his exhaustion when he felt his child kick him.
“Can you just... let me stay near?” he asked then, his blue eyes shone with tears. “I can’t survive a repeat of what I have gone through yesterday. If something were to happen to you and I wasn’t there, it would tear the soul right out of me.”
Despite everything, he had all rights to be furious at you. And yet, here he was— humbly asking for your permission to stay by your side.
Your eyes welled with tears, and you reached out for him blindly. You buried your face into his chest, your hands desperately clutching at the fabric of his wrinkled doublet. He pulled you in instantly, wrapping his strong arms around you and rocking you gently, murmuring soothing sounds against your hair.
“I’m... I’m sorry,” you choked out, your entire frame trembling with the force of your sobs. “I... I was careless—”
“Shh, don’t be,” he shushed, tightening his embrace on you, and you cried harder.
You wept until you had no tears to spare, and when you finally pulled away, you looked up at him through swollen, heavy eyelids.
You love him so, so much. You adored this kind man and his blue eyes and his red hair— and you really wished, with all your heart, that your child would take after him.
“Why are you... not angry with me?” you questioned softly, weighed down by your own guilt.
But Gwayne, as always, only smiled at you, his features softening into that warmth he reserved only for you even at your lowest moments. He gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks.
“Have I not spoken these very words to you time and again? How come you always forget them?”
His smile grew incredibly tender as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
And with his familiar next words, once again, you were reminded once again of what kind of man you had married, and you know exactly how good a father he would be.
“Because to the end of my days... all that I am is yours.”
Your time had come barely five weeks later.
It was a grueling, agonizing ordeal that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Your cries of pain echoed and bled out of your birthing chambers— and anyone who passed by would have their heart broken at the sheer anguish in your voice.
Outside in the corridor, Gwayne was, needless to say, beside himself.
Thoroughly banned from the birthing chambers by the stern midwifes and the head maester, he was a man possessed by helpless terror. His hair a disheveled mess from where his frantic fingers had clawed through it, and his knuckles white and raw from being clenched so tightly in either prayers or an attempt to calm himself.
He had been pacing the length of the hallway since the crack of dawn two days ago, and every time one of your strangled screams echoed, Gwayne flinched, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.
He had faced deaths, had stared down charging knights without a tremor in his hand, but this—listening to the woman he loved scream in agony while he could do absolutely nothing—was a torture that was slowly tearing him apart.
Hours bled into one another. The silence that occasionally fell was almost worse than the screams, leaving him breathless with a suffocating dread.
“She has been in labor for almost two days,” Gwayne rasped, turning to Daeron as if he could soothe his worries. His nephew, though visibly unsettled by your screams, had stayed by his side to offer moral support.
“Two days, and I cannot even hold her hand.”
Ormund paid a brief visit later that afternoon. His cousin had one look at him and patronizingly suggested he go pray in the Starry Sept to calm his nerves. Gwayne’s temper had flared and was about to throw a punch at Ormund’s face if it weren’t for Daeron scrambling to beg him to stand down.
And then, just as he felt he might genuinely lose his mind, a new sound cut through the heavy quiet.
It was a sharp, high-pitched wail. Not yours, but the cry of a newborn babe.
. . .
You thought you would die from the pain alone.
Ever since the terrifying rush of your water breaking, it felt as though your body were being ripped apart from the inside out as you strained and fought to bring forth your child into the world.
And after that one final push that almost had you passed out, the agonizing pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, hollow lightness and the sweetest of wails.
“It is a girl!” the midwife announced. “Congratulations, Your Grace— you have delivered a healthy, beautiful girl!”
When the midwives placed the tiny, weeping newborn onto your chest, your hands instinctively wrapped around her, shielding her from the cold air of the room. You were entirely spent, your skin slick with sweat and your muscles aching and trembling from the afterbirth, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
This miracle has just come out of you.
As you gently wiped away a stray smudge from her crown, your heart swelled to the point of bursting.
Her little nose and mouth were endearing and closely resembled yours, however there was no trace of silver hair to be seen.
Instead, catching the warm candlelight… were soft tufts of red.
You closed your eyes for a brief moment, thanking the Mother, deeply grateful that she would not look like a Targaryen.
She is, in every way, Gwayne’s daughter— a perfect piece of him and yours to keep.
“Bloody hell— just let me in already!”
You heard his voice then, and the smile on your face grew wider. He would be beyond pleased to see this child.
True to your prediction, Gwayne stormed into the room without ceremony a moment later, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. You were in no state to be seen—sweat-drenched, pale, and thoroughly disheveled—and you instinctively wanted to shrink back from his gaze.
Yet, in his eyes, you had never looked more breathtakingly beautiful.
Cradled securely in your trembling arms was a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft linen. And the sight was enough to almost make him drop to his knees right then and there.
He climbed onto the edge of the bed to pull you gently but firmly into his arms. Hovering over the child he had been eagerly waiting for, Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a deep, trembling kiss that tasted of relief and absolute devotion.
“You did it,” he whispered against your lips, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitched. “Gods...”
Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the bundle in your arms. The breath left him and he was completely awestruck, the air he usually put on before the court evaporating into nothingness at the sight of this impossibly tiny babe he helped to create.
With a hand that usually swung a steel, Gwayne reached out with unimaginable gentleness. He extended his pinky finger, touching her tiny, flailing hand—
And almost instantly, as if recognizing her protector, the babe’s palm wrapped around his finger, gripping it with everything she had.
“She, oh—” Gwayne froze, shuddering. He stared at her tiny fingers, and then up at the soft crown of her head, his eyes widening as he registered the tufts of copper-red hair just like his.
Seeing how deeply touched he was, your own eyes welled with happy tears. You nudged him softly, whispering the name you had kept locked in your heart:
“Alyrie,” you told him. “Lady Alyrie of House Hightower.”
His mother’s name. The tears Gwayne had tried so hard to hold back during those agonizing hours waiting for you finally spilled over as he turned to you. He let out a wet, shaky laugh, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he held both you and Alyrie close to his chest.
“Thank you,” he choked out, kissing your temple before pressing his lips to his daughter’s tiny forehead. “Our sweet Alyrie... She is perfect. You are both so perfect.”
As you looked at the other halves of your soul, the fragile peace of your bedchamber felt like a beautiful dream. Outside these stone walls, the realm was already fracturing as shadow of the dance of the dragons loomed close— a tempest of fire, blood, and greed that threatened to consume everyone you held dear.
One thing is sure though... both you and him would lay down your very lives to ensure this precious little girl remained untouched by the ash.
could I ask for a Gwayne Hightower x wife!reader- where the reader is on team black and he is obviously on green, And he sees her on dragon back during one of the battles he’s apart of ?
back to you | g.h
Pairings: Gwayne Hightower x Wife!Reader
Summary: at Rock’s Rest you find more than battle
WARNINGS: angst, hurt to comfort, reader is team black, reader is Rhaenyra’s sister, reader is mentioned to have silver hair, my man is desperate in this one
A/n: bring back men yearning pls
masterlist | wc: 6.3k
THE ROAR of dragons tore violently through the sky, and you felt it vibrate in your bones even before Cannibal spread his immense black wings over the battlefield of Rook's Rest. The air was so thick with smoke it burned your lungs with every breath, heavy with the acrid stench of ash, freshly spilled blood, and the metallic tang of clashing weapons. Beneath you, the battle stretched to the edge of the forest like a vast open wound carved into the earth: thousands of men fought amid agonized screams and frantic neighing, tattered banners whipped through the flames, while shattered catapults and overturned wagons littered the ground with splintered wood and lifeless bodies. From the sky everything seemed small, and yet you could make out every detail, every knight struck down, every blade sinking into flesh. Cannibal let out a low, rumbling growl, his massive body trembling beneath you, eager to descend into what, for him, was nothing more than a feast.
Your eyes were fixed on Rhaenys Targaryen. She had fought like a queen, like a legend destined to be remembered for centuries, and even from that distance you could see the fierce elegance with which she guided Meleys through smoke and fire. You had arrived too late. Fate had already chosen for her. You watched the enormous jaws of Vhagar close around the red dragon's neck with a brutality that stole your breath, the sound of bones breaking blending with Meleys' desperate roar, and for a moment time seemed to slow to a halt. Then the dragon fell. It dropped like a star devoured by the sky, crashing into the castle walls below in an explosion of stone, fire, and dust. The impact made even Cannibal shudder, and a towering column of flames surged upward, swallowing everything. You gripped the saddle so tightly your fingers ached, as a dull, savage pain tore through your chest.
Cannibal roared, and his cry echoed across the mountains and over the battlefield, forcing men and horses alike to pause for a fleeting instant. Even Vhagar seemed to stiffen. Atop the oldest dragon in the Seven Kingdoms, Aemond Targaryen slowly turned his head toward you. His single eye narrowed, immediately recognizing the dark shape of Cannibal emerging from the clouds like an omen of death. A faint, almost amused smile touched his lips. He knew you. He could read the fury consuming you better than anyone, because that same fury ran in his blood as well. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Brother and sister remained suspended above an army that continued slaughtering itself, watching one another like two predators deciding which would devour the other.
Below, Gwayne Hightower, the man who had become your husband only a few years earlier, found himself unable to breathe. He saw you emerge from the sea of smoke with a determination he had never forgotten, Cannibal's vast wings spread like a shadow capable of blotting out the sun itself. For a moment, the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, the noise of armor, and the crackle of flames all vanished. The world seemed to shrink until it held only you. You, who had once shared his bed in the silent chambers of Oldtown. You, who in rare moments of peace had spoken his name with softness. You, who laughed so quietly that he had to lean closer just to hear you. You, who now rode toward death. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He had spent the past weeks trying to convince himself he had forgotten you, that he had buried every feeling along with your broken marriage. He had told himself the war had erased everything, that oaths mattered more than love, that you now belonged to different worlds. And yet one glimpse of you was enough to shatter every lie he had so carefully built.
He still loved you. He understood it with brutal clarity as he watched you lean forward in the saddle, completely fused with your dragon. He could still remember the warmth of your skin against his, the scent of your hair when you fell asleep on his chest, the way you would look away whenever he tried to kiss you first, only to make him chase you with a laugh. In truth, he had always been the desperate one. He was the one who sought your lips with impatience, who chased every small gesture of affection as though it were a privilege. You never denied him, but you always made him earn it, and that was what he missed most. Not the caresses, not the kisses, but the constant need you had created within him, that hunger for your presence that no other woman had ever been able to satisfy. He looked at you now, smeared with ash, infinitely different from the girl he had married and yet exactly the same. Still capable of breaking his heart with a single glance. He wanted to meet you in the ashes of your yesterdays when life was easier, waiting where the light used to fall, recalling what you had when present felt empty. Learning how to miss you.
He understood it completely the moment Cannibal lowered his head and plunged into a dive toward Vhagar. The sky itself seemed to crack under the force of the impending collision. Gwayne stepped forward without even realizing it, as though reaching out a hand might somehow touch you up there. "Don't do it..." he whispered, but his words were swallowed by the chaos of battle, lost to the wind and the thunder of dragons. No one heard him, not even you. Perhaps that was for the best, because he knew you well enough to understand that you would not have stopped anyway.
You faced your brother without the slightest hesitation. There was no fear in your movements, no doubt, not even the faintest trace of mercy. Only fury, fueled by the grief of Rhaenys's death and years of smoldering resentment. Cannibal opened his jaws, revealing rows of enormous, jagged teeth, and his roar made the air tremble before a torrent of black and red flame engulfed Vhagar. Aemond's dragon answered at once, unleashing a blaze so vast it resembled a burning wall. The two infernos collided in the sky, creating a storm of sparks and ash that rained down upon the battlefield like fire. Below them, men screamed and scrambled for cover, while terrified horses broke ranks, trampling friend and foe alike. Aemond guided Vhagar with precision, every command delivered through the slightest shift of his body, while you responded with equal instinct, as if Cannibal were an extension of your own will. The two dragons crashed into each other with devastating force, claw against claw, wing against wing, locking together in a violent dance that seemed to shake the very air.
It was an impossible battle. Gwayne knew it. Everyone did. Vhagar was the oldest, the largest, the most powerful of the living dragons. Every battle she had fought had carved scars into her immense body, shaping her into a creature that seemed made for war. Cannibal, for all his ferocity and wildness, was still younger, smaller, forced to make up with speed what he lacked in strength. And yet he did not yield an inch. He continued to assault Vhagar with relentless determination, forcing even the colossal dragon to recoil beneath the violence of his attacks. Gwayne followed every movement, his heart clenched in a vice. He saw you lean from the saddle as the wind lashed your ash-streaked hair, saw blood running down your temple without you seeming to notice, saw your eyes burning with rage. It was the same expression you had worn the day of your separation, the day he had spoken the words that destroyed you both, confessing that he would fight for Aegon. He still remembered the silence that followed, far more painful than any scream. In that moment, you had understood that something between you had broken forever.
It all happened in the blink of an eye. Cannibal seized a fleeting opening in Vhagar's guard and lunged at the massive dragon's neck with savage ferocity. His jaws snapped shut with a terrifying crack, sinking his teeth into the ancient armored scales until they pierced through. The roar that erupted from Vhagar's throat was so powerful it made the sky tremble, a sound filled with pain and fury that echoed for miles and brought the battle to a stunned, fleeting halt. Dark blood streamed down the old dragon's neck, evaporating almost instantly in the heat of the flames. Vhagar writhed violently, trying to break free from the grip, while Aemond pulled hard on the reins, shouting commands in the tongue of Old Valyria. Cannibal did not let go. He tightened his hold with relentless determination, intent on tearing flesh down to the bone. Below, Gwayne held his breath, unable even to blink.
Vhagar crashed to the ground with brutal force. Her enormous claws sank into the blood-soaked earth, shattering stone, wagons, and bodies alike without distinction, while a wave of dust and debris rose all around her, forcing men and horses to retreat in panic. The thunderous beat of her wings swept away already-tattered banners, feeding the fires that devoured Rook's Rest, and her roar echoed through the broken castle walls. You did not hesitate for even a moment. You pulled sharply on Cannibal's reins, guiding him with the weight of your body, and the dragon understood your command before you spoke a single word. With a powerful beat of his wings, he soared back into the sky, leaving behind the black smoke and flames that reflected across his dark scales. You were finally satisfied.
Below, Gwayne Hightower followed your every movement without even noticing what was happening around him. The screams of soldiers, the clash of steel, the shouted orders, all of it reached him as though muffled and distant, as if he were submerged underwater. Only you existed. His eyes could not leave your figure as you slowly pulled away above the battlefield, higher and higher, closer to the smoke-blackened clouds. That was when something caught his attention. A short distance away, among the charred remains of a collapsed tower, an archer stood as still as a statue. He was filthy with dirt and blood, his face smeared with soot, his hands trembling so badly it seemed impossible that he could still draw a bow. And yet his gaze was steady, fixed on you. The arrow was already nocked, ready to fly. For one terrible instant, Gwayne saw clearly the path it would take. His body made the decision long before his mind did.
It was as if he moved on instinct alone, adrenaline suddenly surging through his veins. In a few strides he reached the man, slamming into him hard enough to make him stagger. But the archer's fingers had already released the string. The arrow flew regardless, slicing through the air with a thin, deadly whistle, so fast it was almost invisible. Gwayne lifted his gaze at once, unable even to breathe. He felt his heart pounding so violently it hurt, as he followed that slender line of death climbing into the sky.
The arrow that would have surely struck your heart hit your shoulder instead. Even from that distance, he saw your body jolt from the impact. Blood splattered across Cannibal's black scales, staining the already dirtied fabric of your clothing, while your face twisted in a sudden grimace of pain that made his stomach tighten. Your body wavered dangerously on the dragon's back. One hand reached desperately for purchase on the saddle, the other instinctively grasped the wound. For a long, endless moment, it truly seemed as though you might fall.
Gwayne felt a scream rise in his chest, but he could not release it. It remained trapped there, choked into nothing more than a broken breath. "No..." he managed to whisper, his voice so weak it was swallowed instantly by the wind.
Then he saw you react. With sheer stubbornness, you clenched your teeth and slowly straightened in the saddle. Your hand trembled as it grasped the shaft of the arrow lodged in your flesh, but you did not try to pull it free. You simply pressed your palm against the wound in a desperate attempt to slow the blood that continued to run down your arm. Cannibal, sensing your pain, let out a low, uneasy growl, but continued to climb, obedient to your commands. Gwayne released a trembling breath he had not even realized he was holding. He had saved you. He had changed the course of that arrow. He had betrayed his men, his oath, his very house. He had done it for you. He had chosen you. He watched you grow smaller and smaller against the gray sky, his chest rising in uneven, ragged breaths, unable to find a rhythm.
And then he saw you fall.
Your hand slipped. Your fingers, weakened by blood loss, slowly lost their grip on the saddle. Gwayne's eyes widened. For a moment, he convinced himself you would recover once more, that you would seize the reins again, that Cannibal would correct his flight. You were strong, the strongest woman he ever knew. But it did not happen. He watched you slip from the dragon's back in slow motion. Your body separated from the saddle and hung suspended in the void for a fraction of a second before being swallowed by the sky.
"No." This time the word left his lips with more force, but it was still too small, too fragile to reach you.
His heart seemed to stop. Gwayne took a step forward, then another, without even knowing where he was going. He kept staring at the sky like a madman, reaching out a hand in your direction, as though the distance between you might suddenly vanish, as though wanting it enough could make it so. But you were too far away, too high above him. And he was only a man, with a sword too heavy in his hands and too much love in his heart, bound to a ground that would never let him reach you. He watched you fall, powerless to do anything at all. Your hair scattered in the air, and from that distance your face seemed strangely serene. At peace, as if the war and all its suffering had suddenly been stripped away from you. Then your body disappeared beyond the veil of smoke and low clouds, swallowed by a void Gwayne could not see.
The noise of battle returned all at once, crashing over him with unbearable force. Everything felt too loud, too close. Gwayne stood frozen in the chaos, his eyes still fixed on the place where you had vanished. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his sword nearly slipped from his grasp, held only by a strength that was no longer there. He could not move. He could not even think. He saw the moment again and again in his mind. He had tried to save you. He had seen the arrow. He had acted without hesitation. If he had not struck that archer, the shaft would have pierced your heart and killed you instantly. And yet it had not been enough. He had only changed where the wound landed. Only delayed the inevitable.
A cold, unbearable emptiness began to consume his chest, hollowing him out from within, stealing the breath from his lungs. His knees nearly gave way beneath him, and he had to drive the tip of his sword into the ground to keep from collapsing. He felt his heart tightening more and more, as though an invisible hand were crushing it without mercy. All his life, he had tried to be the man others expected him to be, a good knight, a worthy son of his house, a man faithful to his oaths. And he had failed. He had tried to be a good husband too, when he had still had the chance, but he had failed at that as well. Every choice he had made, every sacrifice he had endured, seemed to have led him inevitably to this exact moment. You had fallen anyway. The arrow had reached you anyway. And he had not been able to stop it.
He slowly raised a hand to his face, brushing at his eyes as though wiping away the tears threatening to fall might also erase the image of what he had just seen. But the memory of your body falling into the void remained etched behind his eyelids with brutal clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vivid it became, the heavier the weight of guilt pressed against his chest. Perhaps this was his punishment. For the selfishness that was planted in the human body. Perhaps the gods were punishing him for his greed. He had wanted both, had demanded to keep the honor of his house and, at the same time, the love of the woman he had lost. He had believed he could serve two masters without losing anything. And the gods, as they always did, had claimed the price of that illusion.
Night fell slowly over Crow's Rest, swallowing everything in its darkness, erasing every trace of the battle. The last cries of the wounded had faded one by one, replaced by the low crackling of fires lit among the ranks of the victorious army. Tongues of flame flickered in the night wind, casting brief light upon exhausted faces smeared with dried blood, soot, and dirt, eyes reddened by fatigue and war, hands still unable to stop trembling after hours spent gripping a sword. The acrid smell of smoke lingered everywhere, mingling with that of burned flesh, worn leather, and blood soaking into the ground. Here and there someone laughed; others drank in silence, staring into the void with hollow gazes, too drained even to speak. The crows had already begun gathering in the trees at the edges of the battlefield, patient and still, waiting for morning to claim their feast.
Among the soldiers, the same words passed from mouth to mouth, whispered beside the fires. They said the battle was over, at least for that day. They said Vhagar had survived, though gravely wounded, and that Cannibal had vanished into the sky, never to return. But above all, they said that you were dead. That after falling from your dragon's back, you had plunged into the lake beyond the forest, swallowed by the black waters without leaving a trace. Some even claimed they had seen your body disappear beneath the surface. Others swore no one could survive such a fall. Each time your name was spoken, it was followed by a satisfied laugh. To many, you had been nothing more than a traitorous princess who had met the fate she deserved.
Gwayne Hightower, however, could not believe a single word of it. He simply could not. Sitting a short distance from the others, his back resting against the rough trunk of a great oak at the edge of the encampment, he stared straight ahead without truly seeing anything. His cloak was still stained with mud and dried blood, his armor scratched in several places, barely reflecting the flickering light of the nearest fire. His hands lay motionless on his knees, as still as those of a statue. Around him, the camp slowly drifted to sleep. Some soldiers continued recounting moments from the battle, their voices thick with exhaustion and wine. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else wept, believing no one was watching. The blacksmiths gradually extinguished their makeshift forges, the stablehands checked on the last surviving horses, and little by little every sound seemed to fade, becoming muffled and distant. Gwayne had the distinct sensation of standing behind an invisible barrier that separated him from the rest of the world. His body was present, but his mind remained suspended in the sky, in the exact moment he had seen you fall.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, it took only the briefest closing of his eyes for it all to begin again. He saw the archer. The arrow leaving the bowstring. The moment he struck the soldier in a desperate attempt to deflect the shot. Then he saw the bolt reach you anyway, burying itself in your shoulder with a violence that stole his breath. He saw the blood staining your dress. Your hand clutching desperately at the wound. Your fingers slowly losing their grip on the saddle. Your body tilting ever so slightly. And finally, the fall. Again, and again, and again. Each time, his stomach twisted painfully, forcing him to bend forward. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyelids until it nearly hurt, as if physical pain might erase what tormented his mind. But it did not work. The image remained there, seared behind his eyes with unbearable clarity. The more he tried to push it away, the more vividly it returned, as though the Gods liked the way it devoured him from within. All he could do was relive it and hope, somehow, to earn forgiveness for his sins.
A long, trembling breath slipped from his lips as he slowly ran a hand over his weary face. Beneath his fingers he felt skin caked with dirt and dried blood, and the cut he had taken across his cheek during the fight. He was exhausted, but he knew he would not sleep. Around the fires, some soldiers drank to their victory. They had accepted your death with a readiness that made him sick. They called you a traitor. They laughed, imagining your body dragged to the bottom of the lake. Someone even claimed that Cannibal had abandoned you, unable to save his own rider. Gwayne had clenched his jaw until he tasted blood, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to tear it, just to keep himself from rising and striking the first man who dared speak your name with such contempt.
Dragons fell, and their riders died. It had always been so. Ever since the Dance of the Dragons had begun, every battle had claimed its toll of fire and blood. It was the fate of those who rode such creatures, everyone knew it. Everyone accepted it. But that simple truth did nothing to comfort him. Because to him, you had never been merely a rider. You were not just a Targaryen princess. You were not simply a name destined to appear in the songs of bards.
You were his wife. The woman before whom he had spoken vows he believed eternal. The girl he had learned to love long before politics, war, and the duties of your respective houses forced you apart. You had been his home, his refuge, his greatest weakness and even greater undoing. Even after your separation, even after finding yourselves on opposing sides, he had never stopped thinking of you. He had tried to convince himself otherwise, of course. He had told himself that time would heal every wound, that distance would extinguish that feeling that picked at his chest. But every attempt had failed miserably. You had remained his greatest regret. His ruin. And, despite everything, you were still his only love.
When the last fire in the camp dwindled to a bed of reddish embers and even the final conversations faded into silence, broken only by the snores of sleeping soldiers, Gwayne knew he could not remain still a moment longer. He rose slowly, careful not to make a sound. His joints protested from the strain of the day, but he did not notice. He adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, left his sword sheathed, and walked away without looking back. He moved between the tents like a silent shadow, avoiding the sleeping men and the sentries who watched the forest with heavy eyes. Each step carried him farther from the camp and closer to the place where you had vanished. He did not truly know what he was searching for, perhaps only a body to mourn, a grave before which he could kneel. Perhaps he needed to see with his own eyes the final proof of your death, because a part of him stubbornly refused to believe it.
The forest welcomed him with silence. The trees towered high above his head, turning the moonlight into thin blades of silver that barely pierced the dense weave of branches. The ground was damp, covered in leaves and moss that muffled his steps, while the wind stirred the treetops, producing a constant rustling like an incomprehensible whisper. Now and then a broken branch cracked beneath his boots, or a nocturnal creature fled through the underbrush, but otherwise the forest seemed to hold its breath with him. The air was far colder than in the camp, damp and heavy. Each breath filled his lungs with a painful sensation, yet he kept walking without slowing. His heart beat faster with every step, feeding a hope he desperately tried to smother, for fear it would destroy him.
When at last the trees began to thin and the lake appeared before his eyes, Gwayne stopped instinctively. The water lay still as a black mirror, so dark it seemed bottomless. The moon reflected upon its surface in trembling fragments, barely disturbed by the wind, while a thin mist began to rise from the shore. No sound came from the water. No ripple. No sign to tell what had happened only hours before.
Gwayne swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. "Please..." he whispered hoarsely, not knowing whether he was praying to the gods, to the lake, or to you. It was a desperate plea, spoken without even realizing it.
He began to walk slowly along the shore, his eyes darting frantically from one point to another. He searched every reflection, every log carried by the water, every dark shape lying among the stones and reeds. His hands trembled so violently that he had to clench them repeatedly to keep from losing all control. The farther he went, the more despair grew within him. He was ready to throw himself into the lake without a second thought if only he glimpsed a fragment of your cloak beneath the water. He did not care about the depth, nor the cold. He did not even care about dying. He only kept searching for you, with the same stubborn determination he had always had when it came to you.
Then, suddenly, his gaze stopped. You were there, lying on the shore, motionless, just a few steps from the dark water. Your hair, still wet, spread in disarray over the damp grass like threads of silver in the moonlight. Your clothes were soaked with water and blood, clinging heavily to your body, while one of your arms lay abandoned at your side. For a long, endless moment, Gwayne stood completely still. His heart nearly stopped, and terror seized his throat so tightly he could not even breathe. From that distance he could not see the rise and fall of your chest. He could not tell whether you were breathing. And his greatest fear, the one that had driven every step he had taken toward the lake, rose up once more to devour him. He feared he had arrived too late. He feared the gods had made a mockery of him.
Gwayne lunged forward, breathless, running along the uneven shore of the lake without regard for the slippery stones, the low branches that scratched his face, or the mud that slowed his steps. The only thing he could see was you. Every beat of his heart felt like a blow struck directly against his ribs, so fast it stole his breath. When he finally reached you, he dropped to his knees beside you, splashing water and mud across his cloak. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to convince himself that you were truly there. He stared at you with a terrified expression, as if a single wrong movement might make you vanish before his eyes. Then his hands, trembling uncontrollably, moved slowly toward your face. He brushed your forehead gently, as though he feared even the pressure of his own fingers. He caressed your cold cheeks, still damp with lake water, tracing the line of your jaw down to your neck in a desperate attempt to feel a pulse. A strand of silver hair, stuck to your skin, covered part of your face. He moved it aside with infinite care, letting his fingers linger briefly in your hair in a gesture so familiar it almost hurt him. How many times had he done the same in your chambers in Oldtown, when you fell asleep beside him with your face hidden against his chest? How many times had he watched those strands spread across the pillow, convincing himself that such happiness would last forever? Now that same hand trembled too violently to even touch you.
He was already sinking into the abyss of despair when it happened.
A faint breath, barely perceptible, slipped from your parted lips, breaking the silence of the lake. It was the slightest whisper, so weak that another man might not even have noticed it. But Gwayne felt it, felt it with every fiber of his being. His eyes flew open in disbelief as the world seemed to halt around him once more. He remained motionless for a few seconds, almost afraid he had imagined it. Then your chest rose slightly, in a slow, labored movement, but enough to shatter, in a single instant, all the pain that had suffocated him until then.
A broken sound escaped his lips before he could stop it, something between an incredulous laugh and a choked sob. Tears stung his eyes, but he made no attempt to hide them. "You're alive..." he murmured softly, as though he feared that speaking the words too loudly might frighten the gods into taking back what they had just spared him. He was definitely a selfish, selfish man. "You're alive..." he repeated, this time with his face bent close to yours, as if he needed to hear the words from his own lips to truly believe they were real.
Urgency immediately replaced his astonishment. Gwayne roused himself, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, and without wasting another moment he seized the edge of his cloak. With a sharp tear, he ripped a long strip of fabric from it, ignoring the sound of the cloth splitting. His fingers were clumsy, made awkward by fear and cold, yet he tried to press the makeshift bandage gently against the wound still bleeding on your shoulder. The arrow was gone, likely broken during the fall or lost in the waters of the lake, but the blood continued to seep slowly, soaking your already drenched clothes. Each time the fabric darkened with red, Gwayne's heart seemed to tighten further. He lifted you with the utmost care, slipping one arm behind your back and the other beneath your legs just enough to move you away from the shore. He drew you against his chest, trying to shield you from the cold night and the damp ground. At once he felt the weight of your body yield against him as he had never felt before. Your breathing, weak but present, broke against his armor and passed through the fabric of his tunic to reach his skin. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.
"Stay with me..." he whispered, his voice breaking as he lowered his head until it brushed against your forehead. "Please... stay. Don't leave me now."
For several endless moments, he feared you had not heard him at all. Then your lashes began to tremble softly. Your eyelids lifted with agonizing slowness, as if even that simple movement required immense effort. Your eyes, still clouded with confusion and pain, wandered aimlessly before finally settling on his face. You looked at him for a long time in silence, your expression lost and distant. It was as if you were trying to remember where you were, or perhaps simply trying to understand whether he was real. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Gwayne held even his breath, terrified that this fragile connection might shatter.
You continued to stare at him. Your lips parted slightly and, in a voice so faint it nearly blended with the wind through the trees, you asked: "Am I dead?"
Those words pierced his heart. Gwayne shook his head immediately, leaning closer to you. One hand remained firm behind your back, the other still cradled your face as if he feared you might vanish at any moment. "No." The answer came too quickly, broken by emotion. "No... you're here. You're alive." He swallowed hard, but the words poured out of him uncontrollably, dragged forth by weeks of silence and a guilt he could no longer contain. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, lowering his gaze briefly before searching for yours again. "I'm so sorry. I... I didn't mean— I saw that man. I thought that if I could stop him..." His voice broke. He drew a deep breath, but it did nothing to steady the tremor in his chest. "If I hadn't intervened, maybe... maybe the arrow would have taken a different path. Maybe you wouldn't have fallen. I—" He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to continue. "I can't stop thinking about it."
His hands instinctively sought yours. They always sought your. When he finally managed to lace his fingers with yours, he was almost startled by the contrast between the warmth of his own skin and the cold that had overtaken yours. They were freezing, so cold it frightened him. He held them with the utmost care, as though afraid of hurting you, then slowly brought them to his lips. He pressed a long, trembling kiss upon them, just as he had done countless times during your marriage. It was a gesture that had become an involuntary reflex of his love. Every time you were sad, every time you were afraid, every time he returned from a long ride and found you waiting for him, he would take your hands and kiss them in that exact same way. Now he did it again, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his heart in pieces.
You were so pretty even like this. His pretty girl.
"It's my fault..." he whispered against your skin, almost unable to look at you. "You fell because of me. I made you fall. I don't even know how to ask for your forgiveness, my love."
You watched him for a long time without interrupting. There was no anger in your eyes, only an infinite weariness, made deeper still by the pain of your wound. Slowly, with an effort that broke his heart just to witness, you freed one hand from his grasp and lifted it toward his face. Your fingers trembled visibly as they reached his cheek. You touched him lightly, with a caress so gentle it felt like the brush of a feather. Gwayne remained completely still, holding even his breath. It had been so long since you had last sought his face. "You need not to apologize..." you murmured, your voice barely audible. A faint smile appeared on your chapped lips. "You were only protecting your family. Just as I do."
He lowered his gaze slowly, letting his forehead rest against yours. What an angel you were, he thought not even the fairest maiden could ever hope to be like you. What monster he was to ruining you like this, rotting you until your core. "It shouldn't be this way..." he whispered bitterly, gently stroking your still-damp hair. His fingers moved through those strands with the same tenderness as before, as if every gesture might carry you back to when you had been happy. "We shouldn't be on opposite sides. We shouldn't be forced to choose." He lifted his eyes again to meet yours. "You too are my family."
His hand lingered on your face for a few moments more, caressing you hesitantly. It was as though he were touching you for the first time, and yet as if his body remembered perfectly every line of your face. His fingers traced slowly along your cheek, the curve of your jaw, until they came to rest near your lips. The most beautiful lips he so loved kissing. For a moment, it felt to him as though he were back in your chamber in Oldtown, he could almost hear the rain against the windows, smell the burnt candles and the warmth of the sheets. For a few heartbeats, the war ceased to exist. There was only the two of you.
He leaned down toward your face, and finally he kissed you. That kiss carried every unspoken word, every night spent longing for you, every wrong choice that had led you both to that lake. His lips trembled slightly against yours, as though he feared it might truly be the last time he would ever be able to do so. They were soft despite being chapped by cold and exhaustion. And you, despite the pain coursing through every part of your body, let yourself fall into him, into his arms, against his chest. That was where you belonged, in his arms. Gwayne held you a little tighter, one hand finding your waist, careful not to touch your wound.
How he loved kissing you. How he loved when you clung to him as he was your savior. His heart always exploded in an hundreds of sparkles, making him dizzy with your taste. He felt so drunk of you, feeling you everywhere. Yet Gwayne wanted to feel you even more, merge his body into yours, flesh into flesh. He wanted to burn into you. He wanted you to kiss him forever.
He wanted. He wanted. He wanted. Why he wanted so much? Is he allowed to wanting?
It’s was so hard not to when you touched him so, looking like the prettiest dream.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches. Your breaths still mingled in the cold night air, your foreheads nearly resting against each other, lips still chasing. His eyes could not leave yours, as though he feared that looking away might cause him to lose you again. He remained there, motionless, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. He could not let you go. After believing you dead, after watching you fall from the sky, after thinking he would never hear your breathing again, separating from you now felt simply impossible.
If it's not too much trouble, could you write to Gwayne where the reader is Daemon's daughter? She has Silverwing with a dragon! During a tournament, he asks her for a favor, and when he wins, he declares her queen of love and beauty. imagine Daemon sitting next to his daughter, completely distraught by this. An extra bonus if she's secretly in love with him!!!
Sorry if you didn't understand very well, english is not my first language!
Him, really?
Thank you so much for the request I love it 🥰 Only possible warning is kisses!! No description of reader apart from your a princess. Also Laena is our best friend/stepmother so takes place before the dance.
“Princess.” Ser Gwayne Hightower says nodding at you while you walk past him with your father. Both men ignoring each other given your father’s hatred for all things Hightower. You, on the other hand, have different feelings, about Gwayne anyway.
“Ser.” You reply, looking the handsome knight up and down, offering him a small smirk. Happy your father can’t see your face.
“Bloody Hightower.” Daemon mumbles glaring at the knight, hating all things green. Especially hating the look the knight was giving you.
-
“Princess, would you do me one honour of granting me your favour?” Gwayne asks you loudly riding up to be next to the platform you and your family were sat on. A smirk visible on his face, knowing exactly what he’s doing.
“Of course Ser.” You say picking up the favour you made especially for the man. Bending over the fence to place it on his lance, not taking your eyes off him, him doing the same to you. “I wish you luck.”
“Thank you princess.” He says more softly, thinking you look like the picture of a princess while you smile.
“What was that?” Your father hiss’s when you sit back down next to him, Laena on his other side. Your stepmother being a similar age to you.
“Whatever do you mean?” You ask, playing innocent. Knowing if he knew your actual intentions for the knight he might die of shock.
“That, giving Hightower your favour!”
“Honestly father, you need to calm yourself.” You say calmly, taking a drink of a passing by servant. “It’s not the end of the world that I gave someone my favour, I’m of marriage age and have been for a while.”
“That’s beside the point, he’s a Hightower, Otto Hightowers son at that!” Daemon whisper shouts, willing to accept you with anyone. As long as they’re not a Hightower obviously.
“What does his father have to do with me?” You ask dryly, taking a sip of your drink while you raise an eyebrow at your father.
“It’s a ploy.”
“How so?” You ask rolling your eyes at the paranoid man.
“I don’t know yet but I’ll find out.”
“Laena please talk some sense into him.” You ask your stepmother/friend, her being one of the only people who can manage your father.
“I’m not getting involved.” She says with a slight laugh, hand resting on her baby bump. Her being a few moons behind Rhaenyra, your cousin having given birth a few days ago. “But he is handsome.”
“He is.” You agree, smirking knowing exactly what the woman’s doing. “Honourable too.”
“No, absolutely not!” Daemon furiously whispers, glaring at both you and Laena. “Never in a million years is my daughter allowed to think a Hightower handsome!”
“Shut up it’s Ser Gwayne’s turn.” You say smiling while you lean back into your chair, throwing a grape from the plate beside you into your mouth.
-
“Ser Gwayne Hightower, winner of the tournament, please crown your queen of love and beauty.” The king says later that day. Gwayne having won the whole tournament now able to crown his queen.
“Princess, may I crown you?” He asks you, charming smirk on his face. When he walks up to you, the man holding a floral crown and kneeling before you.
“You may.”
-
“Wé’lltor tatagon ñuha jorrāelagon, ao urnegon so ja'unndthomeva tembyr se ao wônza.” Well done my love, you looked so handsome when you won. You mumble against your lovers lips, him moaning in response loving when you speak in high Valyrian despite not understanding a word of it. Head lulling to the side as you kiss down his neck.
“Marry me.” He whines, having been wanting to marry you from the moment you met, his desire only growing when you’d kiss him. Kissing being as far as he’ll let you go, not wanting to dishonour you more than he already has.
“Gwayne.”
“I know your father hates my family but I love you so much.” He says seriously, hand resting on your neck to make you actually look at him. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I don’t want to spend another moment apart. So please, marry me.”
“Ask me properly and I’ll say yes.” You tease, desperately wanting to say yes but knowing you shouldn’t. You giving him a soft kiss, trying to convey all your feelings before pulling away. “I best go I’m late for dinner.”
-
“Princess Laena!” Gwayne calls, running over to the woman. Her on her way to the dragon pits wishing to take vhaegar on a nice flight before labour began. Her secretly scared as it’s her first babe, you being the only one aware of her fears. “I have a request.”
“I’m not speaking to daemon for you.” She says firmly, not slowing as Gwayne reaches her side. Leana not being able to walk at much of a speed anyway.
“What? No, how do I ask a dragon for their blessing.” He replies walking backwards so he can keep looking at the woman wanting to give her his undivided attention.
“What?”
“I wish to marry and Silverwing is very important to her, so I’d like the dragons blessing first.” He explains as if it’s a simple task, not a life threatening one.
“Not her fathers?”
“I think I’ll have better luck with the dragon.” He laughs, knowing your father won’t approve solely because of his last name.
“You’re not wrong.” Laena says, up for some fun and a distraction. “Come we will plot.”
-
“What are you doing?” You ask warily entering the dragon pits to see Gwayne trying to give Silverwing a goat, her preferring them to sheep.
“Shit.” He mumbles, quickly turning around and seeing Laena try and seek out. Not being the most stealthy given her condition. “My love.” He says voice going higher. Him immediately caving and telling you what he’s doing the second you give him a look. “I’m trying to get silver wings permission to wed you.”
“You’re asking silverwing?” You ask softly, loving the man in front of you even more. No potential suitor having cared for your dragon before.
“Yes, I know her approval is the most significant.” He says sheepishly, internally very grateful the dragon hasn’t eaten him. So court up in his thoughts he doesn’t even notice you’re now right infront of him.
“Marry me.” You say softly, looking at your knight with complete love and adoration in your eyes. You not wanting to spend a moment away from him.
“What? My love I’m trying to propose!” He whines, having a whole plan.
“Tough.” You smile wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead against his. “Marry me Gwayne Hightower.”
“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, I’ve been trying to ask you for moons.” He laughs catching your lips in his, both of you giggling when you hear Silverwing let out a happy chirp.
-
Bonus
“Kepa, you can’t be mad.” You say entering his private solar, him and Laena sat talking about what to name the babe.
“Well now I know I’m going to be mad.” He says raising an eyebrow at you, wondering what you could of possibly done.
“I just said you can’t be.” You reiterate, pacing in front of them. Knowing Laena won’t be of much help knowing your friend will fain ignorance.
“What did you do?” He asks you suspiciously, trying to think of anything you could do that would make him truly mad and not thinking of anything.
“I’m betrothed.” You respond quickly, deciding to just get it over with.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Enough, who are you marrying?” Laena asks, knowing smirk on her face. Finding the whole thing hilarious as she knows your father with pout, but not hurt the Hightower man as you love him. Your father willing to put up with anything as long as you’re happy.
“Ser Gwayne.” You admit, hoping your father won’t over react.
- ser gwayne hightower x rhaenyra’s daughter!reader
synopsis. Ser Gwayne Hightower is tasked with escorting you, the sole daughter of the newly anointed Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, across the Reach and into the Crownlands as part of a deal securing amnesty for House Hightower. Along the way, you realize you do not hate him as much as you thought.
contents. smut, angst, slowburnish, reader is rhaenyra’s eldest daughter (around the same age as aegon) and silverwing’s rider and is so spoiled that she has never seen a baby chick before, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, grief, show elements but also canon divergence, sex pollen, oral (f recieving), fingering, p in v, loss of virginity, multiple orgasms, cum eating, bath sex, reader is comically oblivious at some points, gwayne needs you so bad
a/n. 13.5k words wow big day for me, spoilers for the show?, inspired by a request i got (thank you very much anon wherever you are), inspired by the film lady chatterly’s lover at some points, takes place directly after jace dies and rhaenyra takes the throne
It was a glum day, the day you were told your brother was dead, and you were alone with the usurper’s uncle. The dread—that feeling that something was just wrong—settled deep in your stomach before the words came out of his mouth.
The Hightower army had found you many months prior, nearly deceased following an attack on your dragon, Silverwing. You had told her to fly home to Dragonstone, to leave you, and you have lived off of the hope that she made it back safe.
They took you as prisoner that day, and in spite of all you thought of them, they did not treat you too horribly. You believed it was like preparing a pig for slaughter, though, so you never wavered in your loyalty to your mother. You would die as a Black. It was not going to take the threat of death to let a word of the Green agenda come from your mouth.
Surprisingly, it was your cousin, Daeron, who offered you the most kindness. He was the only person you could yield to in the entire Hightower base. You could only pray he wasn’t relaying every conversation you’d had back to the Lord Ormund Hightower.
Everyone else treated you like you were common. Specifically Ser Gwayne Hightower.
He was rude—and vain—and arrogant. He was irritating. When he would try to make conversation, you would always end up in a fight. And it was just your luck for him to be the one instructed to take you on a multiple-week-long journey from the Reach and back to your rightful home in the Red Keep.
He was the one to tell you that your mother had taken King’s Landing back. You assume your mother saw it fit to have the Queen Dowager’s brother be the one to accompany you, because maybe she has something in store for him when you make it there. Perhaps a beheading? He could do without the ability to speak.
Then he was the one to tell you that you would join her in King’s Landing. That you were finally going home. It was the only thing to come from his mouth that made you joyful.
You overheard chatter that by you departing the Reach as soon as the letter was received, and by you making it back unharmed, House Hightower would be granted something close to immunity for their role in the war. You knew it was something a lie. Your mother and stepfather would never let the Green beasts live with what they had done—not only to you, but to her son too. To your mother herself.
The thought of what your mother might be doing to the Dowager Queen now gave you anxiety from being excluded. You should expect that they’ll be calling for Daeron’s capture too, though perhaps you will be able to put in a good word for him—get him sent to the Wall instead of hanged.
Speaking of Daeron, he was already somewhere distant when you had finished gathering your belongings, even though the things you owned in the encampment were scarce. You had said your goodbyes to each other not long ago—he claimed he had to prepare for something with Lord Ormund, and that he would not be available the next morning, for your departure.
You were, as expected, ready to leave. You had wanted to lie down and rest so that the next morning would come sooner, but Ser Gwayne had called you into his tent for one final word.
“There was something else written in the letter. Something I believe should have been saved for a calm moment, such as this,” he begun, and held up the refolded parchment which illustrated the clemency that would be provided to House Hightower upon your safe return to King’s Landing. “Would you prefer to read it, or shall I?”
The glint in his eye was one of compassion. You did not like it.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Proceed.”
He raised his brows, pressing his lips together before giving a heavy sigh and opening the parchment back again. The fingers that gripped either side of it seemed to waver. His eyes quickly found the line he had so desperately wanted to read.
He inhaled a heavy breath. “The Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne Jacaerys Velaryon was slain in battle against the Triarchy Fleet. He was struck down by crossbow fire alongside his dragon, Vermax, in the waters off the Gullet.”
Gwayne let his hands drop slowly, and he sealed the parchment back. He looked back up at you.
Your head was shaking back and forth. Denying his words, maybe. The movement had come naturally, and you could not stop it.
“Is this a jest?” you exhaled a small laugh, hoping it would work to quell the distress already coursing through your veins.
You knew it was not a jest.
You knew if the war did not end soon then he would die in some violent, gruesome way, but to hear it confirmed was something entirely different. To hear it confirmed by a Hightower was something worse. The primal need for the man before you dead, perhaps in such a way your own brother was killed, washed over you in an instant.
He remained silent at your question. "It pains me, though your brother's death does not alter our course,” he said instead. “We shall depart at first light.”
It pains him?
You will show him something that pains him.
There was a lengthy distance between the two of you already, but you quickly closed it as you rushed across to smack him across his cheek.
Your hand stung, yet you did not wait for his reaction. Instead, you turned on your heel and left the tent.
Jace did not hit you until the fresh air did, and you let yourself shed the tears that you had pushed back into your sockets. The tears that you could not—would not—let fall in front of the enemy.
day one
You never liked Gwayne. He was arrogant, and he would treat you as if you weren’t the daughter of the Queen—or more importantly to them, the granddaughter of King Viserys, and the niece of their usurper.
The ride up the roseroad so far had been silent. He had tried, but you did not speak a word in response. It pains me, he had said, and then he practically told you to get over it and go home! He is moronic, and conceited. It pains you that you have to make this journey with him.
If need be, you could be doing this by yourself. You’re fierce enough to ride alone—gods, you’re essentially already riding alone, Gwayne’s useless self.
Your brothers taught you to be fierce, in spite of their age. Jace had always insisted on letting you spar with them in the yard of the Red Keep, and you learned quite well from it. You certainly couldn’t beat a knight with your skills, but it had helped you gain a certain confidence that princesses tend not to have.
Aegon had never liked you practicing with them. Neither did Ser Criston. You did beat the usurper once—caught him off guard and swept him out from under his feet—which must have bruised his ego in the process, as he felt it just to push you to the ground when your back was turned right after. That earned him a clout in the ear from Ser Harwin.
You chuckle to yourself recalling the memory—specifically Aegon’s stupid face when he realized who had hit him, and more specifically when Ser Harwin did not get in trouble for it—and you notice Gwayne looking at you in your peripheral. The smile is wiped clean off of your face.
“Does something amuse you?” he mutters.
When you look over to see him, he is glowering at you, his upper lip lifted with judgment.
“I understand you may not have many fond memories to look back on when times are tiresome, but I do.” You look forward at the road ahead.
He scoffs out a laugh. “I have many fond memories.”
“Tell me one,” you counter.
All you can hear is the wind blowing through the trees. Ser Gwayne Hightower, the parentless knight, no recollections to look back on fondly.
Gwayne sucks in a breath. “I do not have to.”
“That is what I thought.” You smirk to yourself, and lightly kick the side of your horse, forcing it forward and ahead of him.
day two
You were unsure if you should speak the words you did, but they had just slipped out at a certain point.
“I take it you did not care much for Jace.” Your gaze had already been trained on the head of your horse. It seemed hard to look anywhere else.
You and Gwayne had been mindlessly trekking forward all morning, both of your eyes still heavy with the slumber that you had lacked, sleeping in an inn on top of stiff beds.
“What makes you say that, princess?” he asks.
“You are a Hightower. Your sister is the Dowager Queen. Your nephew is the usurper. You kill for them—” you look over to him. He has been staring at you the whole time, and he looks quite furious.
“I believe you will find I do not have much of a choice in the matter,” he interjects sharply.
Your head shakes. “Everyone has a choice.”
He huffs. “What do you reckon I do? Desert my army? Get caught and hanged for treason?”
“I would.” You look back at the road ahead. “I should.”
Gwayne sighs, and returns his attention to the road as well. “We both have duties, my princess. Duties one cannot simply run from once they get to be too demanding.”
“Essos is said to be nice this time of year.”
A short laugh escapes him. “Essos is said to be nice all times of the year.”
You let out a heavy, deflated sigh. “Would it not be nice? I’m sure they don’t care about who we are there. We could be free. You could be a sellsword, and I…” your thought trails off. You cannot think of what you would be somewhere like Essos.
“You could be a scribe,” Gwayne says sincerely.
You nod. “I could.”
The idea of a life in Essos, perhaps with Gwayne, seems appealing at the very moment. The lack of sleep much be getting to you.
It does seem nice. Abandoning your name, as much as you are loyal to it, could be the best decision that you have made. He seems to want the same, if you convince yourself his words weren’t just tactical, some way to earn your empathy so that you will convince your mother to spare him once you reach the Red Keep.
If the war would not come to an end with her taking of the throne, you would have to escape there yourself. And if Gwayne wanted to come with you, if he was still alive by the time you left, you might just be willing to take him with you. Silverwing—who had surely made it back to Dragonstone—was large enough to saddle two.
day three
The inn you would stay in tonight would be much worse than the last. Not only because of the stiff beds, but because of the lack of them too.
Gwayne knew of the ones that would not ask any questions while not costing all the coins in his possession. So far they had been shit, but they had been true to their history of keeping quiet with matters that did not concern them, as far as you both knew.
You would remain outside with your cloak hood pulled tight over your head and your body facing a wall until Gwayne would come fetch you to take you to the room.
He would refer to you as his squire to the innkeepers and guests who questioned your presence. If they had questioned your demeanor, he would call you reserved and paranoid. Nobody had asked anything past that, but if they did, he was prepared to tell them that you had been tormented by some childhood event.
When Gwayne had taken you to your room that night, you had not expected to be faced with a singular bed.
“Have you gotten your own room?” you had asked, not realizing until you had drawn off the cloak from your head that there was only one mattress before you.
Gwayne only shrugged. “It was all that remained. The innkeeper told me that puppeteers are traveling in town, and all seem to be staying here.”
You could not contain your fury at the thought of sharing a bed with him. Or making him sleep on the floor. “How many fucking puppeteers are there?” you demanded, body tense with unreasonable anger.
He scoffed out a laugh. “My princess, it isn’t exactly the largest inn.” He had already begun shucking off his armor, as well as ridding himself of his gambeson and chausses. “You will live. I will sleep on the floor.”
“Are you sure? Can’t you speak with the innkeeper?”
“There is no need to draw any more attention to us. And what, princess, will you be sleeping on the floor in place of me?” he mocked, already in knowledge of the answer. “Do not fret over it. I have slept in worse places.”
You were silenced at that, and had called him for help with undoing your dress. The whole ordeal was strangely impersonal. He had done it the night before, and you felt nothing. Perhaps it be the exhaustion both of you had carried.
The two of you had retired to your respective sleeping areas shortly afterward, both clad in just your smallclothes.
Later that night, you found yourself wide awake, shivering in the relentless cold that seemed to break in past the shut windows.
Gwayne had been sleeping on the floor furthest from where you were lying on the bed. You assumed he was sleeping as well, but it was strangely silent. You had expected to hear the soft breathing of someone consumed by their slumber, though all you heard was the whistling of wind outside.
And your heart still held unpleasant sympathy for where he had been forced to rest. If your thoughts were true, he was not sleeping at all.
“Ser?” you whisper.
“Is something wrong?” you hear from below.
You smile at his voice. No, at being right. You do not smile at his presence, you smile because you like being right. You rolled over then, the mattress groaning beneath you, to stare at the dim expanse of the side where he lay.
“Are you comfortable there, on the floor?” you question, smile piercing through your words.
He scoffs. “You jest, princess, but I have no doubt that this floor is just as soft as the mattress you lay on.”
You were hit with a flurry of breathless laughter at his words. It must be your lack of sleep. You could hear him chuckle too after some point, but both of you had been slowly silenced as the seconds passed until you could only hear the commotion outside again.
Perhaps you should invite him to sleep alongside you. You are not without mercy. Of course, it would be strictly unromantic, not like how a wife and her husband might find one another on restless nights such as this one.
“Would you like to put that to the test?” you say without a second thought.
Gwayne clears his throat. “I would not want to invade on your solace, princess.”
“There is plenty of room for you.” You crawl across the bed to see him.
Your eyes find him as he thoughtlessly fiddles with the edge of his chemise, and as he freezes once he meets your gaze.
You beam down at him again. “And it would bring me solace, knowing you were sleeping the slightest bit easier.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“I am.” You think it is the sleep deprivation deluding you. You would never act like this normally. He can sense it too.
He slowly rises from his position on the ground, and multiple bones crackle once he stands.
You roll back over to your side of the bed, watching as he joins you. He seems tense, especially as you join him under the covers.
The two of you lie in bridled silence, neither one of you able to fall asleep. A chill runs through you from the temperature, and Gwayne’s head swivels to look at you.
You turn over on your side to meet his gaze, expecting him to say something. He does not, and looks back up at the ceiling instead.
Your brain, clouded by the fact that you are simultaneously freezing cold and devastatingly fatigued, opens, then pauses as you search for the words.
“Are you cold as well?” you mumble.
Gwayne shrugs nonchalantly. “Slightly.”
You chuckle mirthlessly. “I am.” The sheets suddenly feel rough against your skin. “More than slightly.”
“I can ask the innkeeper for another quilt.”
His earlier words flash back to you. “There is no need to draw any more attention to us,” you repeat.
You see the corner of his lip turn upward. “What do you reckon I do, then, princess?” he asks, and you reach out to touch his arm.
The muscle quickly tightens under your hold.
“You’re warm.” You move closer to him. “If we lie close together, we might just make it through the night.”
That is how you ended up huddled next to Ser Gwayne Hightower for the rest of the night.
You were unaware of the fact that he was lying frozen next to you, and that he did not get a wink of sleep, especially as you mindlessly slung an arm around his middle in your slumber. And as your nipples, solid from the cool breeze that had seeped in through the windows, brushed up against him as you shifted throughout the night.
day four
Gwayne had stopped to relieve himself when you heard them.
The myriad of chirps from some kind of birds had caught your attention, and you had jumped from your horse in an instant, following the sound.
You found yourself on the edge of an open field, behind some bushes, as you looked down to some small yellow birds that weren’t flying away. You deduce that they must like your presence.
It wasn’t long before Gwayne anxious voice interrupted your calm, calling your name just moments before stumbling upon you.
“What are they?” you whisper.
“Chicks,” he responds, in a normal tone. At your silence, he continues, “baby chickens.”
“Truly?” you question, head cocked to the side, watching them.
Gwayne stares at you. “Have you… never seen chicks before?”
“No, only…” you turn your head to him, “chickens.” You shrug.
He shakes his head with a theatrical sort of despair. It would have seemed real if the corners of his lips were not upturned.
“You truly are a princess,” he mutters, and crouches down to the ground.
You stoop down alongside him, watching as the chicks run past one another, chirping quietly.
“Can I touch one?” you mumble.
He gestures with a chin toward the chirping bunch. “Go on, then.”
You reach down to one of the animals, but you can’t quite seem to get a good grip on it. You don’t really try to grip it. You do not find the chance to. Instead, your hand just lingers hesitantly above the crowd of them.
Gwayne’s hands come down to meet yours. He grabs one of them, effortlessly and gently, cradling it in his hands.
Your hand is still lingering beside his, still in a motion as if you were going to grab one, as he did, so he brings the chicken in his hands to yours. You bring your free hand to join the other and cup them together.
He lets one hand release the chick into yours, and it comes down below the two of your hands as if to hold it steady. The other covers the chick to prevent it from jumping out of your hold.
The hand that is under yours touches it, and urges it to close. “Gently,” he murmurs, and you’re holding the chick on your own now, gently and effortlessly, just like he was.
His hands withdraw from yours. He watches as your lips curl up, a pure joy that he had yet to ever witness fill your face, do exactly that. His own mouth mirrors something similar.
You shudder nervously as the chick twitches around in your grip. It comes out half in the form of small chuckles and half in struggled exhales.
Your brows draw together. It seems impossible to relax them, and you feel a panic settle in at nothing in particular. Perhaps it be that your brothers are dead, maybe because you are with a man that you have such complicated and mind-boggling feelings for, or that you were just held as a prisoner for the Greens, and that man is a Green, he is the Green, the Hightower Green you have been conditioned to hate—
Gwayne has stopped smiling. You feel tears running down your face. The chick flies out of your grip once you try to see it closer, and you try your hardest to catch onto your breath, to catch it as it runs from you, but you cannot. You are sobbing before you get any sense to stop it.
“My princess?” he leans closer to you, a wavering hand inching dangerously close, and you push yourself from off the ground. He follows.
“I’m sorry,” you manage through heaving breaths, smoothing down your now wrinkled dress. Why are you apologizing? You do not know why you are apologizing. He is a Green. He should be apologizing to you, for being on the side of the war that killed your brothers—oh, gods, your sweet brothers. Your sweet, young, desperate, dead brothers.
“It’s all right,” he mumbles. His hands, still, are reaching toward your arms, yet not touching. Never touching. Just hovering near yours, always, like he wants to touch you, but he doesn’t.
You wipe your eyes, but the tears keep falling. You mutter something again. Sorry, you hear yourself say again, and then your body moves for you. You wrap your arms around his neck in an embrace so tight you might be strangling him.
He stumbles back slightly, arms still hesitating beside you, and then finally you feel it. He folds them gently around your waist. As gentle as he held the chick.
“Don’t cry,” he comforts.
You do not obey. You would if you could, but for now, you remain in his hold. You, regrettably, enjoy it.
day five
Gwayne did not like to see you cry.
He had first seen it the moment you realized you were captured by the Hightowers. You hadn’t been conscious enough when they found you to care about where you were being taken. He hadn’t enjoyed the sight then, not as his belligerents did, and he does not like to see it now.
He was the one to convince his fellow commanders to spare your life and to instead take you as a hostage. He was the one to have you held in a tent next to his own in the encampments with his two most upstanding soldiers posted outside, and not in those grimy cages fit for animals. He was the one to have you ride your horse directly next to his when on the road with the rest of the army—much to your dismay—as to prevent any dishonorable conduct from occurring. He would never tell you these things, of course, but they live with him.
Gwayne would tell himself that he did all of these things because it was right, that he would do it to any other female prisoner-of-war, given the shocking lack of honor among his knights who vowed to defend it. He had done a good job separating the wheat from the chaff when he became a commander, but there were only few he truly trusted to never harm the young, an innocent—and those who cannot protect themselves. Like you.
You liked to put on a front. And it somewhat worked with others, but not with him. He wishes it would, for some odd reason. Maybe he would not see you the way he does, if it did. He would still treat you with mercy, but it would not be to the level it is. He would never have accepted your hug. He thinks he would have pushed you away.
He wouldn’t have, but he believes he would have.
Since he had finally felt your touch the afternoon previous, the road to the Red Keep had been as quiet as the first day of your journey together. He suspected you had been embarrassed after letting him see your emotions, as you had been combative toward him every day since you had woken up from your comatose state.
He had expected it to come at some point, the unveiling of your feelings, but not in that way. He had expected to hear you sniffle from beside him while on your horses. He would have stayed silent, and he would have let you cry. He believes he would have let you cry on your own if you hadn’t come to him for comfort first.
The fact that you did had brought him joy. It made him hopeful, in some strange way he did not feel himself familiar with.
“You are betrothed to Lord Samwell Blackwood, are you not?”
You look at him, puzzled. “He has been with the Stranger since the war begun.”
Gwayne nods curtly. “So I’ve heard.”
“Then why have you asked?”
He inhales a heavy breath. “I feel it my duty to tell you of this.” He clears his throat. “Before your mother took the throne, there was word among our commanders to betroth you to your cousin, Prince Aemond.”
“You jest.”
“I do not.”
You cock your head to the side, wetting your lips. “And what did you have to say in the matter?”
“That is unneeded for you to know.”
“Why? Because you encouraged them to?”
His voice picks up immediately where you left off. “No, because I fought against it.” He scoffs a laugh. “The One-Eyed Prince is… he is mad.” At your gawking laugh, he turns his head to you. “You must know it too. He is simply and utterly mad.”
“You are his uncle.” You would never tell of his treasonous words to any other, but you feel you must remind him.
“Are you going to betray me and inform my army of the fact?”
“I do not have loyalty to you, though I will not speak of the words to another.”
“Good. Now you tell me something in confidence,” he presses.
You shake your head at the sheer audacity of him. “Why would I do that, ser?”
“What else will we converse about? It is a long and arduous road ahead of us.” His eyes peer into yours, and you feel a sudden urge to tell him everything you have ever kept from him.
“Alright then,” you look to the sky in mock ponder. “When I was young, I would pray to the gods each and every night for a gallant and true knight to take me away from the Red Keep and off to some distant land. There was this one knight, he had belonged to our Kingsguard, who I absolutely adored.” You sigh on the memory, oblivious to the fact that a true and gallant knight was riding right alongside you. “I was just a girl then. It was a silly dream. And the gods do not always play in my favor.”
Were you jesting? Or were you truly so oblivious?
“Do you remember his name?” he asks.
“It has lost me. But I remember his face. He was gorgeous, that one, and very gentle, too. Back then he was the same age as my brother is now.”
He does not let you sit with the fact that you mentioned your brother as if he were alive. “That’s quite young, isn’t it?”
You nod. “Indeed. He was the youngest of every knight in the Keep. Perhaps the youngest in history.”
“What happened to him?”
You exhale a breath, and look down to your horse’s head. “He was in the fire that killed Ser Harwin. I do not know why he had been called to Harrenhal, and I suppose I shall never know. Are you yourself betrothed, or married, ser?”
He huffs. “Gods, no. I was, and remain, of little use as a political pawn for House Hightower, my father being the second son.”
“Therefore if you were to wed, you would do so for love,” you state.
“I suppose so.”
day six
The hood of your cloak was pulled tightly over the upper half of your face, seemingly ritual for whenever you made it to inns, and you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You turn, expecting to see Gwayne, but in his place stood a knight in armor, donning a Hightower sigil on his gambeson.
It is your luck to see Gwayne rushing up from behind him to fetch you.
“Squire, let us retire to our room, yes?” he says, and you nod eagerly, pulling the hood further over your face. The two of you attempt to move forward, and you make it past the knight—
“That is no squire,” the man interjects, grabbing onto your wrist, stopping you. “That is a girl.”
Gwayne steps in between you and the knight, forcing him to release your joint from his hold. His gaze flicks down to the man’s gambeson.
He takes a step closer to him and lowers his voice. “If it pleases you, she’s my distraction for the night, ser. Not worth your notice.”
The knight clears his throat, and Gwayne steps back.
“Blessings upon King Aegon.” He smiles, turning back to the inn entrance.
His hand guides you forward, lingering on the small of your back, surely for the sight of the knight behind you. And then it trails down, over the curve of your back end, and you feel the slightest grip onto it before the door behind you closes, and his hand immediately falls away.
The walk to your room is silent.
Gwayne swallows painfully once you make it to your room.
“I’m sorry—” he begins.
“How may I distract you tonight, ser?” you interrupt, smiling stupidly at his lie, and he sighs one of relief at your lack of offense.
He breathes out a laugh, and swiftly moves to shed himself of his armor. He has been struggling on his own each time he has done so. You only noticed it the last night, and offered help, but had been rejected.
You would not ask this time, you would simply do. Your fingers were desperate and untrained in their efforts, but they did the trick in time for him not to deny you, and he was rid of the metal captivity.
You turn as he does, ridding yourself of your heavy cloak and pushing your hair out of the way of the laces of your dress. He pulls them loose without a word, and the warmth of his body behind yours would surely prove the most effective thing of the night, you decide as you gaze at the thin quilt on your bed.
As your gown slides down your body, you can hear the shuffling of Gwayne removing all but his linens behind you. If you took just a step backward, you would be touching him.
“It is a terrible coincidence, the Hightower army resting here,” you mumble, your hands fiddling with the light cloth around the your wrists.
“It is,” he agrees solemnly.
You retreat from his warmth and sit on the edge of your bed, your back up straight and your fingers clasped together in your lap. You weren’t particularly tired this night. Maybe it be from the surge of adrenaline at the knight outside, and it had already raged through your limbs, rendering them restless the moment the door to the inn had shut behind you.
Gwayne’s hand was close to you then, to an area you regarded as most private among you, a maiden. The memory of it twinged deep in your stomach. It was an unfamiliar feeling.
He had joined you in sitting on the edge of a bed, albeit his own. His own stature had mirrored yours. All tense and surged with the possibility of a fight.
“It is rather cold this night,” you mutter.
Gwayne nods curtly. “It is.”
Your gaze lowers to watch your fingers be relentlessly picked on by those of the other hand. “I fear one of those knights will bust through the doorway, and take me away with little fight, you being so far from me,” you whisper. The night was silent enough for him to hear it.
“I fear the same.”
You look up at him. “If he were to do so, it would certainly raise suspicion if your whore was sleeping in a bed adjacent to yours.”
He takes a turn to meet your eyes. “If you wish to sleep in the same bed as I, you need only ask.”
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “May I sleep in your bed tonight, Gwayne?” you muster.
“As you wish, my princess.”
day seven
Your horse stops before you instruct it to.
In the distance lies a field of flowers, pink and purple, some yellow, and all illuminated by sunlight. It was nearly time for it to set.
You cannot still be in the Reach, you think. It has been much too long, but thank the gods if you are. What a sight to see.
You want to see it closer. Gwayne will be okay with it, you declare, and you hop off of your horse and begin walking in the direction of the field.
“No, princess,” he says, exasperated. “We cannot go off trail again.”
“The flowers,” you breathe. “It is beautiful.”
The scent in the air is intoxicating. It is rather pungent, the closer you get to it, and the air seems more sultry than just moments before.
You remove your cloak from your shoulders, letting it drop behind you as you continue forward. It is the slightest bit relieving from the heat, but your body quickly acclimates to it again, and the sweat begins beading. It is no wonder. The sleeves under your dress are long. It makes you question why you decided to wear such a stupid thing, in this climate.
Once you make it to the field, it envelopes you. The fever. It starts in your lower abdomen in a heavy thrum and travels up the rest of your body.
Where is Gwayne?
You turn around. He is just a few steps behind. He has been trailing behind you the entire time. It was hard to notice, with the pull of the meadow, but now that you are here, he is all you can think about. All you can focus on. You do not like that.
His hair illuminates in the sunlight, much like the flowers. Your skin tingles.
He froze in his movements the moment you did. You continue further into the field. His feet fall in step with yours, and you think you can hear his breathing, all shaky and uncertain.
You make it to an empty patch of the meadow, and stop once again.
“Ser?” you turn back to face him. The scorch of the sun worsens with each passing second. Sweat gathers on your brow. “My dress... please… help me get it off.” You raise a timid arm to your back, accepting defeat once you find yourself unable to reach the laces.
Gwayne’s thumb twitches toward you. His forehead glistens. He must be burning too.
You spot the clench of his jaw, and take a wary step toward him.
“Stop—” he holds a hand out, body turning away from you. “Do not move. Please. Just stay there.” He avoids your gaze.
“What is it?” you ask. You know what it is.
You know what he is feeling, because you feel it too. It presses hard and deep in your abdomen, and it just wants to be relieved. You want to be relieved. And Ser Gwayne Hightower looks rather handsome in this light, surrounded by the pink and purple—and was it red?—flowers. He seems close to pouncing on you like a wild dog. Gods, may he?
He had always been alluring. May it be your frustration that you could never have him in the way you wanted that made you so combative, or the fact that he is a Green—it is probably both, but neither seem so important now. Not when you feel the heat of a thousand suns burn through you, all the way to your core, and then all over again.
The man himself looks close to releasing in his braies just by looking at your face. It brings you some ease, yet also further discomfort, to know that he feels the same as you. You had blocked out the idea, seeing yourself as delusional and unrealistic for thinking he would ever show any form of attraction toward you.
“Gwayne—” you exhale, though it releases itself in the form of a groan. “It is sweltering.” You bend over to clutch the end of your dress, and you are close to pulling it off yourself, if fate was willing. Something halts you.
“Please, don’t.” His voice sounds pitiful. It is all low and whiny. “I do not know if I can handle that. Not now. Not when… fuck.”
You want to keel over and die.
You release the cloth from your grip and let the dress fall back down. You rise back up, slowly, and flatten down the wrinkled fabric of your middle with your hands.
Your lips tremble. “What do you want to do?”
“I am unsure.” He still cannot look you in the eye. “It is impure, and unchivalrous for me to be thinking of you this way.”
“I am all right with it.” It is then that you realize how you sound. Desperate for a Green, as if you were a common whore, which is probably what he thinks of you as. At least he tries to fight it. You should fight it too. You are fierce enough to fight whatever it is that is welling up inside of you.
Your eyes are squeezed shut, and the shame tries to conquer the hunger—but the hunger wins in the blink of an eye. The blink of your eye, in fact, as you look back at Gwayne.
“We cannot,” you mumble. “We should not. I am a maiden. You are the opposition. We cannot.” You repeat the words to yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If the shame did not prevail, perhaps distraction will. Your eyes shut tight again, and you repeat the words. We cannot. We should not. You are a maiden. He is the opposition.
We cannot, we should not, you are a maiden, Ser Gwayne Hightower is hard by simply standing in your presence—
Your eyes snap open, and you find that you are standing directly in front of him. You must have been inching closer to him with each sentence you repeated.
Your gaze flicks down to his crotch. Sure enough, your thoughts did not lie to you. Perhaps your dragon blood has given you the gift of prophecy.
He finds it appropriate to look at you, finally, and you realize how close you are to one another.
In specific—how close your lips are to one another. So, so close, yet so far. You almost want to give in, and you lean just a little closer. He stays still, though when you stop moving, his head moves closer too, close enough that you can almost feel his breath fanning into your own mouth.
Your noses are touching, that is how close you are. You could just slot your lips right onto his. It would be so easy, so incredibly simple, if you would just move forward, just a little—
His hands reach up to cradle your face in his hands, thumbs on either side grazing your cheekbones. They move down your face, down to your lips, and one of the thumbs strokes over the bottom lip. And he closes the gap.
You feel his lips envelope yours first, and then you feel his tongue inch into your mouth. Your lips close over one another’s, and he moans. Ser Gwayne Hightower is moaning into your mouth, and it feels like you have been sent to each of the seven heavens and back again. Your head is pushed backwards with the force of his kiss.
Your hand reaches around to brush over his nape. His hands travel further down your body, one finding itself wrapped around your waist, the other petting your breast over your dress. It seems that the true touch of it pacifies him, as it allows you to push deeper into the kiss, letting your tongue slide into his mouth.
You only break away to lower yourself to the ground. He follows, as though the answers to every challenge in his life were held on your lips. He hikes your dress up your legs, your smallclothes with it, until they both pool at your waist.
He lifts two fingers to his mouth, coating them in spit before reaching down to your bare cunt and thrusting them inside. You let out a shrieking moan, letting your head press into the dirt below you and thrashing back and forth in pleasure.
“Look at me,” Gwayne instructs. You let your eyes lock onto his, you try, but the deep press of his fingers inside of you makes it hard to focus. His lips, hanging open, hover just above yours, and he moves forward to bring you and he together again.
It is breathing moans into each other’s mouths and pathetic, desperate mashing before you finally get the hold onto his lips, or perhaps him onto yours. His fingers cease, and slip out swift enough for it to go unnoticed for a single moment.
He breaks apart from your mouth, and wastes no time in sliding himself down your body. The disappointment at the loss of his fingers does not last long, as his lips lock onto your cunt.
Gwayne snakes his arms under your legs and he yanks your body closer to him. Your fingers curl in his hair, and he only laps harder at you.
“Y—yes, ser—” you cry, your thighs squeezing his head, clit pulsating under the assault of his tongue.
He breaks away for just a moment, big blue eyes locking onto your weak ones. “Not ser. Gwayne. My name is Gwayne.”
And he dives back into you, gathering your wetness on his tongue in a torturous swipe from bottom to top, one that earns a sweet little whine from the depths of your throat. It reminds him, in that moment, of the sounds you would make when you did not get your way back in Oldtown—the sounds he would shamefully think of as he fucked his fist late at night, the sounds that he would repent about for thinking and acting on with such humiliating vitality, and more importantly, for not regretting any of it in the slightest.
The sheer relief you get from his mouth onto yours is unlike anything you have felt before, because you have not felt it before. You had heard word of the act in song, and in gossip spread around by your ladies-in-waiting, but to experience it was the greatest decision you ever made. A true, gallant knight between your legs, satiating the hunger that spread in your loins and his alike, yet he is only focused on your release now, latching his tongue on your clit and sucking hard.
His fingers graze your folds and glide around the edges, already slick with your wet. One finger probes, just the slightest bit, and you shudder at the contact.
You let out a loud cry as it presses itself fully inside, without warning. Perfection, you think you hear him say. The words vibrate on your clit, agonizingly so.
His finger pumps in and out of you, and his mouth works on your cunt all the same. The fire in your veins only grows stronger as your climax approaches.
Your fingers tug and pull on his hair, and somewhere in the middle of your gratification a second slim finger of his joins the first, pressing deep into your cunt as they allow him.
The sounds coming from your mouth you do not think you have ever made before. They approach from deep in your lungs and are hoarsely ripped from your throat.
It creeps closer, that unfamiliar thing called release, and your walls tighten around his fingers. Gwayne only sucks harder, and pushes his fingers further into your cunt, his knuckles pressing into your folds.
The feeling floods your body in an instant. It feels prickly, for some odd reason, and it nips your limbs, but blissfully so. Your brain feels fuzzy, and you cannot think of anything but him. It is a way that makes you crave for it immediately once it ebbs.
You let out a little sob once his fingers slip out from inside you. You didn’t know you were crying, and a few stray tears fall from your eyes before you realize.
Gwayne licks a stripe up your cunt, collecting whatever fluids he procured down there into his mouth and swallowing them with the gulp of a man who might just be dying of thirst.
He is up your body and has his wet lips on yours by the time you tear yourself away from the sight. It is then that you feel how truly hard he is under his linens. His cock presses against your spent core, and he nearly jerks back at the contact.
“Gwayne,” you breathe, and his head shoots up to look at you.
“What is it, sweet girl?” he mumbles, suddenly winded by the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
“I want you to fuck me.”
He is frozen solid at your ask. Your arousal on his mouth glistens with each slight twitch upward. “You’re sure of it?”
You nod, but it is not enough.
“Tell me,” he commands.
“I want you to fuck me, Gwayne, how else must I tell you?” you reply impatiently, and grind your hips up to feel his hardened cock brush against you once more.
Both of your hands come up and intertwine themselves behind his neck, preventing him from straying any further—pulling him down to you, in fact, so you can grind up on him some more.
You lift your head from the ground to try and capture his lips into a somewhat calculating kiss, but his strength prevails, and his head softly twitches back before your mouth can get hold on his.
You fall back, defeated, but his hand comes to hold your wrist, and he comes down to close the gap. He chuckles into your mouth at your desperation, and you only kiss him harder, as if you were trying to become one with him.
His hand rubs up and down your wrist for a moment, before he reaches down to release his lower half from his linens.
You take a hand from off his neck and reach down to meet his own, searching around for his cock. You get a firm grip on it, stroking it up once. He lets out a shuddery moan, and his hand finds your wrist once again—not stopping you, but guiding you, perhaps.
He pumps himself with your hand, and you let him for only a moment, before overpowering his gentleness and guiding his length to your cunt. The tip of it glides on your folds. You could die right here, and it would be okay.
Gwayne pushes into you with a wounded groan, his jaw hanging wide open. You, on the other hand, nearly shriek.
He rocks himself out of you slowly, then back into you almost sluggishly.
“Is this all right?” he manages through strangled breaths, and you nod fervently, using the hand still on his neck to push his head closer to yours.
You mean to kiss him, but his forehead lies on yours instead. You’ll take what you can get.
He presses swift pecks on your cheeks, on your nose, and on your lips as he gains momentum. Your eyes flutter shut, but his hand comes up to press a few light smacks to your cheek.
“I said to look at me,” he grunts. “I want to see your eyes—“
You open them back up at that. They’re glossed over again, with tears, and you’re glad that Gwayne does not take it as pain. There was pain, but it is long gone. He kisses the droplets as they fall from the corners of your eyes.
It is utterly intoxicating, the drag of his hips. He seems to lose himself in the feeling too. Wave after wave of constant pleasure washes over you with the somehow gentle slam of him into you.
You babble incomprehensible speech, just as lost as he is as he, slack-jawed as he fucks you. His eyes are focused on your face, your face saturated with sweat, for a single twitch of anything at all, yet he finds nothing. Nothing but rapture, as he believes it should be. He brings his hand back down to your clit and strokes it so delicately, but it brings you sweet relief all the more.
You feel it cresting again. Up your spine, down your legs, dumbing your brain into mush, prickling at the back of your neck. “Gods, Gwayne—Oh, gods, I’m gonna—“
You don’t finish the sentence. It hits you, you cum again, so hard around his cock, and it isn’t long into your perfect bliss before he is pulls out, spilling his seed onto the bunched-up cotton of your dress.
You feel as though you are one with him. It is like your flesh melts into his. Your sweat certainly does, especially as he joins his forehead with yours again, all sticky and damp.
“I am deeply sorry—” he says in between quick kisses, “to have taken your maidenhood.”
You shake your head softly. “If it shames you so, I can raise a proposition of marriage to my mother once we get back to the Keep.” He laughs at that, unknowing you were not telling a joke.
Still, you breathe out a chuckle.
day nine
The communal bath that you had found yourself in was satisfyingly empty. Since Gwayne had taken your maidenhood two moons previous, you had been desperate for it to happen again, and again, and perhaps a thousand times more, though you resisted the urge to ask outright while in the inns.
Now, though, seemed like the perfect moment to do so. You could clean yourself properly for the first time in weeks, and then dirty yourself all over again with the satisfaction of your mutual sin.
He had already undone the laces of your dress for you, and you stepped out of the gown that dropped to your feet, eager to feel the warmth of the water envelop your skin. And for him to join you. So that you could see—and feel—his bare body, properly. You had already shed your linens by the time you made it to the water.
You had retreated to the further side of the bath, so that you could watch as Gwayne undressed himself. It was nicer like this, being able to take in his body for the first time, as he stripped off his gambeson, then his chausses, and then, finally, his smallclothes.
His figure was very unsurprisingly robust. The light of the countless candles surrounding the baths set for quite the intimate atmosphere.
You bit back a smile as he inched closer to the bath, stepping inside with a heavy sigh of relief. The Hightowers did seem to prioritize cleanliness. Perhaps they place it next to godliness. Gwayne certainly does not seem to mind, given how keen he was to eat your cunt until you came undone on his tongue.
He threw his head back with a shuddering sigh once he finally sunk into the water. You watch as the grime expels from the surface of his body in one fell swoop, becoming one with the rest of the stream.
“Have you something to say?” he questions, a brow darted upward at your uncharacteristically blissful expression.
Your cheeks flushed, a harder, content smile crossing over your face. “Just observing.”
“Must you observe so far?” he mutters.
“I must,” you sneer, giving a firm nod.
His eyes flick down to your bare breasts, sat warped on your chest under the soft wave of the water.
He quickly averts his gaze to the center of the bath once you perk them forward with your arms.
“I am truly apologetic,” he starts. “For taking your maidenhood. ‘specially in such an unclean place, where anyone could have seen us if they had simply come to probe into the noise.”
You scoff. “Would you have preferred it happen inside the walls of some dull inn?”
“I’d have preferred you comfortable.”
“I was comfortable. I am comfortable.”
At his silence, you push yourself off of the wall and glide over to him. He sits frozen as your chest brushes against his arm.
“Are you a maid, ser? Well—were you a maid?” you question, feigning a look of innocence.
“I haven’t been a maid for a long time, princess.” His head hangs low.
He lets you grip his arm and guide it between your legs. “Are you ashamed of the fact?”
“I am ashamed that I am not,” he mutters, seemingly unfazed as you grind your cunt against his wrist. You let out a low moan, your breath wavering before you realize his lament.
So you release his arm from your hold and straddle his hips, placing your hands on each of his shoulders. Your chest is eye level with his face. It seems to be the only thing that can bring his head back up.
You can feel his cock hardening below you as you rock back and forth against him. He watches your face that stares down back at him—both of your jaws are slack, and you breathe heavy pants into each others mouths, gaining some semblance of pleasure from the act.
But it is not enough, no. It is never enough.
You take a hand from his shoulder and reach down to grip his length, guiding it into your walls at once. You push down unto him with a sweet little cry, one quickly silenced by his lips on your own.
His kiss is just as tender as you remember it being, amorous flowers aside, and you hum into him. A hand cups your cheek and he tilts his head, his tongue breaching the plush of your lips, just exploring.
Your fingers curl around his nape as you thrust, up and down, up and down, and he concurrently rolls his hips back and forth.
“Fuck—sweet princess—” he moans once he breaks apart from your mouth.
You gasp and shudder, and he reaches his head up to kiss all over your face. Your eye, the brow bone above it, down to the highest point of your cheek on the side of your face, then to the corner of your lip, and then he cranes his head down to kiss you on your neck. You throw your head back to allow him access.
Once he reaches your sternum, he darts his tongue out first when attaching his lips to it. “Oh, gods,” you whimper into his hair.
“Ser? Gwayne—” you can't quite speak, the words near dying on your tongue. “Are you mine, Gwayne? Tell me—” your hips slow, and his only speed up. He begins fucking up into you, and another moan rips through your throat.
He nods fervently against your neck, lifting his head back up to see you. “I am yours, princess. Fuck—” his hips stutter, though he relents.
It does not give you solace. If he is yours, how long shall he remain so? Until the gods rip him from your grasp—which would be soon now, with each tread of your horses closer to the Red Keep.
His hand slides up to your ribs as if to stabilize you, and he wraps it around your middle. His forehead drops to your shoulder, raising with each jolt of your body upward, the constant slam of his cock up into your cunt and then out again.
You know few things now, except for him. Your walls clench around him, and he nearly ceases at that. You continue in his ministrations, rocking back and forth onto him, savoring in the way his length hits you in the spot that makes you feel near the brink of climax.
“I love you.” You think you hear yourself say. And he just watches you, as you chase your peak, so blissfully unaware of the words that just came from your mouth. Your sweet mouth.
Gwayne reaches a hand to cradle your head, and push it closer to his, so that he can take your sweet mouth into his. It is less of a kiss and more of two mouths pressing against each other, but you accept it either way. The two of you pant raggedly against each other, and you feel your core tighten with each deep press of his cock inside of you.
He can feel it too. It is more of threat than satisfying, the idea of spilling his seed inside of you, but you seem to not care. You might just not know. If you were true to your word of your maidenhood—he does not care if you were or not—you must be pitifully unknowledgeable on the subject.
He remembers word of you being betrothed to some high lord widow who had died on the frontlines of battle when the war first broke out, fighting for the side of your mother. Then, once you were captured, there was word of you marrying one of his two younger Targaryen nephews. The thought of you being kept as a prisoner for Aemond sends a shudder through his body, and he rids himself free of the idea as his orgasm approaches closer.
“My princess—” he tries. You do not notice. You persist in your pursuit of release, and he grips your jaw gently, catching your attention. “Look at me.”
You nod at nothing in particular, mouth hanging open and mewling needy whimpers as you oscillate on his cock.
“I cannot—I cannot cum inside.” He lets out a strangled moan as you begin grinding faster than just moments before, as if encouraging him to do so.
“Why not?” you breathe.
His head nearly lulls back as he staves off his own release. “You could get with child.”
You grip his hand and lead it to your breast, and he lets himself fall for your entrancement, kneading it between his fingers. Your nipple is caught between two of them, and he presses them together just the slightest bit too hard, earning a wince from above him. It makes him realize he has been regrettably neglecting them this entire time.
“My breasts are sore.” You inhale sharply. “I shall bleed soon.”
Ah. In that case—
Gwayne dips his hands back into the water, finding your hips to guide them, delighting in the way your moans grow more and more fervent as his cock drags against your walls.
It approaches swift, and you do not have any time nor stamina to warn him of it. You wonder if he can sense it.
Just as quick as it came, it washes over you in an instant. Your muscles clamp down around him, and he moans loud into your shoulder—you soon feel a warmth deep in your womb, the warmth of his seed. A minuscule part of you hopes it will take.
Shortly afterward, he lifts your bodies from the water, carrying you with your legs wrapped around him. His cock has slipped out of you, but the kiss he places on your lips distracts you from the loss.
You push his chest, separating your mouths, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Let us leave together, Gwayne. Silverwing is large enough to saddle two. You could be a sellsword, and I a scribe—I your wife. I shall give you children, if it is what you desire. We can spend our days in rest and tranquility, like this.” Your breath still hasn’t caught.
It is a moment of silence before Gwayne finds the words. The dubious words, though the ones that provide enough hope to settle you. “Perhaps, my princess. Do not worry yourself with eventuality.” And he sets you down on the marble just above the bath. Your calves dip back into the water, and it is then you realize that they are aching.
He kneels down into the water and takes your legs over his shoulders. You feel the stretch in your thighs, equal parts from their growing soreness and the length of his shoulders. His release begins seeping out of your cunt from the pressure of it all.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then to the inside of your thigh, and then finally to your clit. His head dips down to your opening, and he sucks.
It becomes more like he is kissing, or eating you, at some point. You cannot tell. The pleasure has already gotten to be too much, and you are writhing under him.
His arms wrap around your thighs and he pulls you closer to his mouth, and you loudly and embarrassingly moan, your fingers rake through his hair, gripping it tight when his nose brushes against your clit.
You haven’t discovered his objective, but thank the gods for him. It is somewhat relaxing and simultaneously frustrating for him to be lapping away mindlessly at your cunt.
“Please, Gwayne, let me cum—” you beg, all breathless and crestfallen, and his eyes flick up to you. He finds you are the most spoiled thing he has ever met, yet also the most beautiful. He thinks, in that moment, that he truly should consider being taken as your husband.
He nods once. “As you wish.”
And his mouth is replaced by his fingers. He pumps them into you, a relentless pace, and his lips find themselves back onto you, but now on your clit.
He laps at you and rocks his fingers further inside, getting your folds all slick and glossy with both your own and his own arousal, as well as his own saliva.
He curls his fingers deep in your cunt, in that spongy spot that once sheathed his cock, and it is enough to bring you to climax before you realize it.
You swear your vision goes black for a moment as you cum, and the bliss fills your body over the irritation. It was embarrassingly fast how quickly he brought you to absolution, but you did not have enough might to let it wash over you the way your orgasm had.
Gwayne looks up at you with those big blue eyes of his, now glossed over. The lower half of his face is sheen with your cum—his cum—and he pants and lifts himself up to join you on the marble, his strong body glistening with the damp of the bath.
You think you might faint.
day fourteen
Tonight’s inn had been the nicest of all fourteen. You and Gwayne had jointly decided for it to be the last of your stops, and that you would make the journey the rest of the way there without sleeping.
It was not long to King’s Landing. As much as you had longed to see your mother, and to be home again, the thought of what would happen to Gwayne in the coming days was a thought too harrowing to bear.
But it had lingered in your mind since the field. Certainly he could not leave you, having taken your maidenhood. Your mother would find a way. She knows what it is like to be infatuated with someone you should not be infatuated with. She knows Gwayne. As a soldier for the opposition, yes, but she knows him all the more.
If she has held mercy for his sister, she would certainly hold mercy for him, especially given the situation at hand. The situation of you being in love with a Hightower, and him having bedded you—well, fucked you in a field, then in a bath, a few scattered moments along the road of him lapping at your cunt, or sticking his fingers there to cull your nerves the nights you were too tense to sleep. Your mother coddled you enough before you were taken hostage, and she would certainly do more once you are back with her.
Gwayne seems to sense your restlessness. You have resorted to single bed rooms in the inns, given the underestimated lack of coin he decided to bring with him. He has been able to pick up on your behavior for the last few days—noting to himself how much you lack sleep the closer you get to King’s Landing—and he has always been able to get you to talk about it. Tonight, you seem not wanting of his perception.
He turns over to face you. “Are you feeling well?” he asks.
You look to him for a moment. “I feel fine.”
Propping himself up on one arm, he maneuvers himself closer until he is hovering above you, as he stares down at where you lie. “You mustn’t need to lie.” His voice is soft.
Your lungs expand with a heavy breath of air. “I do not wish for you to leave when we return to the Red Keep. You told me that we would talk about it, and we never have.”
He brushes your hair behind your ear with his free hand. “What would you like to talk about?”
“I want us to wed.”
Gwayne stares into you. And then hangs his head low with laughter.
“I am serious, Gwayne. If you swore fealty to my mother, the rightful queen, she would show you mercy. I have no doubt she has shown it to your sister, and to your niece and her daughter too.” His smile was wiped from his face sometime as you spoke.
“You cannot be certain of that, though, can you princess?” he mumbles, raising his head back up to cock it to the side.
“I cannot.” You begin picking at the skin around your fingernails.
Gwayne places a hand over them, stopping you. “The agreement was for me to bring you, unharmed, to the Red Keep. And then I would leave, or they would have my head.” His hand envelops one of yours.
“My mother would not let them have it, if I simply tell her.”
“You speak lightly of a heavy thing, my princess.” He squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “If you so much as suggest that the Hightowers are anything less than treasonous vipers, your mother’s council will smell a captive who has learned to love her cage. You are her only daughter, yes, and she adores you. Therefore, if she discovers how thoroughly I have failed to keep my distance, amnesty will be the last thing she grants my house. It will be fire and blood, starting with my head on a pike.”
“She knows what it is like to love someone forbidden to her.”
Gwayne grins at your words. “She also knows she must satisfy her council,” he says softly.
As much as it pains you, you realize he is right. Yet he still remains as handsome as ever in the dark, and his lips are glossed over, looking so plump and lonely.
“Will you kiss me?” you mutter, and kiss you he does. His mouth is just as soft as you had imagined, and he is still so tender and hesitant in his ministrations you almost feel a want to take over.
Your lips are pliable, though, and part for him almost instantly. The hand that held yours comes up to cradle your cheek, and your legs open up a spot for him to slot himself into.
You are grateful for the loss of layers in spite of the outdoor elements—which have been terribly cold nearly the entire journey—as they give you easy access to the growing length in Gwayne’s linens.
He breathes a low groan into your mouth when you reach a hand under the fabric cuff of his waist to grip his cock. You pump him in a slow rhythm, and he nearly falters completely, the arm propping him up above you buckling and lowering him to his elbow.
The hand cradling your face moves to your own core, and he hastily hikes your shift up your thighs. His fingers find your cunt, pressing his thumb to your clit and stroking it.
The two of you breath and pant into one another’s mouth, the speed of both of your caresses increasing as your moans do.
“Would you—” Gwayne pants, “like me inside?”
You nod eagerly, and pull your hand from his cock. His own hand ceases motion on you, and he uses both arms to gather your body and flip you onto your stomach. The featherbed mattress bounces with the movement, and you reach your hands behind you to pull your shift up entirely to your middle, perking your ass up toward him.
Gwayne has already rid himself of his smallclothes in the meantime. He places a hand right above your backend, stabilizing both you and himself, and lines himself up with your cunt.
He leans his body over yours and presses soft kisses along your spine, pushing himself inside of you with a long groan. You let out a needy one all the same.
“Keep moving—” you beg, letting the top of your head fall to the pillow below you. He hums in response, and begins thrusting slowly, still hesitant.
It is a stretch, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is easy to lose trail of your thoughts with the drag of his cock in and out and the press of his chest to your back, the song of his pretty little grunts and groans singing in your ear.
He wraps his arms around your middle, one hand gripping a breast through the soft cotton of your shift. You flick your hair away from your neck, and his lips quickly find the spot, tipping you into absolute bliss.
One of his arms, the one not clutching your chest, sneaks down to your core, and he begins rubbing your clit with a seemingly endless vitality.
The other pushes the two of you up so that you are both standing on your knees. Your hands extend to his head behind you, pushing it closer as you awkwardly crane your neck so that you can join your lips with his in what may be the sloppiest way they have ever met each other.
His fingers continue their assault on your pearl, and his hips rock into you, and it all feels so much. So good, yet so much. Your chest rises and falls rapidly with each slam of his cock into your cunt, the strength of which also makes his head bob slightly into your kiss, coating the area above and below and beside your lips with his own spit.
There is little surprisingly little build-up to your release. It comes quick, like the tide coming in to take away a shell from the shore. It seems to tear through you, lighting up every nerve in your body, pulled straight from your breathless lungs and your racing heart and illuminating your frenzied brain with nothing other than euphoria.
He is still pumping in and out of you, seemingly chasing his own release. You feel a warmth deep in your overwhelmed cunt, and you know he has come, his body slowing entirely. He breaks away from your lips with a soft little cry, and you simply look at each other for a moment as your breath returns to the both of you.
In this moment, you think Ser Gwayne Hightower is the most beautiful creature in the world.
“You are more than a beauty,” he says in turn. You grin at him, still breathless, and join your lips together once more.
day sixteen
When you arrive at the gates of the Red Keep, Syrax and Caraxes are posted on the battlements.
You look over, and Gwayne seems as if he might just curl up and die. You scoff out a laugh at the sight, and he immediately straightens his back.
Open the gates, yells some guard from behind the wall, and the gate begins to part, grinding against the gravel below.
You will see your mother today. For the first time in months, you will see your mother. Will she be different? Is she a different person now that she is on the throne? More importantly, will she be a different person now that her eldest son is dead? You wonder if they have burned the body yet, or perhaps even set it out to sea. He could not become a Targaryen, as he would never become King—the gods would not allow it, so history will remember him as a Velaryon. It would only be fitting for his body to be released into the water.
You should tell her about this. She must be so overwhelmed with all of her recent duties, she may have forgotten about the fact. Is little Joffrey still in the Vale? Surely, mother must have sent for his return by now. He is too vulnerable there on his own, no matter who he is with.
When you blink hard in an attempt to settle yourself, you realize your horse has been guided inside the walls of the Keep, and Gwayne is helping you off of your horse. His hands are on your waist, and you jump down with a grip on his wrists to stabilize you. Yet your eyes are not on him—they are on any entrance, every door where your mother could come out of.
He sighs, and you finally glance at him. His hands hesitate to leave their spot on your middle. “You are home, and you are safe, my princess.” And then his arms drop back to his side, as if ashamed he let them linger for a moment too long.
“Must you go?” you breathe out a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood that seems to deepen with each passing moment.
His hand reaches for yours, and his voice is lower now. “It is the deal.”
For some reason, your heart seems to shatter. It feels odd and disheartening, knowing that he in this moment has a harsher effect on you than anything before.
Your expression has dropped, and Gwayne must be able to see it. His hand grips yours tighter, and he sucks in a breath, his head dropping to avoid your gaze. Your gaze, which quickly wells with tears. You are confused as to how this would have been the outcome of your journey together—and you are unsure if you are glad of it, or instead disappointed in yourself for not realizing that this is what would always happen.
You lower your voice too. “I do not want you to go,” you say, and your hand finally reciprocates Gwayne’s affection. You clutch it, tight, hoping it may get through to him.
It does not. His head does not lift, not even a single bit. You think you can see his brows furrow.
“I have done my duty, my princess,” he mumbles.
Hundreds of solutions flow through your mind in an instant. He could stay, swear fealty to your mother, and he could be yours. He could be your sworn shield and protector. He could be yours, if he would only say yes.
You open your mouth to say it, but nothing comes out. The words die on your tongue.
“Stay,” is what you can manage. “Please, Gwayne.”
His head tilts up, but he still averts his gaze from yours. Something else, something in the distance, catches his attention. It catches yours too. Two heads of familiar lengthy silver hair—your mother and her husband—inch closer to you and Gwayne.
The hand that held onto his was already back at your side. You must have done it without thought.
“Mummy,” you mumble. And she smiles.
She inches closer to you, seemingly dumbfounded that the sight before her is real. “Sweet girl,” she says, and you feel close to crumbling.
You want to step closer, to close the gap between the two of you, but you cannot bring yourself to leave his side.
But Gwayne is by your side one moment, and gone the next. He is pulled away by the gold cloaks, and it is with little struggle. He lets himself be pulled away. He lets himself be pushed out of the walls of the Keep, and he watches as you stand and stammer all bewildered and reaching to plead his forgiveness to the queen.
The gate closes on him once his horse is by his side.
day thirty five
You have not found much use for yourself since you have returned to the Red Keep. Neither has anyone else.
The war still rages on. It reminds you of the promise you had made to yourself, to leave if it did not end, to leave with Gwayne to Essos. He would be a sellsword, and you a scribe, under the protection of Silverwing.
It seemed a better life, a freer life, you and he on the road together. Being locked away in your chambers of your own volition, anything seemed better.
But Gwayne had abandoned you that day. He had let himself be carried away, and your mother had ignored your pleas of his fealty. It seemed nobody was on your side.
You had only wished for peace. Whatever had grown in place of it had taken your brothers away from you, and Gwayne, too, in some way.
If the war had not gone on, perhaps you could have met him another way. Perhaps he would have been your betrothed. And you could love him the way you wanted to, the way you should have since you woke up in the encampment with him by your side.
He had protected you all those months ago, you had come to realize. The violence of the men who fought under his command would have harmed you more than the words that came from his mouth when defending himself in your stupid fights, the ones you would feed into when he forced you to ride alongside him as the soldiers would march further into the Reach. The words that you replied with when he would anger you, when he would attempt to get close to you.
You should have let him get close to you when he tried. Your need for survival had prevailed then and you took every attempt as some sort of tactic to manipulate you to his side.
But Gwayne had no side, as you swiftly figured out. He wanted out of his cage seemingly as badly as you did, but he did the intelligent thing—the thing he warned you he would always do—and returned to his people, to those he swore loyalty to.
These days, it feels you have no people. Your mother is always off attending to her royal duties, your stepfather and cousins assisting her. And you have no brothers left to bond to. Joffrey is still too little, and too shy, to converse with. The others, your half-siblings, are just a few years young.
If the Hightowers had left you for dead that day, you think you would be more comfortable in the arms of the Stranger than you do in this seemingly haunted home. Your maidenhood would be untainted, and your memory would live on as tragic and loyal. You had left to fight for your mother’s cause after all and you would have died for it then, gods willing.
A piece of you wants to hurl yourself from a window for the treasonous thoughts you have had, but you just want peace. You want peace and freedom. Most of all, though, you want Gwayne.
You can only hope he wants you too, wherever he is. You will wait, and you will bide your time until the war is over—if you live until then. And you will take Silverwing and fly to him, and you will be with him, and you will exile yourselves to Essos. You will dream of that outcome until it happens.
cw: fluff-smut, MDNI‼️, canon divergence, post PHM, time dilation age-gap, media attention, celebrity elements, one hopeless (hot)dork, one shameless pretty lady, public affection, established attraction, emotional vulnerability, loneliness. mutual pining, hurt/comfort, touch-starved Ryland, lots of kissing, soft dom Ryland (if you squint), humping, praise, tender-affectionate, outdoor sex (no voyeur), emotional intimacy, lost of virginity, cuddles, paparazzi chaos.
summary: What if Ryland Grace actually made it back to Earth? He returns to the place he was forced to leave, believing no one would be waiting for him. Then, against all expectation, someone waits anyway. She admired the hero, not realizing it’s something deeper, quietly falling in love with the man behind.
notes: I'VE TRIED TO DO THE MATH AS BEST AS I CAN. And no, this isn’t that kind of age-gap story, blame the speed of light. I’m being realistic.
As the sunlight breaks over the horizon, your lips land softly against Ryland's cheek, stealing the breath away from his lungs.
His awkward grip tightens around the bouquet, hard enough to nearly crush the flowers as if holding onto them would somehow keep him grounded. A faint trace of your perfume lingers around him. Warm, delicate, impossibly close.
You are right there, against his skin.
The hangar erupts into roaring cheers and applause. Camera flashes burst endlessly around the two of you, bright enough to turn the moment blinding white. Yet your lips lingers for just a second longer, long enough for the world to capture every angle of humanity welcoming its hero home.
11 Hours Before Sunrise
"With that, all is set. Ready for all of you to welcome back our sun. Anyway... since the Beetles are going to arrive earlier than I do, in that meantime... you're smart, you're gonna figure it out"
Ryland's voice echoed softly from your phone, you had been watching all of his mission log over and over again.
The Beetles had touch down safely eight years ago and the entire world had worked tirelessly ever since. Before long, twenty years of cold and fear finally subsided.
Dr. Ryland Grace has saved the sun. The Earth has been stable again for nearly three years now.
Curled on the bed in your thick fluffy blanket, you clutched your phone tightly against your chest, you looked out the window.
The sun is setting.
Earth is warm again.
All thanks to the man who gave us another sunset, and tomorrow he'll finally come home.
8 Hours Before Sunrise
"Wake Up sunshine, your hero is here." Your assistant voice cuts through your sleep as she burst into your room, her phone streaming the live retrieval broadcast. "You need to get ready fast. Makeup's on the way. Here watch this, I'll run the bath."
Still half asleep, you sat upright just in time to see the tiny scorched capsule fall from the night sky into the dark ocean below. Carrying the most important man alive. The atmosphere around the recovery zone was tense. Quiet. Uncertain. Helicopter blades thundered overhead, while radios crackled endlessly between rescue crews surrounding the floating capsule.
Everyone knows, inside the rough looking pod is Dr. Ryland Grace, but nobody knows if he survived the re-entry.
Humanity is watching a dead man return home.
Your breath caught as the hatch slowly opened.
There he was.
Exhausted.
Disoriented.
Alive.
"Oh my God" You gasp, clasping a hand over your mouth.
He really made it home.
Medics immediately swarms him, helping him carefully on the stretcher while securing an oxygen mask over his face. Even through the grainy live feed, he looks dazed beneath the floodlights and noise surrounding him.
But after a while, Dr.Grace weakly raise his infamous thumbs down.
The entire recovery crew burst into cheers and laughter as they airlift him with the heli.
"HE IS HOME LUCY, HE IS HOME!"
"YESS, YESSS I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TEN TIMES!"
"Please call someone at the hangar, hurry hurry," You blurted out suddenly, your eyes still focused on the screen. "Tell them, if Dr. Grace is medically stable enough, i'd like to request the public greeting to happen at sunrise."
Lucy blinked, confused.
You looked back towards the night sky outside the window. "Let him see the sunrise first."
"Okay. I'll handle it. Hurry Now, your bath is ready"
3 Hours Before Sunrise
It's been hours since he landed, yet Ryland remain under medical supervision, exhausted beneath the sterile white lights overhead. An IV rested in his arm while monitors quietly tracks his vitals. Earth gravity felt unbearable and everything felt so bright to him.
A soft knock from at the door made Ryland glance up weakly. "Yeah?"
A man steps inside with a careful smile.
"Welcome home, Dr. Grace. I'm Charles Bennett, NASA's Public Affairs Director."
"Right...Thank You." Ryland's voice still sounds groggy even to himself.
Charles approached slowly, clearly trying not to overwhelm him. "I'm here to let you know, there's a public welcome prepared for you. It'll be ready in about three hours."
Ryland blinks. "A public... welcome?"
"We know this is unfair to ask of you right now," Charles admits "But the world needs to see you..." Pausing before quietly. "They stayed all night waiting for you."
Oh he sure knows how to coax sweet Ryland.
"I-...of course."
"Don't worry, your vitals are stable enough for a short appearance." The attending doctor beside him gave a reassuring nod.
1 Hour Before Sunrise
The hangar transformed into something almost surreal.
Massive flags hung from steel rafters. Security barricades stretched endlessly around gathered crowds while cameras and press crews flooded every available corner. World leaders, astronauts, scientists, diplomats. Every important figure imaginable had arrived to witness history.
And there you are, wearing your pretty little couture in the middle of it all, clutching a bouquet of beautifully wrapped sunflowers in your hands.
Right in front of you, is the very stage where you'll be greeting him.
Your heart just won't stop pounding.
In less than an hour, I'm going to see-no, meet the Ryland Grace.
"Calm down...please calm down..."
30 Minutes Before Sunrise
"Dr. Grace?" Ryland looks up to find Charles waiting by the doorway. "Whenever you're ready."
Ryland swallowed hard before slowly standing up.
"Okay"
Yeah, smile. Wave. Smile again and wave, that's it. It's okay Ryland, don't be weird about it -He reassures himself.
Outside the hangar, the crowd had already erupted into cheers long before Ryland even appears.
You're standing near the stage, hands freezing cold despite the warmth flooding the hangar.
When the massive doors of the hangar opened.
There he is.
Dr. Ryland Grace, surrounded by the remaining Project Hail Mary personnel.
Deafening applause shook the entire field. Some people openly sobbing, others clutching photographs of loved ones who had not live long enough to see this day. Elderly survivors lean against canes and wheelchairs, crying openly as humanity's miracle finally walks back onto Earth.
Your own eyes stinging with tears immediately.
If not for him, if not for all of them. Earth would have died.
But then Dr. Grace starts walking toward the stage and it's like your heart completely forgot how to behave.
Respectfully, why is he hot?
Your mouth fell open slightly, Lucy immediately catching that.
"Please remember this is a historic diplomatic moment." She mutters sharply, she definitely knew what's going on inside your head.
OMG HE IS GETTING CLOSER.
You quickly brushed out your hair, smoothing down your skirt, trying to somehow make yourself more presentable.
"To welcome Dr. Ryland Grace home..." The announcer says warmly.
That's your cue. You step forward carefully, then he is standing right in front of you.
OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD HE'S SO TALL. AND HANDSOME AS HELL.
Breathe.
Please remember how to breathe.
You had watched him through his mission logs for years. Grainy recordings of exhausted video journals lit only by the glow of control panels.
None of them had prepared you for this.
"Welcome Home Dr.Grace." You greet him softly, extending your hand towards him.
He took your hand carefully. "Thank You."
For a moment, Ryland could only stare at you. At the warmth in your eyes and the softness of your smile, you feel so impossibly alive.
Warm...She's ridiculously warm.
"Thank you for giving us Another Sunrise, Dr.Grace." Your voice is gentle beneath the roaring applause as you hand him the bouquet.
Then you point to the front, signaling him to look towards the horizon.
Confused, his gaze follows your gesture.
The morning sun breaks across the sky. Golden light glowing beautifully over the runway in front of the both of you.
He didn't know why, he didn't understand it, but a tear slips silently down his face at the sight.
He is home.
Then you tip-toed slightly, just enough to let your lips presses gently against his cheek.
Ryland instantly forgot how breathing works for a solid three seconds as the world erupted.
Camera flashes burst violently around the two of you as cheers thunders across the field, but he barely heard any of it. His fingers tightening around the bouquet, almost crushing the petals beneath his grip, the scent of your perfume lingers dizzyingly close around him.
When you finally pull away, your smile is devastatingly sincere, a vivid lipstick stain remains on Ryland's cheek, a very obvious kiss mark.
The very sign of his first affectionate human contact upon returning to Earth.
For a split-second the realization after kissing him hits you.
Did i just kiss him? I kissed Dr. Grace? | KISSED DR.RYLAND GRACE? I DID KISS THE DR.RYLAND GRACE.
Internally screaming as blush exploded across your cheeks.
Meanwhile Ryland stares at you with wide eyes, his entire nervous system visibly failing.
I got a kiss? A KISS? I MEAN- On my cheek, but still...She kissed me.
His face feels as dangerously hot as he too spirals in his head.
"I…you-…T-thank you?" Ryland's wide eyes still locked on yours, stuttering as he feels everything all at once.
What the- WHAT ARE YOU EVEN SAYING?!THANK YOU? as for the k-kiss?
His brain is soup, heartbeat lurching painfully against his ribs, and warmth surges through his whole body, making him stagger on his feet, almost falling.
"Oh!" You gasp, instinctively grabbing a hold of him before he could stumble. "Careful." Your brows scrunches with concern.
Her eyes are so... beautiful...
He just can't stop staring at you.
It's very obvious how struck he look to everyone, which absolutely did not help either of your situation, The crowd completely lost their minds.
Cameras flashing wildly as reporters shouts one over another. Behind the barricades, everyone's eyes are clearly only focused on the both of you now. Screaming and gasping at the interaction.
You steadied him carefully, eyes frantically searching the crews for someone to bring him a chair or anything to help him. Meanwhile Ryland is finally aware of the fact that every single person in the hangar is staring directly at his face. Still completely oblivious to the very visible kiss mark on his cheek.
As the world gently receives him back, there stands Ryland Grace.
Exhausted. Alive. Still politely smiling with your lipstick stain on his skin, glowing gloriously in the morning sunlight.
The media collectively ascended to heaven as humanity enters a new dawn.
Someone finally steps onto the stage, gently moving towards Ryland to guide him back inside. "Dr. Grace," The medic said carefully. "We should get you back to the observation unit."
Reality seemed to crash back into the moment all at once.
"Oh- right." Ryland looks like he had almost forgotten where he was.
Your hands slowly slipping apart as the medic carefully helps him walk. "Take care, Dr. Grace." You said softly, still smiling despite the heat lingering across your cheeks.
"Thank You...uh— y-you too." He answers automatically before realizing how ridiculous that sounded. His brain is still catastrophically offline.
Yet, even as the medic guides him down from the stage, Ryland's hand lingers instinctively on yours for half a second longer, like some unconscious part of him is still searching for your warmth.
And even while walking away, he kept looking back.
Again and again.
And again.
Several hours later
You are back in your apartment, curled comfortably under your blankets while Lucy sat across from you on the couch, sorting through the outfits from today with the exhausted frustration of someone trying very hard not to scream.
"UGHHH...YOU ARE INSANE" You burst into laughter. "He is literally the most important person on Earth and you kissed him on live global television!" Lucy continues.
"I KNOW RIGHT!"
"No, I don't think you do!" You immediately shoves your phone into her face before she could continue.
Every headline across every news outlet looked exactly as unhinged as expected.
"THE KISS HEARD AROUND EARTH"
"DR. RYLAND GRACE RETURNS TO A KISS"
"HUMANITY SAVED-AND STOLEN, IMMEDIATELY?"
"SAVE THE STARS, GET THE GIRL"
"THE DARLING AND THE HERO"
"THE HERO GETS HIS GIRL?"
Lucy slowly lowered the phone, blinking at the flood of headlines.
Your squeal is genuinely inhuman. Kicking your feet violently under the blanket, as you bury half your face into the pillow while grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. Suddenly feeling like a 16 years old girl with a big fat crush.
"I can't believe I actually kissed him."
"Girl," She said carefully, "this is literal tabloid annihilation." You grab the phone back immediately.
"They used the sunrise pictures!" You gasp. "OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS ONE, i'm framing this one."
"The public reaction is... surprisingly positive," Lucy admits cautiously. "Like, weirdly positive."
"Well obviously, I wasn't trying to do anything funny in front of humanity," Huffing dramatically as you hug your pillow tighter. "It was welcome and gratitude." Your voice softens. "He practically paved the way for my entire career."
Lucy's expression melts immediately, she understands that. Nobody knew better than Lucy how deeply Project Hail Mary had shaped your life. The films. The NASA partnerships. The documentaries. The years you spent obsessively researching about space sciences for your films, until the actual scientists started recognizing you on sight.
The kiss had not been a romantic impulse, it had become symbolic. Humanity welcoming home the man who gave it another sunrise.
"You should sleep," Lucy sighs eventually, standing from the couch. "You have morning interviews tomorrow."
You groan dramatically into the pillow.
"And don't forget, Dr. Grace's official commendation ceremony is in three days."
At that, your entire face light up, immediately reappearing from under the blanket. "LUCY," You gasped in horror,
"you know I would never forget that."
On The Other Side. The hotel suite is bigger than the entire living quarters aboard the Hail Mary.
Ryland stood motionless just inside the doorway, overnight bag hanging loosely from his shoulder while the automatic lights slowly brightens around him one by one.
Soft yellow lighting.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
A dining table he would never use.
Fresh flowers sitting untouched near the kitchen counter.
Everything smells...expensive.
And empty.
The door clicks shut behind him. For the first time since returning to Earth, Ryland is finally alone.
The thought should have felt comforting. He finally got to rest after the longest day of his life.
Instead, something inside his chest tightens painfully.
A welcome basket resting untouched near the counter. Government stationery, expensive chocolates, and a handwritten note from the hotel staff thanking him for his sacrifice.
Thoughtful. Polite.
But none of it belongs to him.
"Sacrifice..." He mutter under his breath.
Ryland realize with a strange hollowness that there is no place on Earth waiting for him anymore.
No apartment.
No coworkers.
No old friends checking the clock for his arrival.
The world had survived, but it had continued living without him. He came home to a world that had move on without him.
"I guess I did...lose a lot?"
Standing before the massive window overlooking the city, Ryland watch how the world continued beneath him.
Traffic lights flickering endlessly below, while helicopters still circles somewhere in the distance. But up here, the silence settles strangely against his ears.
His eyes drift unconsciously toward his reflection in the darkened window.
The kiss mark is still faintly visible on his cheek.
Ryland slowly raise a hand, fingertips brushing lightly over the fading mark.
He could still remember the warmth.
Your warmth.
Shaking his head abruptly with eyes tight shut, hoping to erase the image of you smiling.
"She was just being polite." Even saying it out loud to himself sounded unconvincing.
With a tired sigh, he finally drops his bag on the floor before collapsing backward onto the massive hotel bed. The mattress swallows him whole.
"Personal space is at a free subscription, I guess." He murmurs weakly into the empty room. The joke landed badly, silence answered him almost immediately.
Without the cameras, the applause, the medics, the politicians, or the crowd.
The loneliness hit him all at once.
Unlike the one in space, at least that loneliness had purposes. This one is quieter.
Colder.
Ryland stares blankly up at the unfamiliar ceiling while the city lights reflecting dimly across the room. His body still feels strangely aware of the ghost of your touch, the warmth of your hand catching his arm before he stumbled. The softness of your lips against his cheek.
Human touch.
His throat tightens unexpectedly.
"amaze, amaze, amaze." He quietly whisper into the dark.
The realization hit harder than he expected, he misses all of it. Not just Rocky. The noise. The routine. The company. Someone existing nearby.
Someone warm.
Rocky was warm.
Ryland shuts his eyes tightly and his exhausted mind drifts back to you. Your hair softly blowing from the wind as you stand beneath the golden light of the sunrise.
The image lingers behind his closed eyes until sleep finally swallows him whole.
For the past three days, Ryland had been trapped inside his own personal apocalypse. He might have saved Earth from ending, but now it feels like his own brain was collapsing instead.
The problem?
You. More specifically, your kiss.
The entire planet apparently refused to move on from it.
Two days ago, Ryland had simply been trying to eat breakfast in peace when a voice suddenly appeared behind him.
“Dr. Grace! After saving the stars, are you now dating Hollywood’s biggest star?”
Ryland nearly died choking on bacon. Coughing violently, he looks up in horror only to find a woman holding a microphone directly in his face and a camera light blinking beside her.
“W-who are you people?”
Another camera.
“Dr. Grace, how did the kiss make you feel?”
“Was it planned?”
“Have the two of you been communicating privately?”
“Is it true she requested the sunrise ceremony personally?”
Ryland stares at them like a terrified deer moments before being hunted for sport.
“I—what?”
“Do you think humanity’s sweetheart has stolen your heart?” Ryland physically recoils at that question.
“What does that even mean?!” Unfortunately for him, that exact sentence became another headline within the hour.
The next day, one of NASA’s recovery coordinators stepped into the suite holding a small black box.
“Dr. Grace, we finally managed to set this up for you.”
Ryland looks up. “Set up what?”
“A phone.”
“Oh.”
Right. Earth still used phones.
The coordinator smiled sympathetically before placing the device carefully into Ryland’s hands.
“It’s updated with secure contacts, emergency numbers, translator support, news access. Basically everything you might need while adjusting.”
Adjusting. That was certainly one word for whatever this was. “Thank you” Ryland mutters politely.
Once the coordinator left, the suite fell quiet again.
Ryland stared suspiciously at the phone for several seconds before carefully unlocking it.
BREAKING: THE KISS HEARD AROUND EARTH
Ryland nearly dropped the device directly onto the floor. “Oh no.”
His own face stared back at him from dozens of articles. More specifically, his face with your lipstick stain glowing brightly against his cheek.
“RYLAND GRACE RETURNS TO A KISS”
“HUMANITY SAVED—AND STOLEN?”
“SAVE THE STARS, GET THE GIRL”
“THE HERO AND HOLLYWOOD’S SWEETHEART”
Ryland felt his soul physically attempting to leave his body. But, against his better judgment, he tapped one.
Huge mistake.
The article immediately opened with twelve high-definition photos of you kissing his cheek from different angles. Multiple angles.
Ryland’s face grew dangerously hot.
One image captured the exact moment he looked at you afterward, wide-eyed and visibly stunned.
Oh. Oh, that’s embarrassing.
Somehow, against his own logic, he kept scrolling.
Another headline appeared.
“DID HUMANITY JUST WATCH THE MOST EXPENSIVE LOVE STORY IN HISTORY BEGIN?”
Ryland choked on absolutely nothing. “What does that even mean?!” It genuinely felt like that was the only sentence he said these days.
The worst part? The comments were even more horrifying.
“THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER???”
“HE FELL IN LOVE IMMEDIATELY YOUR HONOR”
“SHE WAITED HER WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS”
“THE LIPSTICK STAIN STILL BEING THERE HOURS LATER??? SIR???”
Ryland shuts the phone off instantly.
Today, Ryland is back in the hotel restaurant, attempting to eat breakfast in peace. He could have just ordered room service, but Ryland would somehow feel guilty about it.
“Dr.Grace?”
“Please no,” Ryland groans immediately without even looking up. “I don’t even know her and if you people keep doing this, she’s going to feel incredibly uncomfortable a-and please don’t tell me reporters are bothering her like this too.”
Silence.
“Uh…Dr.Grace,” Ryland finally look up. It’s his recovery coordinator.
“Oh…sorry” Ryland mumbled, embarrassed.
The coordinator looked mildly concerned but professionally composed. “I apologize for the disturbances these past few days, Dr. Grace,” The coordinator said carefully, slightly bowing his head to him.
“We’re currently adjusting your security arrangements.”
“No, it’s fine. You guys are already doing a lot.” Ryland rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
Technically speaking, he had been hiding inside his hotel room until meal time, it probably counted as a successful security strategy.
“I can assure you Ms. ___ has a very extensive security team handling media inquiries on her side as well.” The coordinator added politely.
Ryland visibly relaxed at that. “Right. Okay. Good.”
“I’m also here to let you know your wardrobe for the commendation ceremony has been delivered to your suite. If there’s anything additional you require, please let us know.”
“Uh… no, everything’s fine. Thank you.”
“And your car will arrive at 5 PM.”
“Right noted…Thank you, again” Ryland awkwardly reply, not used to having someone doing almost everything for him.
The coordinator nods before excusing himself.
Once alone again, Ryland lets out a long exhausted sigh.
A few hours later, Ryland found himself standing stiffly in front of the mirror inside his suite while two stylists adjusting the sleeves of his ceremonial uniform for the third time.
Apparently saving humanity came with tailoring.
“Try not to slouch, Dr. Grace.”
“I’m not slouching,” Ryland grumbles softly.
The stylist said nothing. Which probably meant he is absolutely slouching.
By the time security escorted him downstairs, the hotel entrance had already become chaos all over again. Crowds screaming somewhere beyond the barricades while camera flashes exploded endlessly against the darkened windows of the vehicle waiting outside.
Ryland froze briefly near the car door. Because suddenly, this was real again.
The ceremony.
You.
Oh God. The kiss.
His face immediately felt warm all over again at the thought.
“Dr. Grace?” The coordinator asked carefully.
Ryland blinks rapidly. “Right. Yep. Sorry.”
Professional. I am a professional. A Scientist and an astronaut, yeah…
This is a formal commendation ceremony honoring humanity’s survival. Not whatever catastrophic thing his nervous system kept turning it into.
The car door shut behind him, the city lights streaked past the windows, Ryland made the horrible mistake of checking his phone one last time.
TRENDING:
#SunriseKiss
#RylandGrace
#TheHeroAndTheStar
Ryland closes the phone so fast it nearly flew out of his hands. Absolutely not.
The ballroom glitters beneath chandeliers, filled wall to wall with politicians, astronauts, scientists, celebrities, and enough cameras to rival entire red carpets. And yet somehow, none of it manage to hold your attention.
You stand near the edge of the grand staircase with a champagne flute between your fingers, trying very hard to act like your heart was not attempting to beat itself out of your chest.
Your dress shimmers beneath the golden lights like liquid starlight itself. Champagne-colored silk clung elegantly against your figure, embroidered with delicate constellations of gold beadwork and crystals that caught the light with every subtle movement. A sheer beaded stole resting loosely around your arms, glittering softly like scattered cosmic dust. You had planned this outfit ever since learning you would attend both his public welcome and official commendation ceremony. Not because you expected him to notice. Just because somehow, it felt important.
Then slowly, the atmosphere inside the ballroom shifted. The conversations soften. Camera flashes suddenly redirects toward the entrance.
Before you even turned to look, you already knew.
It must be him.
Your breath hitch as the grand door opens.
There he is.
Dr. Ryland Grace standing at the ballroom entrance looking visibly overwhelmed beneath the flood of flashing cameras, dressed in the restored Project Hail Mary mission suit humanity had once watched disappear into the stars decades ago. The deep textured white material had been carefully repaired and refitted, though faint wear still remained around the seams and mission patches.
PROJECT HAIL MARY. NASA. GRACE.
For one impossible moment, your chest tightened so painfully you forgot how to breathe.
Because there he is. Alive. Still standing beneath Earth’s gravity. Still looking at the world with the same soft uncertain eyes from the archived mission log you had spent half your life watching.
And somehow, that only made him even more devastatingly attractive.
Respectfully, this is becoming a serious problem. How is he allowed to be this gorgeous?
Across the ballroom, Ryland shifts awkwardly beneath the attention, clearly trying very hard not to look overwhelmed by the scale of the event.
Then his eyes found you. And suddenly, everything else disappears.
At first, Ryland only notices the glittering beadwork scattered across your dress, then his exhausted brain slowly registered the patterns.
Constellations. Stars.
Of course you are wearing stars.
Warmth flooded through him all over again, terrifyingly familiar.
Ryland forgot entirely that he was supposed to keep walking.
“Dr.Grace?” The coordinator asks with a hint of concern in his eyes.
Ryland nods and continues walking to his seat.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur of applause, formal commendations, and speeches grand enough to make Ryland want to disappear into the floor permanently.
World leaders spoke about sacrifice. Scientists spoke about survival. Humanity spoke about miracles. And through all of it, you are seated halfway across the ballroom beneath shimmering gold lights, he could still spot the constellation beadwork glittering softly across your gown every time you moved.
Which was extremely unhelpful for his concentration.
“Dr.Grace?” The coordinator calls out for him as he looks up “Your speech. It’s time.”
Ryland steps awkwardly toward the podium beneath thunderous applause, visibly overwhelmed by the standing ovation surrounding him.
For a long moment, he simply stares out at the crowd. Then awkwardly lean towards the microphone.
“Uh…hello Earth.”
The room immediately softens with quiet laughter.
Ryland blinks behind his glasses, pushing it up his nose. “Sorry. I had a better speech planned in my head earlier.” More laughter this time. His fingers tightens briefly against the edge of the podium before his expression steadies.
“I think… after spending so many years alone out there, you kind of forget what this feels like.”
The room fell quieter.
“You spend a long time thinking humanity is this huge complicated thing, but then you come home and realize it’s actually small moments that matter most.” His voice falters slightly. “And honestly…” Ryland exhaled shakily. “I don’t really…” He hesitates. “I don’t really know how to stand here and be this person for everyone.”
The ballroom fell completely silent.
“Because the truth is…I was scared almost the entire time.” Ryland glances down briefly. “People call me brave now,” A faint smile.
“Rocky used to call me brave too.”
A few soft laughs echoed again.
“But honestly? Most of the mission was just me trying not to panic long enough to solve the next problem.” Ryland swallows hard. “I think maybe that’s what bravery actually is.”
“I spent a very long time believing I’d never see Earth again.”
“And then suddenly I came home and the sun was still rising.” His voice softens.
Without meaning to, his eyes lifted across the ballroom and found you, smiling at him gently.
“The warmth of sunlight. People laughing. Someone waiting for you to come back.”
Something inside Ryland shifts unexpectedly. His shoulders relaxed just slightly.
“Turns out humanity isn’t really the big things.” His eyes never fully left yours. “It’s getting to come home and know Earth is still here. That the kids still get the chance to grow up.”
For one terrifying second, Ryland realized he had absolutely no idea whether he was still giving a speech anymore.
“It’s warmth.”
And somehow, that stops mattering. “Thank You”
Silence.
Then the entire ballroom rose into another standing ovation. Erupting with loud cheers and applause.
By the time the official commendation badge was finally pinned carefully against the restored Project Hail Mary suit over his chest, the entire ballroom had again risen into another standing ovation.
Ryland looks deeply distressed by this development.
Oh God, she definitely noticed. Eight point three billion people definitely noticed. I accidentally gave a speech about warmth while staring directly at her like a dying Victorian man.
Applause starts to fades as the orchestra starts, the ceremony dissolved into something softer. Music drifted through the ballroom as officials stepped away from podiums, champagne replaced formal speeches, and humanity’s greatest scientific minds immediately began getting tipsy near the dessert tables.
Ryland? Attempting to escape.
Unfortunately for him, escaping proved difficult when approximately half the planet wanted to shake his hand.
“Dr. Grace, incredible speech.”
“An honor meeting you.”
“Humanity owes you everything.”
Ryland smiled politely through all of it, nodding awkwardly while internally screaming the entire time.
Let me out, let me out. Please let me out.
And somehow, despite the overwhelming crowd surrounding him, he remains painfully aware of exactly one thing.
You.
More specifically, the terrifying possibility that you had absolutely noticed him staring directly at you during the speech. Which you definitely had.
You can see every of Ryland’s unsuccessful attempts to hide behind a group of astrophysicists.
After three straight days of headlines, sunrise photos, and emotionally catastrophic speeches about warmth, there was absolutely no way you are ending tonight without having one real conversation with Dr.Ryland Grace. But there’s one teeny tiny problem, for thirty minutes of trying, you discovered something deeply unfortunate. He is avoiding you and not subtly.
Unfortunately for him, avoiding you only made you want to talk to him more.
The first time you approached him near the champagne tower, he immediately got intercepted by three astrophysicists asking about xenonite measurements. The second time, he somehow vanished behind a crowd of diplomats. By the third attempt, you were almost certain the man had accidentally developed a fight-or-flight response specifically towards attractive women.
Which honestly only made him more endearing.
Across the ballroom, Ryland accepts another glass of champagne from someone he absolutely did not know while internally spiraling. Because every single time he looked up, you are there. Golden. Shimmering beneath the ballroom lights like actual starlight.
And worse, you keep smiling at him.
He had survived interstellar travel with less stress than this.
He finally found a terrace at the edge of the ballroom, empty and closed enough to hide him from the crowd. From you.
But then,
“Hello Dr.Grace.” You pop out in front of him.
“Yeah no.” He immediately clasp his mouth as soon as he realized he speak his mind out loud.
“No?” You ask, tilting your head a bit.
“I mean, Hello Ms._____.” He says, trying to cover up what he just said.
“Oh! you know me already.” You smile, offering him a champagne flute that you brought along.
Ryland’s hand shakily grabs them from you.
“Why are you avoiding me?” You ask directly, tilting your head.
Ryland chokes on the champagne. “I’M NOT!” He blurts immediately, expression betraying him completely. “S-sorry…I mean—” He coughs awkwardly. “There’s just a lot of people.”
You raise a brow knowingly. “So you’re avoiding everyone equally?”
“Yes.”
“…Mostly.”
His answer leaving you smiling into your glass.
Ryland visibly relaxes by approximately three percent when you laugh softly instead of pressing him further.
The terrace around the two of you sat quiet compared to the chaos inside the ballroom. For the first time all evening, Ryland finally seemed able to breathe properly.
“You know,” You starts casually, leaning lightly against the railing beside him, “for someone who crossed interstellar space, you scare surprisingly easy.”
Ryland looked personally attacked by that statement. “I almost died… like statistically concerning amounts of times.”
“That’s fair.”
“And people keep asking terrifying questions.”
Your lips twitches. “Like?”
“Oh no.” Ryland immediately looks away.
“What?”
“No, you’re gonna make fun of me.”
“I absolutely am.”
He sighs dramatically before finally mumbling. “One reporter asked if hollywood’s sweetheart stole my heart.”
The sound that escapes you is somewhere between a gasp and a delighted laugh. “Oh my God, they actually asked you that?”
“Yes! What does that even mean?!”
You burst into full laughter this time.
Ryland stares at you for a second and then he starts laughing too. Unfortunately.
Just a little at first.
And something inside his chest loosens for the first time since returning to Earth.
“Don’t you think it’s getting a little boring in here?” You ask suddenly, swirling the champagne lightly inside your glass.
Ryland glances towards the crowded ballroom behind the terrace doors, politicians and scientists were still aggressively attempting to socialize with him. “…Not boring,” He admits. “Just… a lot.”
You smile immediately like you had been waiting for that answer. “Come on,” Grabbing his wrist before he could protest. “I know a better party.”
“Wait— what?” Ryland barely had time to react before you were already dragging him farther down the quiet terrace corridor, away from the music and crowds spilling through the ballroom.
“Oh wait,” You stop abruptly, in front of a side service door.
Ryland nearly bumps into your back. “What are you—”
“Shhh.”
You peek carefully through the tiny window first, making sure nobody is nearby before slipping inside for approximately three seconds.
Ryland blinks.
Then blink again as you reappear hugging two champagne bottles against your chest triumphantly.
“Run.”
You immediately grab his hand again before taking off down the hill behind the ballroom, laughing breathlessly while your constellation-covered gown shimmers wildly beneath the night lights.
Ryland stares at the stolen champagne in absolute horror while stumbling after you.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“You said it was a lot!”
“I DIDN’T SAY GRAND THEFT!”
Your laughter echoes through the night.
And despite himself, Ryland felt something warm blooming inside his chest as he follows after you anyway.
By the time the two of you finally reached the tree overlooking the hill behind the venue, you lean dramatically against the trunk with a relieved sigh, still clutching the champagne bottles proudly.
“Finally~” Breathing slightly harder from the run, Ryland stares at you in disbelief.
You were just about to sit down on the grass when.
“Whoa— whoa, wait” Ryland says, gently stopping you by the shoulder. “You’re gonna ruin your dress.” He immediately removes his hand again like he had just touched a live wire. “Uh— sorry.” Then instinctively his hand moved toward the zipper of his mission suit.
Only for him to pause. “…Right. Nope.”
You look at him curiously, watching realization slowly cross his face.
Ryland looks down at the Project Hail Mary uniform like it had personally betrayed him. “One-piece uniform,” He mutters under his breath, with visible disappointment. “Cool.”
A laugh escapes you instantly.
“Wait,” Ryland says, still looking mildly offended by NASA engineering, he awkwardly crouches down instead, brushing loose dirt and stray leaf away from the grass, unsuccessfully trying to flatten the grass with both hands.
“There. Slightly less dirt.”
“That’s…” You stare at him for a second before smiling softly. “weirdly…sweet. Thank you Dr.Grace.”
“You really don’t have to—”
Ryland looks alarmed immediately. “No, no,” He interrupted. “Your dress probably costs more than the Hail Mary.”
“That is absolutely not true,” You snorts.
Ryland glances up at you. “You stole two bottles of champagne tonight.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” Ryland found himself smiling again.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The city lights shines below the hill while distant music from the ballroom drifted faintly through the warm night air. Somewhere far behind the venue, laughter and applause still echoed softly from the ongoing celebration.
But up here, everything felt strangely quiet.
Peaceful.
You loosened your grip on the champagne bottles slightly before holding one out toward Ryland.
“Well,” You announces proudly, “we successfully committed beverage theft.”
Ryland stares at the bottle for a second before letting out a quiet laugh through his nose. “I can’t believe I helped you do that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I was emotionally manipulated.”
“You followed willingly.”
“That’s…” Smiling softly to himself, Ryland finally took the bottle from your hands. “legally debatable.”
Neither of you had glasses, which somehow made the entire thing feel even more absurd.
“Do we at least know how to open these?” Ryland asked cautiously, turning the bottle slightly in his hands.
“Dr.Grace,” You looked offended immediately. “I am an award-winning actress.”
“That did not answer my question.”
Another laugh escapes you before carefully reaching for the cork. “I opened a lot of these, now move back a little.”
Ryland obeys instantly and the champagne popped loudly into the night sky.
“What the—” Ryland physically flinches.
You burst out another laughter.
“I thought astronauts handle pressure well.”
“Not surprise projectile pressure!”
Still laughing, you hand the opened bottle toward him first, Ryland hesitates briefly before taking a careful sip directly from it. Then another.
Sitting there beneath the stars, drinking stolen champagne straight from the bottle beside you, felt more normal than the ballroom ever had. The two of you simply talked. Little things at first. The ceremony, the reporters and their ridiculous headlines. His mission with Rocky.
Until eventually, Ryland glances toward you again, quieter this time. “So…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Can I ask you something?”
You look over at him. “Anything.”
“How did you even end up with…” Ryland gestures vaguely toward you. “All of this.”
You blink. “My career?”
Ryland nods softly.
“I mean… everyone here knows who you are already and apparently I’ve spent the last three days accidentally becoming tabloid material because of you.”
You laugh quietly. But Ryland’s expression stays sincere.
“I realized tonight I actually don’t know anything about you,” He admits gently. “Not even the professional version.”
“But it’s like you knew everything about me” Ryland added.
You took another sip of champagne before sighing softly to yourself. Liquid courage.
“Well…” Tilting your head slightly, you smiled at him beneath the starlight. “I practically grew up watching you.”
Ryland's brows knit together.
“I was still this tiny rising child actress when the Astrophage crisis started,” You continue softly.
Your hand motioned loosely toward the night sky above the two of you. “Then suddenly the whole world was ending and every news channel kept talking about three astronauts leaving on a one-way mission to save the stars.”
“And little me thought you were the coolest person alive.”
Ryland physically looks away for a second. “Oh no.”
“No seriously. I was obsessed.” You laugh quietly.
“That somehow feels worse.”
“It should.”
Ryland groans softly into the champagne bottle while you smile into yours.
“And somehow, my career grew from doing more space movies after that,” You admitted. “Then eventually I got casted in an astronaut biopic and had to actually research how astronauts lived and worked.”
Ryland listens quietly now.
“NASA was so patient with me,” You continue warmly. “They let me visit training facilities, speak to engineers, sit through simulations…” A softer smile crosses your face.
“I think somewhere along the way, space stopped feeling fictional to me.”
The night breeze shifted gently through the hilltop. “You know…” You glance down at the champagne bottle in your hands. “People always talk about how scary those years were.”
Ryland stayed silent.
“But when I think about that time, I mostly remember hope.”
His expression softens immediately.
“Because no matter how bad things got in here…” You look back at him again, smiling gently now. “It can’t be worse than how the awkward scientist on the news had to bear the responsibility of trying to save everyone.”
Ryland stares at you with an expression that looks dangerously close to breaking.
“And then, I got casted again and again for any space related promotion.” You laugh softly.
Warmth spread slowly through his chest all over again.
“OH, OH, AND THE BEETLES LANDED, WITH ALL THE TAUMEOBA, THE GUIDES, AND-“
“And?” Ryland laugh at your sudden burst of excitement.
“And y-your mission logs.” You said in the tiniest possible voice, looking away shyly.
“You watched my mission logs?” He asked quietly.
“All of them.”
“Oh God.”
“And rewatch them. Over and over again”
“Now that’s terrifying.” Ryland smiles so beautifully as he said that.
Why is this beautiful woman acting like i hung the stars myself…
You laugh again, softer this time. “But…” Your voice gentled slightly. “I think what people loved wasn’t just the hero part.”
Ryland looks over at you.
“It was how human you sounded.”
For a moment, Ryland didn’t know what to say to that.
“And…” You took another sip of champagne like it might somehow save you from your own thoughts.
“You look really hot working in those glasses.”
Ryland made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a system failure. Your own eyes widens immediately afterward.
Maybe it was the champagne.
Maybe it was just him.
“I—” Heat rushes violently to your face.
“Okay, wow. Did I actually say that out loud?” Instantly mortified, you scrambles to your feet in a desperate attempt to flee the conversation entirely. “Shi—” Only for your heels to catch immediately against the fabric of your dress.
“WOAH! Careful.” Ryland reacted on instinct, now it’s his hand who’s quick to catch you. Unfortunately, he also completely lost his own balance in the process.
The two of you tumbles sideways onto the grass. Together in a mess of tangled limbs, startled laughter, and stolen champagne bottles rolling away somewhere nearby.
His face hovers inches from yours.
Close enough that your breath tangled together.
So close.
Too close.
“You are very beautiful” Ryland said softly, brushing your hair carefully away from your face.
The words seemed to surprise him almost as much as they surprised you. But neither of you moved, the night air suddenly felt impossibly thick around the two of you.
Your heartbeat stumbles hard against your chest as Ryland remained hovering slightly above you from the fall, one hand braces carefully beside your head while the other lingered lightly against your cheek.
“You really mean that?” You ask quietly.
Ryland looked almost offended. “Have you ever seen yourself?”
A laugh escapes you softly, breathless and nervous all at once.
Ryland smiles too. Small. Shy. Beautiful.
Suddenly, the world did not feel nearly as overwhelming anymore. His gaze caught on your lips briefly before snapping back to your eyes.
“Oh-” You whisper immediately, because now you knew.
Ryland froze completely. “I’m sorry,” He blurts. “I wasn’t trying to— I mean I was, a little, but not in a weird way—”
Your laugh cut him off softly. “You talk a lot when you’re nervous.”
“I-it’s just, you’re so warm and beautiful and your lips—.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I know.”
You smile so warmly at him that Ryland’s entire train of thought derails permanently.
Then slowly.
Carefully.
You lift your hand towards his face first, giving him enough time to pull away if he wanted.
He didn’t. Ryland leans into your touch almost unconsciously. So this time, your lips finally met his.
It felt nothing like the sunrise kiss, that one had belonged to the world.
This one belonged only to him.
The kiss started soft, gentle. Almost careful.
Like Ryland still couldn’t fully believe this was happening, but the longer your lips move against his, the more something inside him slowly unravels. A shaky breath escapes him quietly. His hand tightens against your waist, pulling you closer against him like some deeply buried part of him had finally stop pretending it didn’t need warmth.
Need touch. Need closeness. Need you.
“nghh” You whine softly as your hand slowly pushes on his chest, you need to breathe. The sound you made against his lips nearly destroyed whatever remains of his self-control.
“I think I’m in trouble.” Ryland whispers breathlessly the second the kiss finally broke apart. His forehead drops lightly against yours as he laugh shakily under his breath. “I forgot how people work.”
A giggle escapes you softly before another smile tugs across your lips. “You’re doing okay so far.”
“Statistically debatable.” You laugh again and Ryland realizes very quickly that hearing you laugh this close might actually become dangerous for him emotionally.
Neither of you moves away.
If anything, Ryland only seems to drift closer, like some deeply exhausted part of him had finally found somewhere safe to rest. His hand roaming softly on your waist line, careful. But no longer hesitant.
“You’re really warm,” He murmurs absentmindedly, though the second he realizes what he said, he visibly froze. “Uh- that sounded insane.”
“No,” You smile softly, fingers brushing carefully through the hair near the nape of his neck. “It sounded honest.”
Ryland’s eyes flutter shut briefly at the touch, that tiny reaction alone melted your entire heart.
Years.
The realization hit you all at once. He’s been forced out there for years without being held. Without casual touch.
Without closeness.
You watched the uncut mission logs NASA somehow allowed you, so many times you practically knew it by heart. The parts the public never saw.
The moment Rocky offered him the astrophage.
The way Ryland’s voice broke.
The way he kept blinking rapidly behind his glasses at how hope returned so suddenly, he almost didn’t know what to do with it. Before that, he spent so long convincing himself he would never see Earth again, you saw how he slowly accepted that there was never a way back.
You watched him make peace with dying among the stars.
Your expression shifted immediately.
Ryland must have noticed something changes on your face because his hand moves instinctively, thumb brushing gently across your cheek. “What?” He asks quietly.
“Nothing.” You smile faintly. “I just think you deserve…closeness.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned by that sentence. Then something inside him seems to finally give out completely.
The next kiss feels different. Still gentle.
But needier.
Like he is slowly forgetting how to hold himself back.
You slowly push him up as your fingers drifts toward the zipper of his mission suit, slowly pulling the zipper open.
Revealing a bright red t-shirt.
Sitting in front of him, you stare at the shirt for a second before reading the text stretched across the front.
Ah! The Element of Surprise
You look back up at him in disbelief. “…Are you wearing a science pun shirt to your own global commendation ceremony?”
Ryland looked mildly defensive immediately. “It’s a very good shirt.”
Before you could stop it, your forehead dropped against his shoulder as your body shook hard, trying to hold yourself from laughing.
“Hey—” Ryland says in immediate concern. “Are you okay?”
You finally lift your head again as a startled laugh bursts out of you, eyes sparkling beneath the starlight. “Oh my God!” You breathe. “You’re unreal.”
A fond smile spreads across Ryland’s face. And unfortunately for you, he is beautiful.
Before he could recover, you clash your lips against his, deeper this time. Your hand pushing on the top of his mission suits off, fingertips going beneath the bright red shirt, brushing against warm skin.
Ryland inhale sharply into your mouth.
“W-wait—” His hand caught your wrist gently. “How old are you again?”
You stared at him for half a second before laughing breathlessly. Will this man ever give you a break from laughing.
“Dr. Grace,” You murmur against his lips, slowly crawling to sit on to his lap, “I think it’s a little late for responsible decision making.”
“I just—” Ryland looks deeply overwhelmed beneath you. “I need to make sure I’m not committing accidental crimes.”
Your laughter softly fills the air on the hill. “I’m thirty-two.”
“But— doesn’t that mean, you were like t-ten? twelve? when I left” Ryland asks nervously.
“Oh God, now you are making it weird.” You huff out.
“I make everything weird.”
“That’s true.”
Ryland barely had enough time to look offended before you kiss him again, slowly guiding him backward onto the grass.
His red shirt bunch slightly in your hands as he laid back against the hill, breathing visibly harder now while your constellation-covered silhouette hovers above him.
“I almost forgot how beautiful the stars on Earth’s night skies are.” Ryland say, voice rougher than before.
“Yeah?” Your fingertips brushes lightly across his torso beneath the shirt. “I never expected their awkward savior to be this ridiculously…jacked.”
He looks absolutely flustered by that sentence. “You- you can’t j-just say things like t-that.” Ryland exclaims.
You laugh softly before finally tugging the red shirt over his head completely. The moment the fabric slips away, you gasp so hard like you don't know how to breathe.
You had not expected… this.
A smile almost broke out of Ryland's lips. “That bad?”
“Dr. Grace…” You whisper as your hands wander across his body, touching him absentmindedly like you were trying to memorize him by touch alone. “respectfully, you’re making it difficult for me to behave like a normal person.”
Every tense line of his muscle shifted beneath your palms while your brain struggles to process the fact that Ryland Grace actually looked like this.
Soft whimpers slip past his lips, he bit down on them in a failed attempt to silence himself under your touch.
Beneath your fingertips, Ryland felt solid.
Warm.
Real.
Making the entire situation feel more unbelievable somehow.
You lean down slowly beside his ear, lips brushing lightly against his skin as you whisper “Look up.” Above the two of you, the stars scattered endlessly across the night sky. “They’re honoring you” You murmur softly against his neck.
Ryland’s half lidded eyes slowly lifts toward the sky above the two of you, before your fingers brushes gently against his cheek, guiding his attention back toward you again.
“So let me be something good you get to keep too, Dr. Grace.” Your voice softens shyly beneath the night air.
Something inside Ryland finally gave out completely after that.
A broken moan escapes him as his hands pulls you down to him, jerking his hips upward. “ahh~” The soft sound that left his throat afterwards seemed to genuinely horrify him.
You can feel the obvious bulge under you.
“That feels—” Ryland breathes out immediately, unfinished, face burning red beneath the starlight.
You stare at him for half a second before softly moving your own hips against him, chasing the faint friction he’d just given you while your fingers slips gently into his hair.
“It’s okay,” You murmur softly. “I-…I like knowing you want me too.” Smilling softly against his lips, kissing him as you continue grinding down on him.
“You-hmph…f-figured out the Astrophage,” You choked out breathlessly. Ryland’s hands tight around your thighs, keeping you pressed to him.
“You went across the s-stars.” Another kiss.
“You saved the stars.”
His forehead drops weakly against yours, breathing ragged, it’s as if you were slowly dismantling his ability to think.
Then softly, almost teasingly, you whispered right beside his ear.
“So save me too, Dr. Grace.”
Ryland looks up at you immediately, finding your gaze fixed on him almost pleadingly.
“Please…hahhn-” You breathe. “I’m a s-star too.”
Ryland ruts his hips up with a moan before he can even nod to agree.
Your dress now gathers in shimmering folds around your waist as the both of you continue humping on each other, the constellation beadwork twinkling faintly beneath the moonlight every time you moves.
Looking completely overwhelmed, Ryland swallows hard. “Are you s-sure?” He asks quietly. “I haven’t done this… in a very long time, I—I’m not even sure I remember how.”
Your expression softens instantly.
Instead of answering, you shifts on his lap before slowly laying yourself down along his thighs, your head tips back slightly as your eyes fluttering shut. Beneath the starlight, your expression softens into something so open and trusting, it nearly unraveled him on the spot.
The movement is unhurried. Certain.
You are surrendering yourself to him completely.
Trusting him with every inch of you willingly.
“O-oh…” Ryland breathes shakily at the sight of you beneath him, visibly losing the ability to think.
A soft whine slips from your lips as your back arches slowly towards him, your gaze diverting to him again through half-lidded eyes.
No hesitation.
You already knew he’ll handle you carefully.
Ryland melts embarrassingly fast at that.
“I—…I’ll…” Struggling visibly for coherent thought. “I’ll take that as a yes?”
The second the words left his mouth, his arms wraps around you again immediately, pulling you back tightly against his chest like he physically couldn’t bear the distance anymore.
“Yes. Yes. Yes~” Your fingers slipping beneath the lowered fabric of his mission suit, making Ryland’s entire body tense beneath your touch.
No one remembers how to behave properly anymore.
“ah~” His forehead resting against your shoulder while he laughs shakily under his breath. “O-okay…wow.”
A soft smile tugs across your lips. “You alright there, Dr.Grace?”
“No,” Ryland answers honestly. “Not even remotely.”
Your hand finally wanders even lower between the two of you, stroking his length gently through the fabric of his brief, earning another soft grunt from him.
He is hard, throbbing.
“Touch me too,” You whisper softly, guiding his trembling hand towards your chest. “Anywhere you want, Dr.Grace”
Ryland only stares at you for a second, mouth parts in disbelief as he still couldn’t quite take in what he just heard. You were actually asking for this.
His throat bobbed visibly.
Then, his fingers lifts toward the thin strap of your dress, pulling it off slowly as the fabric slips off your body, exposing just enough skin, completely his to touch.
Ryland’s breath caught.
His hand wanders carefully across the bare skin, following the curves of your neck down to your chest.
“hnngh…” The sound trembles softly from your throat the moment his fingertips brushed against your nipple.
Every caress lingers hesitantly against your skin.
Careful.
Ryland’s palms finally hold the soft weight of your breast, giving them the gentlest squeeze as if he was testing whether he is truly allowed to touch you this way.
“ahh~”
Your head fell back helplessly at the movement of his hand, his touch’s so gentle yet the effect it had on you isn’t and it only seems to encourage him more.
Ryland is savoring every reaction with wide unfocused eyes through his glasses. Completely captivated every time another reaction slips from your lips.
He is the one drawing those sounds from you.
“Dr. Grace~” You call him softly, fingertips moving towards the hem of his brief, slowly slipping inside.
His breath caught instantly at your touch.
Gently. You pull him out, moaning at the sight of his already glistening tip. “Pretty~” You mumble dazedly, thumbing at the leaking crack.
A choked groan slips from Ryland the moment he feels what you were doing.
Heat rushes across your face, but you didn’t look away from him this time. Biting softly against your lip, you slowly pull the delicate fabric covering you aside, just enough to let your opening brush against him, the heat between your bodies finally meet.
Your head tips back, moaning softly at the first real press of him against you. You move your hips slowly against him, the head of his shaft nudging on your clit every time you slide through, back and forth coating him in your slick.
Ryland already looks completely ruined beneath you. Chest heaving as every breath seems harder than the last. His glasses sliding down his nose, eyes glassy behind them.
“Y-you’re so c-close to me…” He whispers shakily, like the realization itself was overwhelming him. “oh~”
Grips tightening around your waist, slowly guiding the movement of your hips against his, he's beginning to understand exactly how he wanted you.
And he wanted more.
Closer.
“P-please...” Ryland begs softly as his lips found your collarbone, trailing slow, uneven kisses against your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he finally could.
You know what he wants.
Carefully lifting yourself just enough, your hand is trembling from anticipation as his tip touched at your wet entrance. You slowly sink down on his length as your eyes fixed on each other.
“ahhng~”
His arms wrapping around you instantly, pulling you closer, visibly embarrassed by the noise that escaped him. Completely lost from finally having you this close.
Before another helpless sound could escape him, Ryland immediately buries his face against your chest like the problem would disappear if he couldn’t see it anymore, seeking refuge while he tried and failed to recover what remains of his integrity.
You steadied yourself for a moment, trying to adjust around him before slowly lifting yourself up again, then dropping back down with a breathless cry.
“F-fuck…”
Your entire body trembles every time you sink down on him, eyes watering at the way he stretches you out.
Ryland himself can’t stop moaning at how your walls flutter around him. And this time, instead of holding himself back his hands holding you in place as his hips moves instinctively snapping up against you.
“hah-anghhh…w-wait”
The sudden movement knocks another helpless cry from your throat.
“I’m s-sorry,” He whispers breathlessly, quite the opposite of his grip pulling you closer again almost immediately. “I c-can’t— ah~” Ryland manage to say, before another sharp thrust hits you.
“I can’t s-stop…”
Your body is shaking, nearly falling backwards before Ryland caught you immediately, pulling you tightly into his embrace.
Your arms hooked around his head while Ryland’s lips found your nipples, slowly suckling on them and the sound he made afterward is embarrassingly needy. Soft whimpers as his body kept chasing yours desperately, like he still couldn’t get close enough.
“O-okay…” You manage to say, your nails clawing at his back as you melts further into him. “Have me… however y-you want…”
A choked moan slips out your lips before you whisper shakily.
“I-I’m your reward.”
With a low grunt, he pulls you down tightly against him, chest to chest as the two of you fall into the grass, his glasses almost slipping off his face. Thrusting up faster into your already limp body.
Desperate.
Embarrassed by how he completely lost control of himself, yet far too consumed in pleasure of finally having someone so close again.
“S-so good…hnngh-.” You whimper softly against his ear. “Please…Dr.Grace...”
Your trembling fingers reach up to gently nudge his fogged glasses back into place before they could slip completely off his flushed face.
Ryland lost it.
Not in cruelty. Not in control.
Just in overwhelming, desperate need.
His starry eyes gaze at you pleadingly, while your name kept falling from his lips, like a prayer he couldn’t believe he was allowed to ask for.
Breathless kisses. The sound of skin against skin. The rustle of grass beneath the tangled fabric.
Ryland held onto you like a man terrified you might be nothing but a dream, gone the second he opens his eyes, whimpering desperately at the pleasure as his arms kept clinging on you desperately.
The words hit you harder than anything else that night.
“P-please…”
Your entire body softens on him instantly.
“I-I’m here,” You whisper back immediately, hands rising to cradle his flushed face, your fingers caressing each side of his face gently despite the way your own breathing had already fallen apart. “I’m staying r-right here.”
Ryland made the smallest sound against your throat, like relief itself had finally cracks through him.
That completely ruined you.
The way he held onto you.
The way he sounded like closeness was the only thing keeping him together.
The way he whispered please like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to ask someone to stay.
“Say my n-name,” His voice cracked softly as he brought your hand toward his lips, pressing a trembling kiss against your fingers. “Please…”
“ahh-…R-ryland…” Your voice trembling around it, pulling his face closer to yours. “You h-have me.” You whisper softly.
A tear slips quietly down your cheek.
I want to love this man forever. Please…
The realization pulled you to your edge.
“Ryland~”
Back arching helplessly as your walls clenches around him so hard, spasming as your release crashes over you with a strangled cry of his name. Dragging Ryland closer to his own edge.
“Y-you’re so perfect…” His voice strained as his hips starts thrusting sloppily.
You’re already overstimulated, sobbing messily with your fingers curling onto his shoulder, but you tried your best to continue rolling your hips slowly, just enough to help him closer.
“So g-good…hanngh~”
Ryland’s hips bucking almost violently as he came with a broken moan, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you while your soft kisses brushes across his flushed face and trembling mouth.
Both of your bodies still trembling softly in the aftermath as Ryland’s grip slowly loosens around you. He quietly helps you pull your dress back up into place before wrapping the stole around your shoulders.
“There” He murmurs, carefully laying you down onto your side.
For a long while, neither of you speak.
The world around the hill had gone quiet now, distant music from the ballroom barely carrying through the night air anymore.
Ryland holds you carefully against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other absentmindedly traces slow patterns against your back.
Neither of you seems capable of letting go yet.
“Hey,” Ryland eventually calls out, voice quiet.
“hmmm?” You hum in response, cuddling into him closer.
He hesitated. “Was that… good?”
You blink up at him. Ryland immediately looks horrified by his own wording.
“No, wait, I mean obviously it was okay— not okay, uh good? I just meant—” Your sleepy laughter cut him off instantly.
“Oh Ryland…” You brush through his hair in endearment as Ryland bury his face briefly into your shoulder. Shy.
“I’m trying to emotionally recover here.” He mumble softly.
“You did amazing.”
He looks up immediately. “Really?”
The genuine uncertainty on his face melted your heart completely.
“Ryland,” You whisper softly, before kissing his cheek. “I saw actual stars every time you poun—”
“NOPE.”
Ryland immediately covers your mouth with one hand, face burning so red it nearly makes you laugh again.
“W-we are not finishing that sentence,” He mumbles weakly, visibly unable to look directly at you anymore.
“pound into me…” You insisted anyway, eyes sparkling mischievously as you pull his hand away.
Ryland made a strangled sound somewhere deep in his throat. “Please stop talking,” He whispers. “I’m already fighting for my life here.” helplessly as he takes your hand, softly kissing on your knuckles.
You huff out another soft laugh.
Can he possibly get any more adorable now?
“I’m serious,” You whisper softer this time.
Ryland only groans quietly in response, pressing another embarrassed kiss against your knuckles like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with affection this direct.
“It’s just-…” Your voice grew quieter against his shoulder. “I didn’t have anything to compare it to anyway.”
Ryland frowned slightly. “…What does that….”
Silence lingers for a moment too long, until he realizes.
Ryland froze completely.
“Wait…you mean…”
Heat crept visibly across your face as your fingers fiddled weakly on the fabric of his shirt still tangled beneath the two of you.
“I’ve n-never done this before…” You finally dropped the bomb, looking away immediately, unable to meet his eyes anymore.
On the other hand, Ryland looked genuinely distressed now.
“I THOUGHT YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WERE DOING!”
“I-Immean— technically I did? I’ve learned these things uh—theoretically?”
“THAT DOESN’T HELP!”
“Please don’t make it weird,” You mumble softly, hiding your face with your palms. “It’s already embarrassing enough to say it out loud.”
Ryland push himself up slightly. “Embarrassed? Why are YOU embarrassed?!”
“I don’t know… maybe because even the awkward scientist has lived more than me.”
Ryland stared at you for a second like his brain had genuinely stopped functioning. “Okay first of all, rude.”
That finally pulls a small laugh out of you and his expression softened almost instantly afterward.
“Oh my God,” He softly groaned as his palm caresses your cheek. “Was it really good? Wait no, did I hurt you?”
You could only stare at him softly after that, completely overwhelmed by how gentle he was being about all of this.
If only he knew how unreal this still felt to you. Because even now, afterward, he still looks at you like he was the lucky one here.
Ryland Grace is holding you like something precious beneath the stars.
“Why did you even trust me with something so important and not tell me anything first?” The softness in his voice made your chest ache immediately.
“Let’s not…” You smile shyly before leaning up to kiss him softly, silently pleading for him not to ask anything else because you are already far too embarrassed.
Ryland’s thumb brushes slowly across your cheek.
“I’m really glad it was with me” He whisper softly before kissing you again.
Something painful tightens in your chest at that, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Ryland Grace wasn’t supposed to come home.
You knew that better than most people.
As the kiss broke, Ryland pulls you a little closer into his arms. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady heartbeat beneath your ear while his breathing gradually evened out.
Heartbeat after heartbeat.
A sound that was almost impossible to stay.
He is alive.
Home.
Holding you.
Beneath the stars, the two of you drifted slowly towards sleep, tangled in each other’s arms.
The Morning After
White light exploded suddenly against Ryland’s closed eyes.
Voices. Too many voices.
Camera shutters snapping rapidly somewhere far too close.
You whine softly in your sleep, nuzzling deeper against Ryland’s neck while another burst of flashes lit painfully across the darkness behind his eyes.
Ryland stirs weakly.
More shouting.
Another harsh camera flash.
Ryland’s eyes flutters open slowly.
Immediately meeting a camera lens inches from his face. For one horrifying second, his sleep-heavy brain failed to process what he was looking at.
Then another flash exploded directly into his eyes.
“Oh FUDGE—”
Ryland jolts upright instantly, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you tightly against his chest, trying desperately to shield your face from the cameras now surrounding the hill.
“uhhh…Wha-?” You’re awakened by the sudden jerk at your body. “What’s-” You finally notice the shouting around you.
Then your eyes opens fully.
Cameras.
Microphones.
People. Dozens of them.
The paparazzi stood only feet away from the two of you while camera shutters fire relentlessly into the morning light. It’s very obvious to them what had happened the night before.
“It seems like the rumors are true.”
“Since when did the relationship become this personal?”
“Was this planned after the ceremony?”
“Are you aware you’re in a public park right now?”
Questions crash over each other endlessly while flashes continue blinding across the hill.
Ryland looks equally horrified.
“Oh no.” Your stomach drops violently as the reality of the situation hits all at once.
The dress tangled around your body, Ryland half-dressed beside you, the hill, the cameras, all of it.
“Oh my God…”
Before you could spiral further, Ryland quickly grabs the discarded red science shirt from the grass and immediately tries covering both of your faces with it despite the fact it barely help at all.
“Hey hey, look at me.” Ryland’s voice soft beneath the chaos the second he notice tears gathering in your eyes.
“Are you okay?”
Your breathing collapsed completely. “N-no…” The words came out small and broken as tears fought hard to fall out of your eyes. “I can literally see my career ending right now.”
Ryland’s entire expression hardens immediately at the sound of your voice cracking.
“No— hey, no, no, no.” His hands cups your face carefully despite the chaos surrounding the two of you, thumbs trying helplessly to wipe away the tears that are slipping down your cheeks while camera flashes continue exploding around you.
“Your career has nothing to do with— with uh…” Ryland visibly short-circuited for half a second. “Y-your se—… personal life.”
Which somehow only made you cry harder.
“Of course it does!” You whisper-shout beneath the shirt still covering your face. “Especially after I apparently pounced on the world’s savior three days after he got back to Earth— Lucy was right, I think I’ve actually lost my mind—”
“No, you didn’t—”
“I’m sorry,” You choked out miserably. “I’m so sorry, I-I am so sorry Dr. Grace.”
That stops Ryland completely.
The title sounds strangely distant now, after the way you called out to him against his skin only hours earlier.
Last night, his name had fallen so softly from your lips. Ryland.
Warm.
Close.
And now, it’s Dr. Grace again.
Formal.
Careful.
Like the distance between the two of you had quietly rebuilt itself overnight.
The panic around him seems to fade into the background while he looks at you curled in his arms, like you genuinely believed this is something shameful.
Something about that visibly hurt him.
Ryland stays silent for a while, thinking hard on what to do.
Then he softly says “It’s not weird for a couple to…” Ryland swallows hard, still visibly flustered even now. “T-to get physical.”
“W-what?…” You blink up at him through watery eyes. “We’re a c-couple?”
Ryland froze.
“We aren’t?” He asks carefully even though his eyes visibly showed a hint of disappointment.
And somehow the tiny flicker of uncertainty behind his glasses hurts your heart too.
“You…like, like me?” You ask quietly, your gaze hopeful as if you’re not allowed to ask.
“OF COURSE I LIKE YOU!”
Several paparazzi cameras snapping even faster at the outburst. That came out louder than Ryland expected, immediately horrified at his own volume.
“S-sorry…I mean, of course I like you, I just…” His face burned red instantly. “I thought we uh- did all that because we were… y’know…” He gestures vaguely between the two of you beneath the tangled shirt.
“…starting something.”
A tiny hiccup escapes you, flustered.
Oh.
He actually likes me.
Your eyes wells all over again, though this time for a completely different reason. “I thought-…”
“I thought…I thought you—… made a mistake.” You admit quietly.
Ryland’s expression softens so fast it almost hurts to look at.
“I might be a coward,” He murmurs gently, brushing his thumb carefully across your wet cheek, “but I’m not a jerk.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly destroyed you.
“I would never do that to you,” He continues softly.
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I like you so much, Dr. Grace,” You admit in one emotional rush as you leap into his arms, immediately hiding your burning face against his shoulder. “I’ve liked like you since I was uh… nineteen.”
Ryland let out a startled laugh beneath his breath.
“Okay, okay.” He mumbles warmly while rubbing soothing circles against your back, “let’s not do the age math right now and accidentally make this weird again.”
A weak laugh finally escapes you too.
“There you go,” Ryland whisper immediately, visibly relieved just hearing it.
The paparazzi were unfortunately still surrounding the hill.
“Dr. Grace! Are you officially confirming the relationship?”
“Did the two of you spend the entire night here?”
“Was this your first public appearance as a couple?”
Ryland looks deeply exhausted by all of this.
“Let’s get out of here, hmmm?” He asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face properly.
You nod weakly, answering him with the smallest voice ever. “m’kay” Quickly leaning in closer to press another tiny kiss against his cheek.
Ryland blinks at you.
“…What is it with you and kissing my cheeks specifically?” He asks, laughing softly despite everything.
You immediately hid your face behind both hands, Ryland smiles so fondly it almost looks painful.
He tucks on the shirt properly around your shoulders and over your head again, shielding as much of you from the cameras as possible. He was just starting to move away from the makeshift blanket around the two of you when your hand caught his wrist.
“What about you?” Panic returning to your voice.
Ryland looks like he’d genuinely forgotten he existed. “Oh…”
“…Right.”
You look moments away from crying again.
“Hey.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I’ll be fine. Trust me?”
After a tiny hesitant pause, you nod.
The second Ryland stood up, camera flashes exploded even harder across the hill.
Half-zipped mission suit. Completely ruined hair. Covered in grass.
Several reporters audibly gasp.
Unfortunately for him, the situation somehow became even worse now that the entirety of humanity could finally see what had apparently been hiding underneath the Project Hail Mary suit all along.
“Oh no.” Looking absolutely mortified, he hurriedly zipped his mission suit back up to his chest.
You nearly made another distressed noise before Ryland quickly grabs on your sparkling stole from the grass, wrapping it carefully around your covered face for extra protection.
Then finally, for the first time since returning to Earth, Ryland looks genuinely annoyed.
“Seriously, stop!” He said firmly, stepping protectively in front of you despite the cameras still flashing nonstop.
The crowds quieted slightly at the unexpected sharpness in his voice.
“I’ve tried being polite about this,” Ryland continues, visibly tense now “but this is getting crazy, can you guys please… back off?”
Then, before you can even process what he was doing, Ryland bent down and carefully lifts you into his arms.
Another violent wave of camera flashes erupted instantly.
“My girlfriend is uncomfortable getting photographed like this,” Ryland said again, softer this time but no less certain. “Please stop.”
Girlfriend. His girlfriend.
The word hit your chest so hard you almost forgot about the cameras entirely. Hidden safely beneath his shirt and your glittering stole, your face burns violently as you curl closer into his chest.
And somehow, despite the chaos surrounding the two of you. You know you’re completely safe with him.
The photos spread across the world within hours, there was never any real chance of stopping it. Not after Dr.Ryland Grace, humanity’s returned savior, carried the nation’s star through a swarm of paparazzi while calling her his girlfriend.
By noon, every news outlet on Earth had already picked up the story.
CONFIRMED: DR.CAPTAIN RYLAND GRACE IN A STEAMY ROMANCE WITH HOLLYWOOD’S SWEETHEART.
The headlines only became more unhinged from there.
“HERO OF HUMANITY CAUGHT IN SECRET OVERNIGHT ROMANCE.”
“SUNRISE KISS LEADS TO MUCH MORE?”
“SPACE SAVIOR SPOTTED CARRYING HER AFTER INTIMATE NIGHT.”
Thankfully, your face never appeared clearly in any of the photos.
Mostly because Ryland had spent the entire morning shielding you from every camera in existence, half-asleep and panicking while doing it.
Unfortunately for both of you, the gorgeous constellation dress gave everything away immediately.
The internet recognized it within a minute.
Lucy nearly committed homicide the second she saw the articles.
Your apartment door burst open so violently later that afternoon, both you and Ryland nearly fell off the couch in shock.
“ARE YOU INSANE?!” Lucy screamed.
Which would have been a much stronger entrance, if she hadn’t immediately walked in on Ryland kissing down your neck while already half naked you are on his lap.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Ryland froze like a deer caught in headlights.
You stared back at Lucy in horror.
Lucy slowly covered her face with both hands.
“Oh God,” She whispered weakly. “You two are literally incapable of behaving normally for even twelve hours.”
Ryland, still visibly starved from years of isolation and apparently making up for it all at once, quietly hid his face against your shoulder.
“I can explain,” He mumble.
“You absolutely cannot.” Lucy snarked back instantly.
One week later.
The media storm somehow still had not died.
If anything, the public seems even more emotionally invested now that Dr. Ryland Grace has apparently gone from socially awkward astronaut to embarrassingly devoted boyfriend in less than seven days.
Which brings you to your current situation. Cuddled up in bed beneath your fluffy blanket with Ryland’s arm wrapping securely around your waist, every news channel on television continues discussing your relationship like it’s an international political event.
“HOT ACTRESS SEDUCES SPACE HERO.”
You groan loudly into the pillow. “Ughhhh, can they stop already?” You cross your arms with a dramatic huff. “At this point they’re just jealous of me.”
“I mean… I technically did win the lottery.” A smug smile tugging across your lips.
Ryland laughs softly beside you. “I think I’m the one who did,” He murmurs, brushing your hair carefully away from your face.
The warmth in his voice still affects you embarrassingly fast.
After the paparazzi disaster, Ryland had quietly moved into your apartment almost immediately. Apparently hating the thought of living and sleeping alone now that he finally have you.
“Let’s just stop watching the TV and rest, okay?” He asks softly, taking the remote from your hand before switching it off.
“Okay” You mumble, still mildly offended on behalf of your own reputation.
Ryland smiles faintly before pulling you closer against his chest beneath the blankets. “You know,” He thoughtfully says against your hair, “I really wish I can tell Rocky, that I have a mate now.”
You giggle at that.
“And unfortunately for me,” Ryland continues with quiet amusement, pressing a kiss against your cheek, “she’s somehow just as sassy as he was.”
“Hmph.” Now you’re pissed again.
Ryland laughs under his breath before tugging the blanket higher around both of you.
Outside the apartment windows, golden light spilled warmly across the room.
“The sunset is beautiful.” Ryland whispers quietly. You soften at the look in his eyes, cuddling closer to him.
“Thank you for giving us the chance to keep enjoying them.”
afterwords: yeah, this is what it is…idk bruh it feels messy😭, i wrote this before Blind Fate and Proper actually, i hesitated on posting this for so long…
English isn’t my first language, so there might be a few awkward phrases or grammar mistakes here and there. If you spot any mistakes, feedback is always appreciated.
hmu on my ask box, tell me wdyt or any request? i’ll try my best.
Thank You so much for reading this -actual Grace❤︎
pairings: pre civil war!bucky x fem!reader, congressman!bucky x mom!reader
summary: your life is forever changed after a tender night with your quiet, traumatised neighbour in bucharest. years later, you're living in brooklyn with your five year old daughter and run into congressman barnes. he's everything you remembered and more, and now he wants to be part of yours and jamie's lives.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, plot with porn, angst, fluff, mentions of nightmares, a lot of plum pie, slooow burn, tender soft sex, then not tender sex, accidental pregnancy, explicit detailed smut, protected and unprotected pnv, slight dom!bucky, praise kink, dirty talk (bucky is a bit feral), pregnancy/breeding kink, body worship, oral (f!receiving), fingering, a lil spanking, multiple orgasms (f!receiving), reader cries during, love confessions, very few physical details of reader, reader's daughter has blue eyes and dark hair, no use of y/n (i'm trying something new), timeline inconsistencies (i tried tho), partly proofread, let me know if i missed anythingggg
word count: 19k (no but seriously can someone tell me to chill)
authors note: 2 fics for the price of 1! partly inspired by this post, partly inspired by @metal-armed-muse's second chances fic (dad congressman barnes has me weak in the knees). i needed a break from man on your mind and this just appeared like the sun through rainclouds (though it definitely put me in the trenches i won't lie). this is written from reader's pov, but might do some bucky pov blurbs if y'all are interested! reminder that i am a new writer so my style & formatting is ever evolving - ai will never be used in this household. please like, reblog, and comment :)
song inspo: river - zinadelphia
I’m somewhere in between
The things that I’ve lost
And the things I’ll gain from losing
Either way I will leave something behind
But I’m dying to do something different this time
June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania
Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks.
The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.
Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours.
It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums.
Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning.
The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door.
He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.
You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then.
Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States.
You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.
Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart.
In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.
You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show.
Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?
“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it.
Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.
“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that.
You were expecting the American accent even less.
He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win.
You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho.
You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome.
“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him.
He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.
He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”
He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.
You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile.
He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.
He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.
You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.”
“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile.
“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.
You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.
He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know.
In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.
His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”
He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats.
He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.
You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man.
He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.
Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”
Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time.
“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him.
You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.
Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.
You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him.
You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.
That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?
It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night.
You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.
“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.
You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands.
You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.
He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.
“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”
“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.
You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.
“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious.
Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands.
“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?”
His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion.
“…Why?”
“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”
He sighed at you thanking him again.
“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.”
Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.
You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”
His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”
You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.
“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.
He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”
You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress.
“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”
He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.”
You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”
He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster.
Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man.
“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”
His response was a small nod.
You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.
“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.
“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly.
You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.
Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days.
He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.
“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.
You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him.
“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”
Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face.
“I’m glad.”
He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.
Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.
Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.
“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.
You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”
He grunted in response, displeased.
“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”
“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”
You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again.
“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.
He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”
That didn’t surprise you at all.
You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”
“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.”
You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward.
“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”
He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”
“Friday morning.”
“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”
Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment.
Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe.
“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’.
“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him.
That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory.
He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements.
He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment.
You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you.
You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.
“What?” Bucky asked curiously.
“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork.
“Do you not get those often?”
You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth.
“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.
He huffed out a small laugh.
“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response.
“You remind me of a cat.”
“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.
“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”
He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out.
“What kind of cat would I be?”
“A black cat, for sure.”
You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.
“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly.
“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!”
You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.
Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye.
You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face.
He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.
“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.
You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.
“They’re perfect.”
You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him.
You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”
You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red.
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”
“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.”
“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”
“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly.
You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky.
“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”
“Whatever you want.”
An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.
“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”
He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.
“I’m…gonna miss you.”
You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.
You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.
“I’m going to miss you, too.”
You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.
Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.
“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen.
“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.
You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously.
Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie.
“You really like plums.”
“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.
That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand.
“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes.
“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin.
His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”
You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.
“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”
His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion.
You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.
You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.
“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.
“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces.
You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart.
He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.
“…I can’t believe you’re real.”
You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning.
You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.
“Can I kiss you?”
He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths.
“You okay?” You asked softly.
His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”
He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach.
You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw.
“Let me help you feel good.”
He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind.
“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.
He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own.
“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.
You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.
He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own.
“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already.
You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face.
“Eager, are we?”
You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses.
“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.
“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.
You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.
He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity.
He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.
“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.
With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.
He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.
“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.
“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.
Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.
He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?”
“For making me feel human.”
You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them.
You were right
- Bucky
A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.
Oh, shit.
Present day - Brooklyn, New York
The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back.
“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!”
“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”
She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep.
“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.
You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.
“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.
She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own.
“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”
She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.
“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”
“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.”
The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.
You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.
He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even.
You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips.
Bucky Barnes, in the flesh.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.
“Mama?”
You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.
You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.
“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.
You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”
She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.
“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”
You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”
Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie?
You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank.
It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.
Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.
“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.
You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.
“You said a swear word!”
You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.
“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.
“Not a chance, peanut.”
After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other.
Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.
But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth.
Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.
Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.
When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.
Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button.
And there he was.
Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.
A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.
You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.
“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…”
You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.”
“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”
“Mom, I’m busy—“
“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”
“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple.
There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming.
“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?”
“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.
Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father.
You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone.
“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do.
Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.
You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.
In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.
Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts.
You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years.
You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you.
“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.
You blinked.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter.
“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.
“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure.
Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.
“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year.
Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.
“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”
Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms.
She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell.
Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.
Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!”
You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.
Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.
“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him.
“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second.
You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?
Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.
“…Is she—“
His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.
“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.
Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside.
Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”
You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“
“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”
“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”
She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.
The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.
“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.
Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.
Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.
You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.
You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.
“We need to talk.”
“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”
“I have my ways.”
He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.
“Look, I agree we need to talk—“
“Why did you run off?”
And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.
You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest.
“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.
“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”
The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face.
“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“
And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.
“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs.
Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore.
He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor.
He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man.
“Hi, I’m Bucky.”
You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off.
“Hi, I’m Jamie!”
The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him.
“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”
She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.
“Are you coming to my soccer game?”
That shocked both of you.
“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.
“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”
The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core.
There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.
Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.
The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring.
Bucky cleared his throat softly.
“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.
“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.”
He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.
He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.
“She looks like my sister.”
That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.
“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”
You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.”
He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.”
You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.
Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.
“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.
“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.
“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.
“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”
Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.
“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”
He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”
You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle.
“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile.
He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.
“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”
“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.”
You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you.
“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.”
“Good.”
You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.
“Where were you—“
“What does she know—“
You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”
“What does she know…about me?”
Yeah, you were expecting that.
“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”
His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice.
“How do we tell her?”
There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue.
“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?”
The look he shot you was deadly.
You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”
“I want to be there.”
Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.
His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.
“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”
And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.
“What happened to you? After Bucharest?”
He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.
“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”
You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive.
“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.
He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk.
“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”
Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you?
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly.
“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”
He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.
“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”
“Noted.”
“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”
“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.
“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless.
“Whatever you say, doll.”
You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping.
“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.
“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.
“Fine.”
“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”
Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back.
“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it.
“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.
She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”
“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter.
“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.
“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”
Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys.
You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”
Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”
You grinned at him. “Exactly.”
Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint.
You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.
“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“
“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.
“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.
“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.
You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.
“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.
The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.
“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.
Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”
Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.
“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.
“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.
“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?
Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully.
He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”
Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.
He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest.
Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.
“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.
He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”
By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”
“If I don’t have to be away for work.”
She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited.
You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own.
“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins.
You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart.
“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.
Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.
And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.
You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.
Then you watched the realisation hit her.
“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.
“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”
And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly.
“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”
Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”
You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours.
The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines.
“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.
Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.
“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”
“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.
You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.
This was not going to be easy on your heart.
A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away.
First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.
You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.
She called your name, looking at you expectantly.
“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.
“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.
You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.
Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”
You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“
But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”
“I’ll text you his details!”
There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.
Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.
“Hey,” you started. “You okay?”
“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.
You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete.
You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.
“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”
“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot.
“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.
“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.
“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.
“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”
Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.
You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”
You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him.
“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low.
You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.
You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?
“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.
“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.
He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.
“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”
Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.
“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it.
“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.”
You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you.
You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.
You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.
There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.
“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.
“Photos of what?”
“When you were pregnant.”
You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.
“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”
He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone.
“I want to see.”
“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”
“I’m not asking for those.”
You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.”
The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.
“Good girl.”
Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction.
And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used.
The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.”
The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it.
“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover.
You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping.
“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.
“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.
He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”
You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.
“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper.
“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.”
Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.
Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.
“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.
“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.
Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.
“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.
He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”
He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.
Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.
“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”
Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.
A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey.
“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”
He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.
“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?”
Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force.
“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.”
His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.
“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time.
He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.
“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.
Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took.
“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.
“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.
“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.
“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.
“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.
The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He hummed, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.”
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.
Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper.
“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.”
You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.
He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.
“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”
That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about?
You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”
His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.
“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.”
You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar.
“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core.
His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.
“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear.
Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.
“Please,” you whispered desperately.
Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth.
His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.
“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.
You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs.
“Patience, doll.”
And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.
He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.
“So responsive.”
He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.
“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.
He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour.
“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.
He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck.
“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.
He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately.
His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.
“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.
“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease.
His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.
He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”
He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.
You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.
“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in.
His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver.
He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.
He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher.
“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.
He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.
He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.
He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.
“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.
“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.
He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.
“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.
You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.
His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.
“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood.
“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.
He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body.
“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?”
“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.
He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.
“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob.
He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.
“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.
He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.
He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.
“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response.
“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?”
You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.
He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume.
“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.
Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.
“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.
“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”
More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.
“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”
Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.
warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that.
word count: 2.9k
prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution: “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
missed call: almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been: “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.”
summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it.
sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)
Bucky was going to have words with Sam.
He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”
“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”
You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position.
“Hey, feet down.”
You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”
Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”
Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”
Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him.
"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add.
The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments.
“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you.
Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”
“I’m a good driver!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”
Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”
Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.
“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio.
It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders.
The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement.
You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night.
The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”
You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.
“Sounds good.”
“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.
The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”
Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time.
The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.”
You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly.
Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else.
“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more.
“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”
Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”
“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”
Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”
Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.
His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”
Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.
He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him.
What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.
The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying.
“Good shower?” He asks tentatively.
You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like.
“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”
Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Go for it.”
Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.
A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”
Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”
In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”
“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all.
“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”
“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”
“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark.
“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared.
“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.
“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”
Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap.
This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark.
Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.
“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”
Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”
it is deeply unfortunate how common ai has become in the writing space on here, and truly on any website to do with fan fiction. please for the love of god, if you are going to write something, let it come from the heart. even if it's "shitty," or the grammar isn't the best, or it's not exactly how you want it to be, write it anyway.
i promise you will improve in your technique as time goes on, but using an ai to "clean up" your writing inherently makes whatever work you just put in null and void. i don't post on here, but i am a writer, so this isn't me bashing anyone, it is simply a gentle yet tempered suggestion. i can't stop people from using something that has become grossly accessible in less than two years, but i can implore people to not engage with it.
anyway, that's all. happy reading and happy writing! mwah
summary: Every psychic and every tarot deck tells the same story: love isn't meant for you. Every reading ends the same way—until one skeptical customer pulls three cards that were never meant to belong to him. Suddenly, the future you've spent years trying to outrun refuses to leave you alone.
word count: 11.3 k
warnings: sort of enemies to friends to lovers, meet ugly, tarot, soulmates, slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, fluff, happy ending.
a/n: based on The Prophecy by Taylor Swift, been 7 weeks stuck in my drafts, I hope you like the outcome as much as I liked writing it for you! Beta read by @kileyking & @buckysdecaflove ❤︎ | dividers by @strangergraphics
read on AO3
Your family doesn't mean to hurt you. They just do.
It's the same every reunion, somebody's hand landing warm on your shoulder. When are you going to bring someone for us to meet? Are you ever gonna get married? That boat's sailed, hon. You missed your shot.
And their newest addition, just now: So, when's your turn? We really thought you'd be the next one walking down the aisle.
You're in your thirties now. Two cats, an apartment that's exactly how you want it, and you learned a long time ago to deflect, to laugh, to change the subject before anyone got too invested in your answer.
But those words stung.
Because god knows you've tried dating. You wanted the thing everyone kept asking you about, but you couldn't seem to hold onto it. Somewhere along the way you accepted that maybe you weren't meant to, just like the cards said once.
When the answer your cards gave you wasn't good enough, you tried something else: the oracle, rune-casting, pendulum, palmistry. You even ran the extra mile and paid someone to read your matrix destiny, but the answer remained the same: Not for you.
Apparently, the person meant for you was born over a hundred years ago, it wasn't meant to be in this life. Or at least, that's what the woman interpreted for you, it wasn't your line of work, but that night you pulled the cards alone and they confirmed it.
Your mom leans over, snapping you out of your thoughts. "They want you to say something."
You already knew this, you prepared days ago sitting in your apartment with your cats. You wrote and rewrote on your phone, trying to keep your words light and genuine.
"I've known Sarah since we were kids," you say. "She was always the one who knew exactly what she wanted. Not confused like the rest of us, not second-guessing. She just knew."
You can see her smiling, David's hand rest on her shoulder. You take a breath, your eyes are swelling with tears, but that's fine. That's normal at weddings.
"Sarah, David… you deserve each other, and you deserve the whole beautiful future you're about to have together. I hope you know how lucky you are, how blessed you are." Your voice wavers just slightly on that word. "Not everyone gets this, not everyone finds someone who loves them the way you love each other."
You're looking at Sarah and you mean every single word, even though it's cutting into you.
You raise your glass, trying to keep your hand steady despite the awful feeling sitting on your stomach. "To Sarah and David, and the future you deserve."
Later, when you're home at the outskirts of the city, with your cats curled on either side of you, you let yourself cry. Not angry tears, just the deep kind that come from watching someone else get the thing you've accepted you never will.
You think about the cards, about the woman who read your destiny and the words that have chased you since you were seventeen: The person meant for you was born out of time.
And your cousin's husband was born exactly at the right moment, in the right place, in the right life.
You're happy for her, you really are.
You're just so tired of helping everyone else find the life the cards promised would never belong to you.
The fair comes to the edge of your small town every spring, and you've been here for three years now. Your shop is small—just enough room for a folding table, two chairs, and the cards that you've been reading since you've been a teenager and decided to expand the gift you've inherited from your great grandmother.
The bell above the shop door chimes on a slow afternoon, and you look up from the velvet cloth you're arranging to find a couple standing in the doorway. The woman sees your altar in the corner, the crystals and the candles and her face lights up.
"Oh, this is perfect," she says, turning to him. "See? I told you we'd find someone authentic."
The man—dark hair, broad-shouldered, pierced-blue eyes and a very defined jawline— gives you a polite, slightly uncomfortable smile.
"Hey," he says. "She's been talking about you for weeks."
"Come in," you say, standing. You wipe your hands on your skirt. "Welcome to The Velvet Oracle, do you have an appointment?"
"I called yesterday," the woman says, stepping forward, hand extended. "I'm Hazel, this is Bucky. I want a couple's reading, we've been dating for four months and I just thought, you know, let's see what the future holds for us."
You gesture to the chairs across from you. "Sit, let's see what the cards have to say."
Hazel settles in, leans forward eagerly. Bucky sits back with his arms crossed. You don't let yourself look at him too long, because every time you do it you feel your stomach dropping, like when you miss a step in the dark.
You shuffle the deck, the familiar worn edges of the cards grounding you against your palms.
"Alright," you start. "For a couple's reading, I usually pull a few cards for each person individually, and then we'll look at the relationship as a whole. Sound good?"
Hazel nods enthusiastically, but Bucky's expression is somewhere between polite discomfort and outright skepticism.
"I gotta be honest," he says, glancing around the tent at the crystals and candles, "this isn't really my thing."
"I know, baby, but it'll be fun." Hazel tugs at his sleeve until he relents, uncrossing his arms. "Just let her do the reading, okay? For me."
He doesn't look convinced, but he nods and his expression softens for her. You don't know why, but that somehow makes you wanna cry.
You focus on Hazel, spreading the deck in a smooth arc across the velvet. "Go ahead and pull three cards when you're ready."
She leans forward, her fingers hovering dramatically before selecting. The first card makes you nod slowly—the Ace of Pentacles. A seed planted in rich soil. The second is the Empress, all abundance and growth. The third one is the World.
"Completion, fulfillment, a cycle coming to a close in the best possible way."
Hazel beams. "That's good, right?"
"Very good," you gesture at the Ace of Pentacles. "Pentacles are earth energy—practical, grounded, built to last. This is a new beginning with a solid foundation. The Empress suggests growth and nurturing, maybe even family, and the World is a major arcana card of fulfillment. Whatever you're building toward, the universe is supporting it."
"I'm a Taurus!" Hazel claps her hand together. "That's an earth sign. This is so accurate, oh my god! Earth energy for an earth sign, that has to mean something."
"It suggests alignment," you say carefully, because you've learned not to over-promise."The path you're on has stability written into it."
Hazel turns to Bucky with bright eyes. "See? I told you she was the real deal."
Bucky shifts in his chair, unmoved. "Great, so what about the rest of it?"
"Your turn," you say, trying to keep your voice light. "Three cards, same as before."
He looks at the deck like it might bite him. "I don't really believe in this stuff."
"It's just cards," you say. "They only have the power you give them."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite interest, but maybe a grudging willingness. Hazel nudges him with her elbow. "Just do it, Bucky. For me."
He sighs, leans forward and taps three cards with a soldier's precision. One, two, three. No hesitation, like he wants it over with.
You turn the first card: The Lovers.
Your breath catches. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, but your fingers have gone cold against the velvet.
"The Lovers," you say, and your voice comes out steady, despite the static in your ears. "This card is about significant choices. A crossroad in a relationship or a deep connection that requires a decision."
Hazel practically squeals with excitement. "That's us! A deep connection!"
Bucky doesn't react. His eyes are on the card, but his face gives nothing away.
You turn the second card. The High Priestess.
The card you've pulled for yourself more times than you can count since you were seventeen. Intuition. The veil between worlds. The woman in the card stares at you from the table, and for a disorienting second you swear the woman on the card has your eyes.
"The High Priestess represents hidden knowledge," you manage. "Things beneath the surface, secrets, intuition… the parts of ourselves we don't fully understand yet."
"What does that have to do with Bucky?" Hazel asks, frowning slightly.
"I'm not sure yet," you lie, because you're suddenly horribly sure of exactly what's happening, and you want to sweep the cards off the table and pretend you never touched them.
You flip the third card with a trembling hand. The Ace of Cups.
The card of new love, emotional awakening. The beginning of something that fills the heart. It's the same card that you've always pulled up reversed for yourself every single time you ask the universe if there's anyone out there for you.
Now here it is, on his spread… along with your arcana.
"A new emotional beginning," you say after a moment of silence. "The Ace of Cups is the start of something in matters of the heart. It's a very powerful, personal card."
Hazel turns to Bucky, her earlier enthusiasm dimming. "Is that about us? Wait— water and earth complement each other, right? Bucky's a Pisces, that's a water sign, I'm earth. That's good isn't it? They balance."
"Water and earth can be very nurturing together," you say, because it's true, even if the cards aren't saying that. "But these cards feel more like a personal message for Bucky, something individual, not necessarily about the relationship."
You don't remember what you say after that. Something about water signs and intuition, something about the cards reflecting individual journeys within partnerships. You're very good at small talk, at telling people something they might want to hear while the cards tell you something else entirely.
Hazel pays you in cash, and she leaves with her hand tucked into Bucky's elbow, already chattering about dinner reservations. He lingers in the doorway for half a second, looking back at you with an expression you can't read. Then the bell chimes, and they're gone.
You sit in silence for a long time, staring at the three cards, still laid out on the velvet. You gather them up with shaking hands and slip them back into the deck, but you can feel them there, warm against the others, like embers buried in ash.
That night, you pull your own cards for the first time in months. You stopped asking about love a year ago, because the answer never changed—the reversed Ace of Cups, Ten of Swords, the Tower. But tonight, you need to know if you imagined it, if the shop was too warm, if you simply wanted something so badly your mind bent the cards to fit.
You shuffle the deck until your fingers ache and cut the deck three times before pulling: The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
Exactly the same spread from earlier.
You throw the deck across your kitchen table and watch the cards scatter like birds. You don't read them, you don't need to.
The dreams start three nights later.
You're in the shop, but once you pay enough attention you realize it's not your shop—it's larger, older, with windows that look out onto a street you've never seen, snow falling in thick, silent curtains. Bucky is there, sitting across from you, but he's different. Younger, somehow, though you can't explain how you know that. He's smiling at you, and he reaches across the table to take your hand.
You wake up gasping, your sheets are twisted around your legs, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The second time you dream of him, you're dancing. You're not able to see if it's anywhere specific. It's a dark room, there is music playing from somewhere distant, his hand on your waist, his cheek pressed against your temple. He smells like cedar and leather. You can feel the calluses on his fingers through the fabric of your dress. When you wake up, you can still feel them.
You start drinking chamomile tea before bed. You burn sage. You place an amethyst under your pillow and a black tourmaline at your door, but nothing works. The dreams continue, threading themselves through your sleep like a second life you're living in parallel, and in every single one, he seems like the answer to a question you've been asking for a very long time.
You don't tell anyone. Who would believe you? What would you even tell them? I had a tarot reading go wrong and now I'm psychically stalking my client's boyfriend in my dreams. You'd sound insane. Worse, you'd sound desperate.
You don't hear from Hazel or him again. You tell yourself it's a good thing. You tell yourself the dreams will fade, that the thread between you dissolves with distance and time… except they don't fade, they get worse.
In your dreams you're now in Brooklyn, walking down streets lined with brownstones, and he's beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. He's telling you about his day, about his past, and you listen until his words start to fade. When you wake up, you can smell his cologne in the air.
You start taking walks in the afternoon, though you don't know why. You pull your cards again, desperate for something—anything—to change.
The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion. The cycle you've been trapped in for years, except this time the Tower doesn't feel like another heartbreak waiting to happen. It feels like change—the kind you can't stop even if you wanted to.
You don't sleep that night. You sit on your kitchen floor with your cats weaving between your legs, and you rearrange the cards in every configuration you know: Celtic cross, three card spread, relationship spread, past-present-future. Every single time, the same arc emerges: something is ending, something is beginning. And whatever comes next will leave you irrevocably changed.
Your aunt Margaret—Maggie, as you've called her since you were little—tells the family that she has broken her hip on the cellar stairs, that the surgery went fine, but she doesn't want a nurse or a help aide. She wants someone from the family who can come stay with her or she'll manage alone.
The call gets passed down through the entire family, but nobody offers to go take care of her. Your cousins have husbands, kids, mortgages, school pickups… Meanwhile, you have two cats and a tarot shop you can shutter for a season, and nobody says it out loud, but everybody means it: you're the one with nothing to leave behind.
You arrive on a Tuesday with your two cat carriers, three suitcases and the deck wrapped in a scarf at the bottom of your tote. Maggie is waiting in the front room of the brownstone, sat in a wingback chair with a cane across her knees.
"There she is, I knew you would come," she says. "Come kiss me."
You oblige before setting the carriers on the floor and opening them to let your cats wander around and recognize the place you'd be staying for a few weeks.
"I got two rules," Maggie starts, taking off her reading glasses. "The thermostat stays where I put it, and no cards in my house."
"Maggie—"
"I know what you carry around, I have enough ghosts in this old apartment, so there's no way I'm letting you welcome more through…that."
"They're just cards."
"Then it won't kill you to leave them in the bag," she settles back into the chair and picks her crossword up off the side table, and that is the end of it. "The kettle's on, you can take the room at the top of the stairs."
You know arguing with her would be useless, so you go and install yourself in that cramped old room and decide you'll read when she's asleep.
It becomes a ritual within the first week: you wait for the apartment to go quiet, wait for her snoring to even out and you sit at the kitchen table with the deck and a single candle as if you were a teenager sneaking cigarettes. Your cats take turns supervising from the counter, but you keep one ear on the ceiling the whole time, just in case.
Every single time, the same cards you pull at your shop with Bucky keep coming.
The Lovers. The High Priestess. The Ace of Cups.
The dreams don't fade with the distance from home, they sharpen. Now the businesses have names, because you've walked past it every time you go run errands for your aunt Maggie. The stoop where he sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched, you know it. You've seen the exact iron railing, three blocks east. In one dream he laughs at something, and you wake up missing something you haven't even seen in real life.
You try to build a reasonable conclusion: You've been here previously, you know this neighborhood. You just did one reading to a ridiculous handsome man eight months ago and your lonely, overworked brain latched on, and now it's trying to dress a crush in destiny because it's something you've been trying to change your whole life. That's all this is. A simple crush and a reader's block. It happens sometimes to some people, right?
At least that's what Reddit said last time you checked.
You've almost convinced yourself by the third Saturday in October, which is when you see him at the green market, standing at a fruit stall with a paper bag in one gloved hand. You stop so fast a woman with a stroller clips your heel.
Eight months and four hundred miles, and he's right here, wearing a canvas jacket with his hair shorter than you remember, frowning at the fruit, and your first coherent thought is run, but your feet are refusing to move.
He must've felt your eyes on him, because he looks up.
"You," he says it flat.
"Hi," your voice comes out steadier than you expect, and you silently thank god, the universe and every existent deity. "Bucky, right?"
He crosses the few feet between you, and up close you notice a tension in him that you don't remember from the shop. "What are you doing here?"
"Buying some groceries." You lift the bag as evidence. "I'm here taking care of my aunt and—"
"Right, so now your aunt happens to live here. Funny."
"You can come with me and check if you don't believe me," the bite gets into your voice before you can stop it. "Is there a problem?"
He laughs once, but there's no humor in it. "Is there a problem, you ask? Why don't you pull your cards and figure it out?"
"Okay—"
"Hazel broke up with me," he watches your face while he says it. "Three weeks after that reading, you want to know why?"
The market noise keeps going around you, crates and gulls and a vendor calling out prices, but everything is reducing to background noise while you feel the cold coming up from through your boots.
"She couldn't let it go," he continues. "You said something about a new beginning, some big personal message and she turned it over until there was nothing left. Every conversation we had circled back to it, who is she? When did it start? The cards don't lie. Four months, gone, because you laid out three stupid pieces of laminated paper and made it sound like some stupid prophecy."
"That isn't what I said— "
"Well, it's what she heard."
"I told her those cards were about you, individually. I was careful—"
"You were vague," he says, "which is the whole trick, isn't it? Say something soft enough to fit any shape, take the cash, let people destroy themselves filling in the blanks… there's a word for that." He shifts the bag of groceries to his other hand. "You're a fraud. The polite version is intuitive, a fraud with esoteric words."
You should let it go. He's a stranger, he's grieving a relationship, the market is crowded and you have other things to do, but you don't let it go.
"I didn't make those cards come up." You step in instead of back, and something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, that you didn't fold. "I shuffled, you pulled three cards, it was your own hands, no hesitation. I read what was on the table and I softened it more than I should have, for her sake. What she did with it afterward isn't mine to carry, and neither is what you do with it."
A muscle moves in his jaw. For a second neither of you says anything, and you notice—stupidly, uselessly—that his eyes are exactly the color they are in your dreams.
"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Hazel."
"Yeah, you sure do." He steps around you. "Enjoy Brooklyn and stay the hell away from me."
You stand there with your own groceries until your hands stop shaking.
That night you don't pull cards. You lie awake instead, replaying it, building better arguments hours too late, and when you finally sleep, he's there—sitting across a kitchen table that doesn't exist, pushing a cup of coffee toward you, smiling at you the way he has never smiled once in real life.
You wake up furious at your own mind.
The radiator in the front room dies the last week of October, the same week the temperature does.
You find Maggie in her wingback with a blanket over her knees and the phone already against her ear. "It's the front one again," she's saying. "It clanks like the devil and gives nothing… No, don't be silly, after lunch is fine. You'll eat here anyway." She hangs up before whoever it is can argue.
"I could've called someone," you say. "There's a service the pharmacy recommends—"
"A service?" She huffs a laugh, like you've said something completely irrational. "I have James, he does the whole block—the Russo's gutters, Mrs. Ferreira's stairs… he won't take a dime, but I tuck it in his jacket when he isn't looking."
"James," you repeat.
"You'll like him," she says, returning to her crossword. "He's a serious boy, it's good with hands, single…"
The doorbell rings at one. You open the door and there he is, on your aunt's stoop, a tool bag over his shoulder, and you watch the exact moment his face goes through the market all over again.
"You gotta be shitting me," he mutters.
"Yeah, well, I'm not excited either, but I told you I was taking care of my aunt."
From the front room, your aunt's voice: "James! Don't let the heat out, it's the one radiator still working in here!"
You look at each other and there's a long moment where you genuinely cannot tell whether he's going to turn around and walk back down the steps, and then he exhales through his nose and crosses the threshold, being painfully obvious at avoiding brushing your shoulder in the narrow hall.
What follows is the strangest two hours of your autumn. Because the man at the market and the shop doesn't appear. With your aunt, he's somebody else entirely—patient, dry, gentle in an odd way for the way he's treated you. He kneels on the floor and bleeds the radiator and lets her direct him with her cane without complaining. Asks about her hip, and actually listens to the answer.
You stay in the kitchen, mostly. You make the coffee she orders you to make and when you bring it in, Nova—the bolder of your two cats—has installed herself on the tool bag, paws tucked underneath him, supervising, and for your surprise, Bucky is working around her rather than moving her.
He glances up when you set the cup down near him, just out of his way.
"Thanks," it's dry, but it's not nothing.
"You take your coffee black, right?" you say, and then bite your own tongue off, because you don't know that. You've been dreaming of that.
He pauses with the wrench mid-turn. "Lucky guess."
"Well, you look like a man who likes to keep it simple." You say it lightly and walk away before your face can do anything stupid, and behind you, Maggie says something about you reading people, and then you hear the small clank of metal as something in his hands slips.
He doesn't stay to eat, despite your aunt's best efforts. At the door, shrugging the tool bag back up, he stops with his hand on the frame. He doesn't quite look at you.
"Her hip," he murmurs. "If she needs anything lifted, or any errands to run, whatever… Maggie has my number."
"Okay."
"For her," he clarifies.
"I understood you the first time," you say sweetly and shut the door on whatever his face does next.
In the front room, Maggie has watched this entire exchange over her glasses.
"You didn't tell me you know James."
"Barely."
"Mm." She picks up her pen. "It seemed like more than barely to me. But if that's how you treat men no wonder why you're still single."
You gasped audibly and she winked an eye at you before going back to her crossword.
You start running into him in an almost daily basis. The neighborhood is small—twenty thousand people and somehow the same six faces every single day— and now that you know he's in it, he's everywhere. Outside the hardware store with a length of pipe over his shoulder. At the pharmacy counter, when you go pick up Maggie's medications and he's talking to an Asian man. Across the green market, where you both pretend with great commitment that the other one is invisible.
But there's no real conversation until now.
You've misjudged the sky and the distance, so you're hauling two grocery bags and a sack of cat litter up Pierrepont when the cold drizzle turns serious. You stop under sycamore to redistribute everything you're carrying, water running off the end of your nose, and a shadow falls over you. You lift your gaze and he's there, hood up, his hand already out reaching for you.
"What? Your cards didn't tell you there would be a storm?"
"Ha-ha. Very funny."
"Give me the litter."
"I've got it."
"You're going to put your shoulder out being stubborn. I said give me the damn litter."
You could protest, but you know it's pointless to fight with him, so you give him the litter and walk the last two blocks side by side without speaking, rain hissing on the pavement, his boots and your boots out of step.
He sets the sack on the second stair of your aunt's gate, but he doesn't leave immediately.
"At the market," he murmurs, to the gate rather than to you. "When I— when I said those things to you… I was out of line."
"You were rude."
"I was out of line," he repeats.
"You called me a fraud, and you said my intuition was exactly that, a fraud with esoteric words."
"Well, if you were so intuitive, wouldn't you have known about the rain?" It takes you a second to hear it, the dry shift under the flat delivery, and you laugh before you decide to. He looks surprised, like he wasn't expecting the sound either.
"Go home, Bucky," you say. "You'll catch a cold."
"Is that a prediction?"
You rolled your eyes. "There's no need for that, it's logical."
"Tell Maggie I left the wrench in the bin by the door… for the sink." He's already turning. "Don't let her do the sink herself, she'll try."
"I know my aunt."
"Then you know she'll try." And he's gone into the rain, shoulders up, and you stand at the gate watching him go for longer than you should.
That night you dream of him again, except the dream is just this: the two of you under a sycamore, rain coming down, but this time he's laughing—really laughing, head tipped, the whole architecture of his face rearranged by it— at something you can't hear yourself say.
You wake before dawn with your heart going hard and the echo of his laugh still in your ears.
It's a crush, you remind yourself staring at the ceiling.
Then why does your heart feel so heavy?
By November, your aunt has invented a maintenance schedule that no brownstone in history has ever required. The storm windows, the cellar light, a cabinet hinge you're fairly sure she loosened herself, because you watched her test it with her cane the day before she called him.
"You're matchmaking," you accuse, setting her tea down.
"I'm maintaining my property." She doesn't look up from the crossword. "Seven across, six letters. Foreseen by the stars."
"Fated."
"That's five."
"Destined is eight. Fated is five." You count it on your fingers. "What's six?"
Maggie hums thoughtfully and writes something down where you can't see it.
Bucky comes back on Thursday to check the storm windows. It's the fourth time, not that you're counting, and something has shifted in the dynamic between you—the hostility has burned down to a kind of wariness, and that wariness keep springing leaks.
He lets you hold the frame steady while he drives the screws, close enough that you can smell the cedar on his jacket. He answers your aunt's interrogation about his week in actual sentences. When Nova bolts for the open window, Bucky catches her one-handed without looking, absorbs the betrayed yowl and deposits her on the sofa with a flat "No". You expect retaliation, but Nova—who has never once obeyed you—stays.
"Traitor," you tell the cat.
"She respects the chain of command."
Maggie goes up for her nap at three with a theatrical yawning that should embarrass her. Bucky's packing up the drill in the kitchen and you're making coffee because it's cold and the radio on the counter—her ancient radio, permanently tuned to an AM station that plays classics—is murmuring under everything.
And you go still.
It takes you a moment to realize, and another to find why: he's humming. Barely, under his breath, and the song sounds pretty familiar.
The mug slips, you catch it against the counter, there's coffee slopping over your knuckles, and the burn makes you realize that song was playing in the dream where he danced with you in a dark room. You've never heard it awake in your life until right now. You don't know its name either, you only knew the next three notes after he hummed them.
"You okay?" He's looking at you now.
"It's nothing," you run your hand under the tap. "Just… wanted to heat my hands a little bit."
It's just an old song, it's an old radio station. Men hum old songs; it's logical. You repeat it in your head twice but your hands don't believe any of it. And god forbid you, you neither.
When you turn around, he's leaning against the counter, watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I've been meaning to ask you," he starts. "About the cards. Why do you do it? And I don't want the speech, I want the real answer."
You dry your hands slowly, deciding how much truth he's earned.
"My great grandmother read cards," you start, leaning against the counter across from him. "She read for people in her village back in the old country. My mom said she could look at someone and see the shape of their life, like… like they were made of glass. She tried to teach my mother, but the gift skipped her and landed on me instead."
You take a pause, watching the radio, the floor, anything but him.
"I was seven the first time I saw something I couldn't explain. I touched my grandmother's deck and I knew things about her neighbor who was sitting at the kitchen table. That she'd lost a baby the year before, that her husband was sleeping with her sister, that she was going to leave him by spring." You swallow. "I said all of it out loud, like an idiot child, because I didn't know you weren't supposed to just say those things."
Bucky's quiet. You can feel him listening, like he's cataloguing every word.
"My mother was horrified. My grandmother on the other hand wasn't. She said the cards chose me, and that I should learn to read them properly so I'd stop blurting out unfiltered truth at dinner parties." A small, humorless laugh leaves you. "So I learned. By the time I was a teenager, I was pulling cards for friends, for strangers, for anyone who asked. And most of the time, it's just… pattern recognition and intuition working together. The cards are a tool, not a magic trick, but sometimes—"
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes they show you something that doesn't fit any pattern you know. And you have to decide whether to believe what you're seeing or pretend you didn't see it."
The radio changes songs.
"Is that what happened with my reading?" he asks quietly.
No, you think. It's worse than that.
"I read what was on the table," you say instead, because it's the truth, even if it's not all of it. "I didn't make it up, Bucky. I've never fabricated a reading in my life. The cards that came up for you were clear… unusually clear. And I softened them because Hazel was sitting right there and I didn't want to hurt her, but I didn't lie."
He studies you for a long moment, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wants to believe you fighting the part that needs to think you're a con artist, because the alternative is harder.
"Okay," he says finally.
"O—Okay?"
"I'm not saying I believe in it. I'm saying I believe you believe it, and that's… different."
It's the most generous thing he's said to you since the market, and it lands somewhere under your ribs.
It's a Tuesday in late November, and Maggie has sent him to fix a leak under the kitchen sink that you both suspect she caused by hitting the pipe with her cane. He's on his back under the counter and you're handling him tools, trying not to notice the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for the wrench.
When he slides out, wiping his hands on a rag, he looks at you for a while.
"There's a place two blocks over. They make decent coffee, if you're done pretending you don't need a break."
"That's the worst invitation I've ever heard. You're just observing that I look tired."
"You do look tired."
"Wow, thank you. A true gentleman."
His mouth twitches. "Do you want coffee or not?"
You want to say no, because saying yes feels too much like stepping off a cliff, but the word comes out before you can stop it. "Fine, but only because you're paying."
Maggie, from the front room calls out: "Take your time! I'm perfectly fine!"
You both know she's been listening to every word.
The walk to the café is silent.
The place looks cozy—it's small, warm and smells like cinnamon and cardamom. He orders black coffee and you order a latte and a slice of walnut cake. You sit t a table by the window where the afternoon light comes in, and for a few minutes neither of you says anything.
It should be awkward, being here without Maggie or your cats between you, but it isn't.
"Would you mind if I ask you something?"
"You're going to ask whether I say yes or not."
"Smart man." You turn the cup slowly. "Why do you do this? The handyman thing… Maggie says you work for the whole block. But you don't charge, you won't take money—"
"I take money, I just don't like to ask for it, besides, Maggie always invites me to eat."
"She tucks money in your jacket while you're not seeing."
"She's not as subtle as she thinks." He takes a sip of his coffee and ten looks at you. "I like fixing things, always have. When something's broken, there's a right way to fix it, and when it's done, it's done, it's done. You can see the result, it's not…"
"Ambiguous?"
"Yeah, exactly. It's not ambiguous."
You understand suddenly why he hated the reading and everything related to it. You gave him a puzzle with no solution, a fix with no steps… you made him sit with something unfixable.
The conversation moves easier after that. He tells you about the neighborhood, about Mrs. Ferreira, about Yori—the Asian man you saw the other day who feeds pigeons from his window, about the old man on the fourth who swears at everyone in Italian. You tell him about your shop, about your cats—Nova and Salem, about the time you accidentally read cards for a man who turned out to be an undercover cop investigating a psychic scam two towns over, and how you spent forty-five minutes proving your cards weren't marked.
You see him laughing, not the polite sound from always, but a real one. You drink your coffee and eat your cake and try to not think about the dreams.
It becomes a thing. He finishes a repair at Maggie's or passes by to eat and you end up at the café, or walking the two blocks to the park where the benches face the water, or simply sitting on her stoop in the last cold light of the afternoon while you both drink coffee.
You learn things about him in pieces. He's from Brooklyn—born and raised, he says, but the tone on his voice tells you it's partly a lie. He has a best friend named Sam who's a pain in the ass. He doesn't talk about his family, but you don't push. He served in the military, a long time ago.
He learns things about you too, like the fact you talk with your hands when you're passionate about something, or that you hum when you're thinking and that hum is always off-key. He learns about your habit of reading strangers on the street and narrating your observations under your breath.
The first week of December arrives with an ugly wind that rattles Maggie's windows and makes your cats burrow under the blankets. Maggie has graduated from the cane to limping short distances without it, which means she's mobile enough to meddle full-time.
Bucky comes by Wednesday to check a draft Maggie swears she can feel coming from the baseboards. You both know there's no draft, but he comes by anyway.
You open the door and he's standing on the stoop with his hands in his jacket pockets, his tool bag over one shoulder, and there's snow in his hair—not much, just dust, but it's there, melting against the dark of it—and your heart does something complicated because of how good he looks.
"Maggie's napping," you say.
His hand comes out of his pocket. He's holding a folded napkin, and he holds it out to you like it's a wrench.
"I made reservations," he murmurs. "At Valentino's, this Friday, seven o'clock."
You stare at the napkin. "Did you just… write it on a napkin?"
"I didn't have a paper." He shifts his weight. "Sam says you're supposed to give the person a specific time and place, so… there it is."
"You asked your friend how to ask someone on a date?"
"Well, he tells me a lot of things, more of it is useless." He's looking at the doorframe while he speaks, then he glances at you. "This part seemed right."
You unfold the napkin. His handwriting is surprisingly neat—small, precise letters. Friday, 7 pm- Valentino's on Henry St. —B
"Is this because Maggie put you up to it?" you ask, because if this is charity or pity or Maggie's matchmaking you'd rather know now and bleed later.
"No. She might take credit for it, but no. I was going to ask you at the café last week, but then you started reading people and I lost my nerve."
Bucky lost his nerve.
"So, Friday… at seven."
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes."
He nods once, and you can see his shoulders drop half an inch. You want to laugh, or cry, or both, so you just fold the napkin carefully and put it in your pocket.
"Are you going to come in and check the nonexistent draft, or…?"
"Might as well, just to keep the appearances."
He brushes past you in the doorway, and unlike the first time, he doesn't avoid your shoulder.
When Friday night comes, you don't understand why you're so damn nervous, but here you are, changing your outfit twice before settling with a blue dress and a pair of boots that Maggie claims make your legs look like they go on forever. You're halfway down the stairs when the doorbell rings.
He cleans up well. That's the first thought you have when you open the door. He's wearing a dark jacket over a sweater, and his hair is pulled back in a way that shows the sharp lines of his face, and he smells so good you have to resist the urge to lean closer and breathe him in again.
"You look nice," he says when you open the door.
"You too." You grab your coat from the hook. "Don't wait up, Maggie."
"Go. Don't come back before ten, I have a television program."
"We're going to dinner, Maggie, not—"
"Door will be locked before ten o'clock," she insists, and shuts the door on your face before you can answer, letting you at the bottom of the stairs.
You turn to face Bucky and the way he looks at you makes you forget every argument you've ever had with yourself about why this is a bad idea.
"Ready?" he asks.
"It depends. Are you going to accuse me of fraud tonight?"
"Not tonight."
"Then I'm ready."
Valentino's is tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The hostess greets Bucky by name and leads you to a corner booth where the candlelight flickers against the red-checkered tablecloth.
"Fancy," you tease.
"I said it wasn't fancy."
"Exactly," you unfold your napkin and look around—warm brick walls, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and and old man at the bar arguing with the bartender about baseball. "I like it."
He orders wine for the table without asking, but it's the good kind, the kind that tastes likes blackberries, and when he catches you watching him over the rim of your glass, he doesn't look away.
You're talking about the shop—what you'll do when you go back, whether you'll reopen at all—when he leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. "I want to ask you something, but I don't want to fight."
"That's a promising start."
"Why do you believe in it? The cards, destiny, all of it. You're smart. You read people like they're open books. How do you also believe that pieces of cardboard can tell the future?"
It's not hostile. It's genuine curiosity, and that's worse, because you owe him a real answer. You down the rest of your wine for a bit of liquid courage.
"When I was seventeen," you start, and your voice is careful, like you're walking on ice, " my great grandmother died. She'd been sick for a while, and when I went to see her in the hospital she… she told me she'd been reading my cards since I was born. That she'd asked about my future every year on my birthday, the way she did for everyone in the family. And every year, the same cards came up."
The restaurant noise fills the silence—the clink of glasses, a murmur of conversation from the next table—but you're hyper aware of him.
"She said love wasn't meant for me." You trace the rim of your glass with your finger. "I didn't believe her, I was seventeen, I thought she was a dramatic old woman who loved tragedy, or that maybe she was way too high on her meds. So I started reading for myself, I pulled my own cards every week, every month, every time I met someone I thought could be something. And every single time, the same answer. Reversed Ace of Cups. Ten of Swords. The Tower. Not for you, not in this life."
You laugh, but it comes out humorless.
"I even paid a woman to read my destiny matrix, I tried runes, I tried everything because I wanted so badly for the answer to be different; but it never was. I tried dating, I did. I wanted so bad to be loved. Apparently, the person meant for me was born over a hundred years ago, and I was born now, so the timing was wrong, and that's it."
Bucky is very still across the table. He hasn't moved, hasn't reached for his glass, hasn't done anything except listen with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. The silence between you stretches. He's looking at you with an expression you can't decode.
"Bucky?"
He exhales slowly, and his jaw works twice. Then he leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. "You don't have any idea of who I am?"
"Should I?" you ask, confused.
He stares at you for a long moment like he's looking for some sign that you're joking. "You really don't."
"Bucky, you're freaking me out a little. Are you in the mob? A famous musician? Because I have to be honest, I don't really follow the news, and history was never my strong subject. I know the major stuff, but—"
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, sliding something across the table toward you.
It's his driver's license. You pick it up, squinting at the tiny photo—he looks exactly the same, of course he does, that hot bastard—and then your eyes drop to the birth date.
March 10, 1917.
You read it three times, but the numbers don't change. You look up at him, and he's watching at you with an expression you can't read.
"I was born in 1917," he says quietly. "Here in Brooklyn. I went to war in '43 and… I didn't come back the way I left. They did things to me, changed me. I don't age the way normal people do, and there's a lot of years in between that I'd rather not talk about in a restaurant."
Your hands are shaking. You set the license down on the table between you like it might burn you.
"The matrix destiny," you whisper. "It said a hundred years ago. You were born a hundred years ago."
"Yeah." He leans forward. "And here's the thing. I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in stars writing our stories for us, because if I did—" His voice breaks, just slightly, and he catches it. "If I did, then I'd have to believe that what happened to me was determined. That the things that I did, the things that were done to me, they were written in stone before I was even born. And that's too cruel, that's a crueler god than I'm willing to worship."
He's breathing harder now, and you realize with a start that he's scared. Bucky Barnes, who caught your cat mid-air and argued with you in the rain, is scared of what you might say next.
"But you," he continues, softer now. "You showed up in my neighborhood reading cards and talking about things you shouldn't know. And I kept seeing you everywhere, and I kept telling myself it was a coincidence, that Brooklyn is small and you were just… there. But there's something here. I feel it every time I'm in the same room as you, and I don't know if that's fate or if it's just—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "I don't know what it is. But I know I haven't wanted to spend time with someone like this in a long time. And if that means the stars finally decided to do something kind for once, then maybe… maybe I'm not as angry at them as I thought."
You don't know what to say. The pasta arrives and sits cooling between you, forgotten. You think about every card you've ever pulled, every spread that ended in the same lonely answer, every time you accepted that love wasn't meant for you. And now, he's sitting across from you, born in 1917, a hundred-year-old soul in a young man's body, and the math is so simple it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"You're quiet," he says.
"I'm not quiet," you manage, but your voice sounds like it's coming from very far away. "I'm just… I don't know what to say. You don't— you don't just drop 'I was born in 1917' into a conversation and expect someone to have a response ready."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Fair."
"You fought in World War II."
"Yeah."
"And you're telling me you don't believe in fate, but you just handed me proof that the answer I've been getting my whole life wasn't wrong."
"I'm telling you that I don't care what the cards said," he reaches across the table, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he covers your fingers with his palm. His skin is warm, calloused, and you feel it everywhere. "I care that you're here, right now. And I'm here. That's enough for me."
You look down at your hand under his, at the candlelight pooling in the hollow of his palm, and you think about the High Priestess card, the one you've pulled for yourself a hundred times. Hidden knowledge, the veil between worlds, secrets.
Maybe the secret was that you weren't waiting for a ghost after all.
You eat eventually, though you barely taste it. He tells you about Sam, about the boat they worked on together, about the neighborhood changing and staying the same all at once. You tell him about your cats, about the way Maggie pretends to be asleep every time he comes over so you'll have to answer the door alone.
But mostly, you sit in the candlelight and let yourself have this. Whatever this is.
He insists on walking you home. It's not far—five blocks, maybe six—and the December air is sharp enough to make you tuck your hands into your coat pockets. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, closest to the street, the way men used to do when he was young, and something about that makes your chest ache.
"You okay?" he asks as you turn onto Maggie's block.
"Yeah." But you're not, not really. You're overwhelmed, full of things you don't know how to say. You want to tell him that you've dreamed about him, that you've known the shape of his laugh before you ever heard it, that you pulled his cards in your kitchen and you threw the deck across the room because it was too much to believe. You want to ask him if he feels it too, this gravity, this sense of falling into something you never expected to find.
But you don't say any of that. You just walk beside him in the dark, and when you reach Maggie's stoop, you turn to face him.
The streetlamp behind him casts a halo around his shoulders. You think about all the years he's lived, all the winters he's seen, and you can't believe any of them led him here. To you. To this moment in your aunt's cracked concrete steps.
"I had a good time," he says.
"Me too."
He steps closer. You can smell the wine on his breath, the cedar of his jacket, the cold night air clinging to his air. He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and his eyes are darker in the shadows.
"I don't think I need to." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "I think I already know how this goes."
"Yeah?" His hand finds your waist, tentative, asking permission. "How's it go?"
And then he kisses you.
It's soft at first, careful, like he's giving you time to pull away. But you don't pull away. You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, and he makes a sound against your mouth before deepening the kiss. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you can feel the warmth of him through every layer between you that suddenly feels like too many.
He tastes like red wine, and his jaw is rough under your palm, and when you break apart you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, and he sounds almost drunk with it. He kisses you again, lighter this time, on the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, "I don't care about fate. But if you want to tell me what the stars said, I'll listen."
You laugh, a little watery, and push at his chest. "Go home, Bucky. It's cold."
"I know." But he doesn't move. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
He finally steps back, down one step, then two. He's smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and rearranges his whole face into something boyish and new. "Night, then."
"Night."
You watch him walk down the block, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed in a way you haven't seen before. You watch until he turns the corner and disappears, and you stand there for a long moment with your fingers pressed to your mouth, trying to remember how to breathe.
The front door opens behind you.
"You're welcome," Maggie says.
You jump so hard you nearly fall off the stoop. "Jesus, Maggie!"
She's standing in the doorway in her robe and slippers, her crossword in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She looks entirely too pleased with herself.
"You were watching!" You accuse.
"I was observing, there's a difference." She steps back to let you in. "I told you he was a good boy, serious, good with his hands." She winks. "And now you know for sure."
"Maggie!"
"Don't 'Maggie' me. I didn't raise you to be ungrateful." She shuffles toward the stairs. "You can thank me properly at breakfast. And don't think I didn't notice you sneaking cards at my kitchen table for three months straight. I may be old, but I'm not blind."
You stand in the hallway, coat still on, cheeks burning, and listen to her cackle all the way up the stairs.
Your cats appear from the front room, twining around your ankles, and you bend down to scoop Nova up, burying your face in her fur. She purrs, loud and indignant, and you laugh against her soft orange head.
"Okay," you whisper to him, to the empty hallway, to no one in particular. "Okay."
You don't know what happens next. You don't know how any of this works, a tarot reader and a century-old soldier, two people the universe apparently decided to throw together just to see what would happen.
But as you climb the stairs to your cramped little room, you think about the spread you pulled the night before you left for Brooklyn. The Tower. The Star. The World.
Disaster, then hope, then completion.
Maybe The Tower wasn't heartbreak after all. Maybe it was just the world rearranging itself to make room for something you never dared to ask for.
You fall asleep that night without pulling any cards, without any dreams at all, and when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is Bucky's voice downstairs, asking Maggie if she takes one sugar or two, and the sound it's better than any spread you've ever read.
June.
The summer breeze at Coney Island smells like salt and fried dough, and you were wearing the jacket Bucky lent you because you misjudged the wind off the water. It's still too big, the sleeves past your knuckles, and he keeps reaching over to roll them back up for you, his thumb brushing your wrist every time.
You can't remember whose idea it was to come here. Maybe yours, maybe his. Maybe it doesn't matter, because Bucky's hand is wrapped around yours. You've been official since January, though the line between before and after has blurred into something that feels like it started long before either of you were brave enough to name it.
The boardwalk is crowded with families and couples and teenagers laughing too loud, but Bucky moves through them like he was made for this—for cotton candy and carnival lights, for the easy joy of a Brooklyn summer night. He fits here, you realize. He fits now. A hundred-year-old soul learning how to be young again.
"Step right up! Test your luck!" A barker's voice cuts through the noise, and you follow it to a row of old arcade machines tucked beneath a stripped awning. Skee-ball, claw machines, a racing game with a faded steering wheel—and then you see it.
A fortune teller machine.
It sits in the corner like something out of another era, which, you suppose, it is. Madam Zola's Mystical Fortune Cards, the peeling gold paint reads. Insert coin. Receive Your Destiny. The mechanical woman inside has painted glass eyes and a silk scarf draped over her plastic hair, and her hand rests on a deck of cards that probably haven't been mystical a day in their life.
Bucky follows your gaze and laughs. "You're kidding me."
"I'm absolutely not kidding you." You're already digging in your pocket for a quarter. "Madam Zola and I are colleagues, I need to know if she's legitimate."
"She's made of plywood."
"So judgmental." You find two quarters and press one into his palm, your fingers lingering against his. "For you, professional courtesy."
He looks down at the quarter, then back at you, and something softens in his expression. "Alright," he says. "But if this thing tells me I'm gonna die alone, I'm blaming you."
"Fair."
You drop your quarter in first. The machine whirs to life with a dramatic creak. Madam Zola's hand moves across the cards in jerky, mechanical motions, and after a moment, a small white card drops into the brass tray below.
You pick it up. It's not a real tarot card—just cardstock, cheap, the edges already soft from humidity—but the image printed on it makes your breath catch. Two hands clasped, reaching across a starfield. Beneath it, in gold script: The Lovers.
And underneath that, smaller: You've found the one. Don't waste time doubting it.
You stare at it. Bucky leans over your shoulder to read it, and you feel him go still.
"Huh."
"Your turn!"
"I don't need a card to tell me—"
"Your turn, Barnes."
He huffs, but he drops in the quarter you gave him. The machine grinds and another card falls. He picks it up. You don't see it at first, but you see his face—the way his jaw loosens, the way his eyes soften at the corners.
It's the same image, but the text beneath reads: What was written in the stars has come to pass. Trust the path, trust your heart.
The noise of the fair fades to a distant hum. You look up at him, and he's already looking at you.
"Bucky—"
"I don't care if it's rigged. I don't care if every card in that thing says the same thing. You're—" He stops, swallowing thickly. "You're it for me. You know that, right?"
Your heart is doing that complicated thing again, the thing it does every time he looks at you like you're the only person in the world.
"I know," you whisper. "Me too."
He kisses you then, right there in front of Madam Zola and half of Brooklyn, his hand cradling your jaw like you're something precious. When you pull apart, you're both breathless, and someone's wolf-whistled from the skee-ball line, but none of you seem to care at all.
"Come on," he says, lacing his fingers through yours. "I saw a ring toss on the way in, I need to win you something."
It takes him four tries and an embarrassing amount of money, and by the end he's swearing at the rigged bottles while you laugh so hard you have to lean against the counter for support. But on the fifth throw, the last ring catches, and the barker hands over the prize with a grudging nod.
It's a ridiculous bear, oversized and caramel-colored, wearing a tiny red bow tie. Bucky presents it to you as if he was handing you over the Holy Grail.
"For you. I was gonna go for the giant panda, but this one looked like it needed you more."
You crush it against your chest, burying your face in its soft synthetic fur. "I love him. I'm naming him James."
"You're not naming him after me."
"I'm absolutely naming him after you. Look at him, he has your expression."
Bucky stares at the bear's blank button eyes and then at you, and then he laughs, tilting his head back and you want to take a picture of him like this—careless, happy.
"Let's go to the photobooth," you demand, grabbing his hand. "Before the light changes."
"Bossy."
"You love when I'm bossy."
He doesn't agree, but he doesn't deny it either.
The photobooth is tucked behind the funhouse, a vintage four-strip model with a faded red curtain and a sign that flashes OUT OF ORDER every third flicker. But when you slide your money in, it whirs to life, and the first bulb flashes before you're ready.
"Wait—" you laugh, still adjusting the bear on your lap.
Too late. The first picture capture you mid-laugh, Bucky leaning in with his mouth open, probably saying something sarcastic.
"Okay, okay, be serious," you say, turning toward him.
"Serious," he repeats, but his eyes are dancing.
The second flash catches you pressing a kiss to his cheek, his hand coming up to rest on your waist. The third finds him turning his head at the last second so your lips meet his instead, his fingers threading into your hair. The fourth flash finds you both laughing into each other's mouths, your foreheads touching, the bear crushed between you. You don't remember who kissed who, but you don't care.
When the strip slides out of the machine, you hold it up to the light, watching the images develop in slow motion. Four tiny windows into a perfect moment. You look at them, and you think about al the cards you've ever pulled, all the lonely spreads and reversed cups, all the years you believed love wasn't meant for you.
And here you are. Here he is. A love out of time.
"I'm putting these on the fridge," you say. "When we get back to the apartment."
"Our apartment," he corrects and your heart flips.
You're moving in together next month. You found a place in Brooklyn with a windowsill wide enough for two cats and a fire escape that gets morning sun. He's already planning on building a spare room for your appointments, and built a shelf for your cards. You told him he didn't have to, that you'd find another place to do your readings and keep the cards in the closet if he wanted, and he looked at you like you'd suggested drowning a kitten.
"It's your gift," he said. "Why would I want you to hide it?"
Later, when the moon is high and the fair lights are starting to dim, you sit together on the boardwalk with your shoes off, toes buried in cool sand, sharing a funnel cake.
"We should get home," you say, but you don't move. "Salem and Nova are probably destroying something."
"They're fine, Nova's probably sleeping on my tool bag, and Salem's judging her from the windowsill."
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's what they do every time I'm there." He licks powdered sugar off his thumb. "Those cats have a very established routine. Nova loves me, Salem tolerates me… it's a good system."
You smile, leaning your head on his shoulder. "Salem tolerates everyone, that's just his personality. Nova loves anyone who gives her attention. They're not a good benchmark."
"Okay." He pauses. "Then you love me. And you're a much better benchmark."
You go still. The word hangs in the air between you, but he doesn't take it back. He just turns his head and looks at you, waiting, his eyes reflecting the last of the carnival lights.
"I do," you whisper. "I love you."
His smile is small and yet so full of hope it makes your chest ache. "I love you too. I think I started loving you the day you shut the door on my face."
"You have terrible taste."
"Must be the century I was born in, we liked 'em feisty."
You laugh, pushing at his chest, and he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. You sit like that for a long time, watching the tide come in, his thumb tracing slow circles in your palm. Eventually, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the fortune card from Madam Zola's machine.
"Do you think it's true?" he asks quietly. "The whole destiny thing. Do you really believe we were supposed to find each other?"
You look at the card, then at him—the man who was born over a hundred years ago, who fought a war and survived things you can't imagine, that sometimes admit not knowing how to do any of this, but that tries anyway for you.
"I believe," you start, "that the cards pointed me in a direction. They told me to wait, to not settle for something that wasn't right." You turn his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm—his life line, long and unbroken; the heart line, deep and sure. "But I don't think they made this happen, Bucky. I think we did. I think you showed up at my shop and you were rude and impossible and I couldn't stop thinking about you anyway. I think we let Maggie manipulate us into falling in love. The cards didn't do that, we did."
"Okay," he says. "I like that better anyway."
"Me too."
He folds the car again and tucks it back into his pocket, over his heart. "I'm keeping this, though. As evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"That sometimes the universe gets it right."
You don't pull cards that night, haven't done it for a while, because you don't need to. You fall asleep with Bucky's heartbeat against your back, Salem purring at your feet, Nova curled on the pillow between you like a furry chaperone, and you dream of nothing at all—just the deep, peaceful dark of a life that's finally exactly where it's meant to be.
