A/N: I was slowly seduced by this old-looking man and now I can’t get controversial age gap ideas out of my head…
There is def a vibe change at one point during this because I just melded a bunch of abstract ideas together and it became this kinda floaty piece. I hope you still enjoy, and there is def more to come!
Summary: Prince Maekar has enough to worry about with his two sons missing. He does not need grief from a mischievous young woman hellbent on getting him to enjoy himself.
Word count: 3.7k
Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), grumpy x sunshine, slightly canon typical misogynistic thoughts, 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.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
“Are you always so dour?” A frown pulled at Maekar’s brow as he turned to his left to look at the young woman who was peering up at him with a curious glint in her eye.
“Pardon?” He asked, voice low and gruff, but you simply continued looking at him in the same way.
“I have watched you since you rode into the courtyard and all you have done is scowl or frown. Surely that is not all you do, though?” You asked, leaning a little closer over the arm of your chair. Maekar leaned back a little, eyes widening in shock before his frown deepened.
“Why the fuck have you been watching me so closely?” He asked, grimacing a little when he remembered how stern his father had once been about being ‘indelicate’ around women.
“Curiosity, I suppose,” you shrugged, blinking up at him. “Well, that and the fact that it is my name day celebration and I would hope that everyone enjoys themselves,” you smiled a little at that, adjusting the cuff of one sleeve.
Maekar grimaced again when he finally realised who you were, shifting in his seat a little and glancing out at the tourney ground where the knights prepared.
“Congratulations,” he grumbled, and your smile became a little more like a smirk as you nodded in thanks. You didn’t let up on your gaze though, continuing to watch him as if waiting for his answer to your initial question. It unsettled him, made him feel as if he was sitting too close to a hearth and the flames licked at his skin.
Why the fuck were you still watching him? Why were you so interested in him? Did not young women have other more frivolous interests to attend to? Surely your father had gifted you with some new dresses or fabrics or something of the sort to capture your attention? Why were you sitting here and posing such questions to a prince of the realm? Was it insolence, disrespect, or idiotic naivete? When you continued watching him, your eyebrows a little raised, he let out a long sigh, rubbed at his face, and spoke in a tired voice with his eyes still closed.
“My sons have gone astray on their way to Ashford and I worry for them. The youngest is only just nine.”
“Oh,” your face dipped into a little frown as well, your lower lip pouting just a smidge. That expression worked wonders to endear you to him. He looked at the dip of your lashes as you looked down, the curve of your lips, and how you seemed to wear all your emotions and expressions on your sleeve. A little sprig of warmth bloomed in his heart. “I am sure your sons are alright,” you told him softly, looking up again and offering him a comforting smile. “Perhaps they were forced to stop in one of the surrounding villages. Have you sent people to look?”
He scoffed a little at first, getting ready to express his frustration with Daeron and how this was surely his plan from the moment he was sent off, but the earnest look on your face stopped him. He was about to express that the only reason he was attending this tourney was to come look for them himself, why else would he be in such a backwoods place as Ashford, but he refrained once more. For some unfathomable reason, he did not want to inadvertently hurt your feelings. He found no pleasure in breaking the hearts of joyful young women, especially not on special occasions.
“I will go looking myself,” he chose to answer instead, pursing his lips as he silently hoped you would turn your attention elsewhere and allow him to brood (or spout complaints into Baelor’s ear to his right, he could feel the bastard smirking at his predicament, he just knew it).
“In the meantime then,” you chirped, smile returning to your face as you clasped your hands together on top of the arm of the chair, “you must enjoy yourself. If for no other reason than to distract yourself from your worries.”
“I am enjoying myself just fine,” he responded gruffly, turning to face the grounds again in the hopes that you would take it as a cue to cease bothering him.
“It does not seem like it,” you quipped, and his scowl deepened. “There, see, you are not enjoying yourself one bit.”
“I am enjoying myself just fine!” He exclaimed, turning to glare at you as others began to look in his direction. Silence fell over the box for a moment, eyes wandering to the commotion. He huffed, falling back in his chair as Baelor turned to raise his eyebrows at him.
“Are you alright, brother?” He asked in that perpetually-soft voice of his.
“I am fine,” Maekar gritted out, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to see your own sparkling and your lips pursed to hide a smirk. His hands clenched on the arms of the chair. There was no denying it now, you were under his skin.
Maekar stood abruptly, mumbling something about returning soon, then stormed off, his head full of fuming thoughts, and all surrounding you.
You did not wait long to follow after your latest project.
When the Targaryens had arrived just before the beginning of the tourney organised for your nameday, your father had dragged you out to stand in the courtyard to welcome them. You understood that it was custom, and you did not mind it too much, but a welcome was always the most boring part of the festivities. You had put on your beautiful new gown, a mix of daffodil yellow and shimmery fabrics and pale oranges to deepen out the skirt, and stood beside your mother and father to welcome them.
You watched their horses with curiosity, black stallions and white mares dressed in regalia as elegant as those the men wore. But the thing that intrigued you the most, was how dour they all seemed. You had been of the opinion that royalty should be kind and of a sunny disposition, but it appeared that was not the case.
The crown prince was kind in his greeting, watching you bow with a little smile and patting the top of your head once as he congratulated you on your nameday. And his son was polite, if a little subdued, nodding his head in your direction as he greeted your father then followed after his own. But your curiosity was truly piqued when Prince Maekar and his son appeared.
Aerion did not even bother with the formalities of a greeting, breezing past your father and into the keep. Prince Maekar was not much better, grumbling his hellos, barely glancing over you, and falling into step with the rest of his family.
You had felt indignant at first, a little annoyed that though this was supposed to be in celebration of you, no one was giving you a second thought. But that had dissipated and only bloomed into curiosity as the day passed into evening. At dinner, you were sitting near Aerion but he paid you no attention, turning completely away to focus on his father and uncle’s conversations with your family. You did not mind as you did the same, but your eyes never strayed far from Prince Maekar.
If someone asked, you would not be able to tell them why he intrigued you so. He was older, widowed, a fourth son with children of his own, and as far removed from you as could be. You were the third child of a minor house, a daughter whose only value was the chance of a good marriage, not a great one. But you had been curious since the day you were born, and the most intriguing things were always the most inaccessible.
Prince Maekar was scowling more often than not, he expressed his opinions in gruff and aggressive words with no regard for the opinions or feelings of others. Even the way he cut the meat on his plate was almost violent. And yet all you wanted was to see what he looked like when he smiled…
After dinner, the first jousts were to begin, and all of you gathered on the balcony overlooking the tourney grounds. With the arrival of the royals you were relegated to the second row, watching the backs of their heads and the jousts over their shoulders. Your brothers were competing for you, but you could not have cared less when you were plotting how you would insert yourself into Prince Maekar’s life and get what you wanted: a smile.
The next day would be long, jousts and duels only broken up by feasts for luncheon and supper, and you were sure that you could find an opportunity to speak to him, to force his attention onto you. And now here you were, skirts bunched into your hands as you raced through the halls in your silk slippers to keep up with him, your hair billowing behind you.
He had not gotten very far, and you made a little prayer to the gods as you sped up a little to fall into step beside him. You were forced to almost run to keep up with him, your hold on your skirts slipping a little as you spoke.
“Where are you going?” You asked, voice airy and out of breath. He stopped abruptly, turning to glare down at you.
“Why are you following me?” He asked roughly, and you could almost hear his teeth grind against each other as he clenched his jaw.
“Because I want to know where you are going,” you answered simply, letting go of your skirts as you stood in front of one another. He paused for a moment, then continued on his way again, his long strides carrying him so quickly. You were left to follow once more, but when he noticed you were still there, he stopped again and huffed out an angry breath.
“You understand this is insolence, do you not?” His words were biting, gruff as they always were, and the glare in his eyes was fierce. All it did was attach you to him more.
“You have not ordered me away,” you told him, not taunting or teasing, simply making him aware. He paused for a moment, simply staring you down, then said,
“I order you to stop pestering me, and to leave me alone.” You smiled a little then, but pressed your lips together to try and hide it.
“I am neither pestering you, nor making any attempt to keep you company, my Prince. I am simply walking in the same direction as you.” And that only enraged him more, his face turning red with anger, his fists clenching, and a growl rumbled from him that would have made any man tremble and back down within an instant. But you simply stood there and smiled gently up at him until he closed his eyes and began taking deep breaths in. He rubbed his hand across his face and stood there for a moment with it pressed over his eyes.
You felt sorry for a second. You did not mean to cause him grief or distress, he had enough of that already. You cleared your throat a little and flitted your eyes all over him.
“My Prince?” You asked quietly, stepping closer. He dropped his hand from his face and looked at you, one eyebrow raising. “May I?” And you gestured at where his cloak had gained an unnecessary fold by his shoulder, caused by the clip going wonky. You didn’t wait for a response, simply reached up and adjusted the clip on his chest, unfolding the bit of cloak and righting it on his shoulder.
Maekar felt frozen as he watched you fuss over him, your brow furrowing a little and your lower lip pushing out as you used both your hands to smooth the cloak. His breaths became shallow and something in his chest shifted, warmed, became a pit all at once. It had been a long time since someone had fussed over him like this, since someone had cared enough to notice… He gulped a little, and his fists clenched tighter before loosening.
“I was going to go for a long walk in the woods,” he put emphasis on the word ‘long’ and it made a little spike of sorrow flash through you. Why did he have to be alone?
“May I accompany you?” You asked softly, the frown on your face smoothing out into a look of gentle hopefulness.
“These are your nameday celebrations, you should not be disappearing,” he tried, putting on his best fatherly voice. You hummed, nodding a little.
“I suppose you are right, but… as they are my nameday celebrations, should I not have a say in what I want to do? I would like to accompany you.” You smiled at that triumphantly, proud to have come up with a valid response, but he just huffed a little and shook his head, looking around the hall again.
“It is not proper,” he finally broke out, clenching his fists again. “You are a young lady, you cannot be gallivanting off alone with men.”
“You will not harm me, will you?” You asked, tilting your head a little as you met his gaze. His brow furrowed and he leaned back a little in disgusted shock.
“Of course not, why the fuck would you even ask that?” He exclaimed, staring at you incredulously. You reached over and grasped his arm, lifting his forearm and then slotting your own into the bend of his elbow before turning back to the hallway and slowly beginning to walk, forcing him to follow if he did not want to drag you back and risk sending you tumbling.
“As you will not harm me, I see no reason not to accompany you,” you told him, smiling up at him kindly before looking ahead again. You almost had a skip in your step. “And,” you added, “Ashford is my home. If you wish to go for a long walk in the woods and find your way back, you will need a guide. I have traipsed about this land all my life. I know exactly the places to take you.” You said it all with such firm decisiveness, and such a sweet smile on your face, that Maekar could find no words to deny you. Even breath seemed hard to come by at that moment.
You led him through the halls and out of a side entrance that led straight out onto the fields that bordered the keep. It was not a long walk until you were under the cover of trees, and there you slowed a little to ensure the walk would be as long as possible.
In that time, Maekar had learned some key details about you. The first being that you seemed perfectly incapable of walking in a straight line. Even with your grip on his arm, your shoulder kept bumping into his, or his arm was stretched as you strayed but kept your grip on him. The next being that you were infinitely clumsy. You managed to catch your feet on roots often enough, and much of his job as your companion was to ensure you did not fall to the floor in your carelessness. The beginning of your walk consisted of him grunting angrily as he steadied you when your foot slipped on a dip in the ground as you were too busy staring up into the branches at the birds.
“Watch where you step,” he grumbled, tightening his grip as he noted another dip in the ground you were sure to slip through. You simply ignored the comment, continuing to breathe in the fresh air, but you did slow a little to ensure you did not stumble so much.
“So, what is it you do in your leisure time then?” You asked eventually when the ground evened a little and you had left the fields and Ashford town behind. Maekar turned his head a little to face you, watching you with that ever-present furrow to his brow.
“I’m not sure if I ever get any of that,” he mumbled, and you just scoffed a little and turned to look at him.
“That is simply not true, my prince. What do you do in the evenings when you have finished your meals but have not yet gone to sleep? Or days in which whatever business keeps princes busy does not last very long? Surely you have something to do,” you were persistent, and the way you looked when you spoke was so expressive that it felt fresh in comparison to his stoic family and home.
“I suppose I go riding, or I read,” he answered simply, shrugging a little, and you smiled brightly at that, as if you had won something with that response. He looked ahead of you into the spaces between the tree trunks and the green leaves. He had once had things to do in those moments, people to spend time with and fun to have. But his wife was dead now, and his sons all grown and disappointing, and his brother preparing to ascend the throne. Much of his time was spent on councils or alone now…
“I too love to ride,” you told him happily, skipping along for a few steps. “Father gifted me a lovely white mare many namedays ago, and she is the sweetest creature to ever exist!” You had a beautiful lightness to your eyes as you spoke, and Maekar almost felt a smile pull at his lips as he watched you babble on about your beloved horse. Another thing he had learnt, you were rather talkative.
“What is your mare called?” You asked softly, looking up at him with earnest eyes. “The white one you rode in on.”
“Duchess,” he told you, and you noticed the way his forehead had smoothed out, and he was no longer scowling. He looked almost… at peace. You felt something spark in your chest. Triumphant, yes, but also more… something warm and soft, like the way one feels when they are content and cozy in their bed.
And somewhere along your path, as the two of you strolled deeper in the safety of the trees and quietly bathed in the dapples of sunlight, the feeling between you changed. The air softened and cocooned you, hiding the both of you from the world. Your hands gripped him gently, and he pressed you closer, not saying a word as he kept you tucked at his side. The two of you shared soft sighs and gentle caresses over your hands, a sudden intimacy that could not be explained, but was only right.
“My prince,” you began quietly, and he looked at you, waiting for whatever question you would come up with now. “Are you happy?” You asked softly, with the concern and care of someone who was truly interested.
Maekar’s stride slowed, and though he was staring at your face, you didn’t feel that he was looking at you. Your brows were furrowed as you watched him, his lips parting a little as if he was going to say something, but no response appeared. You clung to him a little tighter.
“I do not mean to insult or sound frivolous,” you began again, your voice soft and caring now, “and I may be completely wrong in my deductions, but… you do not seem happy.”
Maekar let out a long and low sigh, lifting his head up to look into the canopy of the trees for a few moments. His arm was almost limp in your grasp, but you only clung to it tighter, almost fearing letting it go.
“I oft think,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word as if he was thinking as he spoke, “that I no longer know what the word means, ‘happiness’.”
You frowned, pausing in your step and turning to fully face him. He smiled a sad smile as he looked down at you, a bloom of warmth in his chest at the expression on your face. You felt too deeply, he thought.
“That is… rather upsetting,” you finally breathed out, looking into his eyes as your head tilted a little. “That makes me sad.” But he just continued smiling that sad smile and you could not bear it. You reached up and gently smoothed your thumb over his cheek, feeling the soft skin above his beard. You ran your fingers over his forehead and the other cheek too, smoothing what you could until he looked peaceful again, and your own face mirrored the expression.
“Sweet, infuriating, one,” he whispered, reaching up and gently cupping your cheek. You preened under the attention, blinking slowly as you nuzzled into his rough palm. You reached up and held his hand against your face, looking up at him with big eyes. “Why are you so intrigued with me, hm? Why do you waste your time on an old man like myself? There are far better men to fawn over.”
Because of course that was what you had been doing, fawning. It was dressed in jokes and smirks and antagonising comments, but you were fawning, and it had been obvious from the start.
“I…” you trailed off, shuffling a little closer so you felt comfortably pressed to his chest, and engulfed in the warmth he radiated without trying. “You are not old,” you argued quickly, shaking your head a little, but not enough to dislodge his hand from against your cheek. He smiled softly at that, just the littlest pull at the corners of his lips, and a small chuckle shook his chest. You smiled too, because that was all you had wanted after all. “And I do not waste my time,” you said, your indignant tone returning a little from before. “You are not a waste of time,” you shrugged simply.
Maekar clutched you a little closer at that, gazing down at you with his striking blue eyes, so full of emotion, like nothing you had seen before. You were mesmerised. And he was nothing less. Looking at you, at your delicate face and the way you looked at him in return, with reverence and care, a care he had not seen nor felt for years. And what was he, if not just as intrigued as you? Fawning over you?
“Alright my sweet, infuriating, one,” he sighed, and then he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to yours, caressing your cheek with his thumb, threading his fingers through your hair, and kissing you breathless.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and Daeron…Daeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower he’d picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lord’s speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
Pairing: Baelor Breakspear Targaryen x female!reader
Status: On going
Content: Canon divergent / non-canon, pregnant reader, second wife reader, fluff, angst, injustice, mention of other characters, Baelor wanting to be a girl dad, injuries, brief descriptions of fighting, Trial of the Seven, pregnancy, mentions of violence and gore, family drama, targaryen family stress, Aerion being Aerion, takes place on the events of AKOTSK. No use of Y/N. No physical descriptions mentioned. SPOILERS
Disclaimer: English is NOT my first language so this may as well be written with my eyes closed and half delusional brain. Hope you enjoy it!
Main Masterlist
Sounds Joyful | 1
Your husband informs you about a Tournament that is set to take place on a moon's time, you are definitely going with him.
A refreshing man | 2
Your adventure in Ashford Meadow starts on a rather interesting way, children lost and new introductions.
Utter Chaos | 3
A new day of celebration ensures a tournament filled with chaos.
The Gods Listen | 4
Accusations are made, conversations take place and your heart cannot help but feel for the innocent.
Misdeeds | 5
Justice is to be made, in the eyes of some. In the eyes of others, it is simple injustice towards those with lesser knowledge. Unfortunately for you, your husband is bound by duty and honor.
A Trial of Madness | 6
Baelor breaks his promise to wake you and let you accompany him, though you do not stay put.
Something to hold on to | 7
Baelor lays fighting death while you stand stubbornly by his side.
Up to the Gods | 8
Your husband finally wakes up from his slumber, though it is brief as he keeps in and out of it.
Not one life but two | 9
The aftermath of learning that your husband doesn't remember you.
A childless mother | 10
A few days ago you had everything; your husband and your baby in your womb, now you have to face a great loss with many eyes on you.
A terrible idea | 11
You refuse to see Baelor, he refuses to see you even when he is starting to remember pieces.
See reason | 12
While they keep you drugged to avoid another incident like the one on the balcony, Valarr and Matarys worry for you. Valarr tries for his father to see reason, Baelor remembers your life together.
A burden to bear | 13
Baelor confronts you, you want nothing to do with him.
Decisions made | 14
Your arrival to King's Landing is rather chaotic. Emotions rise, confessions are made, bonds are strengthening.
All yours | 15
A journey to Dragonstone is your next destination, Baelor does not want you to go but instead convinces you to allow a Knight to go with you for protection. He makes sure you know he is willing to mend what he broke.
Feedback and ideas are always appreciated! I'd love requests for fics and I write (try to) for the characters that are listed in my masterlist!!! Feel free to let me know of any typos and something that I might have missed.
summary: your marriage with prince baelor has been less than a thrill. he offers you an escape, despite his desperate need for you to stay
word count: ~12.3k (my longest fic<3)
tags: angst but also good stuff, yearning, fem!reader, names like “my wife”, medium paced burn?, briefly describes reader being accepting of her death (like… if the ocean were to take me that would be okay), i did not proof read so please tell me if something needs fixed </3
notes: i think i lost my mind writing this, i was so obsessed... please let me know if you want more
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The opportunity is here. Right now. Sail the restless waters, find your way across the Narrow Sea, never turn back. Take the opportunity to forget all the troubles, all the duties. He isn't stopping you.
"The path to the ships is just along this wall," Baelor's back faces you as he talks, voice despondent. "No guard would see you leaving if you were to go in the night."
Compassion consumes his personality, it seems. Showing you an escape route, as the idea of your absence eats him from the inside out. It is a sweltering pain, too. A pain that could not be perceived from his placid disposition.
"This is a trial?" The question begs, your mind carnally craving the answer.
It confuses Baelor. A trial?
"What purpose would I have for a trial?" He faces you now, willing to feed the hunger of curiosity even as he shoos you away.
It feels pathetic, but your shoulders shrug. "I do not know. I am only trying to make sense of your intention."
"And you think it is to test you?" His eyes are tracking you, you feel it.
"Conceivably." You admit.
The prince, being greatly knowledgeable on many subjects, has yet to figure you out. He enjoyed the search for your being, though. Learning the things that make you tick, make you laugh, make you smile. You had not done much of that as of late, though.
While it may not be so sweet to learn of the bad as it is to learn of your honey coated laughter, Baelor craved to be versed in anything involving you. It occurred to him, early on, that you did not have that same craving in him. Feasibly, you may already grasp the concept that is him. But he knew the truth.
"You professed that you would flee if given the opportunity," he reminds you, walking around to give you space for your considerations of departure. "Inasmuch as, I have been pondering the possibilities of your… freedom."
The word is not uttered with spite, or fury, nor unknowing. But with hurt. It had maimed his heart to hear you talk of liberation, as if you were some trophy predator mounted on cold castle walls and left to collect dust. This is the conclusion he came to always in the end.
"I will not keep a wife that does not want to stay." Baelor says it more candidly. "If it is truancy that will bring your life happiness, then I had to think of your way out."
It is genuine, as it always is with him. It damages your heart too.
"How can you offer me this?" You search his lovely, haunted eyes.
Only his tongue answers. "How could I not?"
Of course. Baelor calls out your woes, refuses to let you cower beneath a rock. He may wish that you could stay, that you love him. A wish is not equal to reality, he knows.
You falter, one foot catching you in a quick step forward. Air catches your lungs, tugging them forward too. Leave, the winds whisper in your ears.
Feasibly, embarrassment stops you. The thought of being recognized across the water, 'How could you be such a coward?'. Being taken by the arm, tossed back across the sea to face everything you tried to abandon. Be forever known as the woman that ran from such a unique, rich lifestyle.
Try again.
Fine, it is his gaze. If you face him, he will surely have disappointment seeping from his very being. Judgment of your short comings. Baelor is the best of the dragons, after all. He had faith you might make it, but you would be failing that if you left.
No.
It is the Seven, then. Ocean waves thrashing against the stone, warning you against the escape. How can one deny the storm that makes way? And who would be fool enough to tread waters the Seven were manipulating?
Just fucking say it.
"Tell me to stay." You command.
Standing in his place now, eyes scanning along the route he has revealed, you cannot face him. He does not shy away.
Baelor speaks softly, "I will not. Not anymore."
A tear falls. "Why?"
He cannot answer. All you hear is the crashing of the violent sea. Thunder rumbling beyond the water's edge. Winds howling against the cold castle's walls.
It is possible he cannot find reason. What did it matter? Come, go, stay, leave. Your creativity concludes; Baelor's life will go on. You are not his wound to heal.
"You would not listen." The voice of reason finally stands out. His voice."Nor should you, if it is a betrayal to your heart."
Anger comes to you so easily, with equal amount of ease that surety came to him. Idealistic words find him so freely. He never wills them, never puts his palm out for their retrieval. They just… spill from him. Yet you stumble over yourself, emotions too high.
"You want me to go, then?" You face him, your eyes still water.
"No." He is still certain.
His face does not hold the gaze you had so feared. No trace of disappointment. No telling of judgment, and certainly no doubt. As if he knows how all of this goes. If only he felt that internally.
You laugh, "You puzzle me, my prince."
He does not laugh. "Perhaps I can provide clarity?"
Perhaps. Though, you suspect it will all end with a deeper uncertainty. Every conversation you have with the Prince Baelor Targaryen ends that way. A pit growing in your stomach. Large enough that it took over your heart, too.
"You will not tell me to stay, yet you do not want me to go?" You gesture helplessly. "What sense am I to make of that?"
"I never asked you to make sense of my emotion. I believe it is you that needs help doing so, yes?" His calmness irritates.
"You insult me now?" A sniffle. You discern he is right, but ration was not finding you. You would not allow it to.
"I am no willing participant of your insecurities." Baelor shakes his head, but stays right where he is.
"My insecurities?" You do allow fury through.
He just looks at you. His eyes sear into you, but his gaze holds yours with such care. It is nauseating. Everything else is background noise when he looks at you this way. You hate it always, but most of all now when you are trying so hard to be angry with him.
He speaks carefully, knowing he is treading a fine line. "You puzzled me too, for quite some time, you know?"
"Ah, yes. Me and my insecurities."
"Yes," he admits with the tilt of his head.
Your jaw clinches as the salty air grips your throat. He allows it to choke you. You do too. There is nothing Baelor Targaryen says without reason, and it might just do you well to listen. Part of you knows you are only listening to have something to bite back with.
"I have been trying to understand you." Baelor makes it sound pragmatic. "I do believe it takes exploring insecurities to truly understand a person."
This peaks your curiosity. "And what conclusion did you come to?"
"None."
What?
He said it so modestly, with his lips turned down in a dramatic frown. He has no intention of hurting you. Your shoulders relax, and Baelor rolls his head as if he is centering his thoughts. So much of your time has been spent knowing one another that it is easy to forget how much of him remains a mystery to you.
Eventually, he shrugs. "It was a fruitless effort, as I do not have access to your wits, and you are unwilling to speak with me."
"We are speaking now."
"First time through the week, which we are well past half way through."
He is right again.
Seeing it now, he is only speaking his observations. If they hurt, it was of no fault but your own.
You bade him to go on with a slight upturn in your chin. He reads you with ease.
"You wish for me to make you stay, but it is not of my nature. Perhaps…" he offers a palm. "Might it be you presume that if I command it, I would be every bit as awful you had wished me to be from the moment we married? Then you would have reason to run."
Your knuckles ache as you squeeze your fingers into a fist. It is undetermined who you are angry with now. He breathes in, fingers curling back into his palm and falling to his side again.
"Or if I say 'go', I am every bit as good you had hoped before we married, and you would be permitted to leave?" He is making known, his wandering intellect. "I do not suggest you need my permission, Seven know you will do what you please. It is only the theory I have run through my mind."
Your lips feel cracked. You leave them. "You ponder this deeply over me?"
"Of course I do," his hands go behind his back. "You are my wife, my love."
The name holds your heart hostage. Using it almost feels to be a trap. It certainly would be one, if you were not so well informed of his qualities. Some parts of him are not so mysterious. You have spent years bouncing between the lives of one another, after all. It is how you are sure that, to him, these are all simply facts of life.
"Then why do you not tell me to stay?" Your tongue wets your lips.
Baelor watches your reaction. "Why do you ask me to?"
"I do not know." You sound stuffy now.
The prince hums, nodding slightly. He is never one to prey on one's moments of weakness. Seven Hells, Baelor would not even see your crying as weakness, but as a strength to show your emotion in a vulnerable time. There is no winning with him.
"If I get on my knees to beg you," he inhales slowly, "you would either maintain a great annoyance that would drive you away, or you would be overcome with a pitiful sorrow that would force you to stay. I could not bear to live being the cause of either inconvenience."
"I would not." You finally challenge him again. You swear you see him smile.
"Would not what?"
"Run, or stay for sorrow." You explain, not sure how even these few words were finding you.
"You would not run, but you would not stay?" He shakes his head at this irony. "Then what is it you would do? Vanish?"
Droplets of rain run along the weaved fabric of your dress. It is only a sprinkle, but in time it would soak you to the bone. You had not realized how heated you had become, either, until the cool water ran down your warm skin in its reminder of your placement.
"I…" your eyes are searching again. "I might stay."
"To spare me my grief." His tone is too certain now. Assuming.
"To spare me my own," you speak with conviction.
He swallows. "And what grief would that be?"
The question does no harm to your being. You consistently remind him how you hardly have a home to miss, and the only relationship you have built in King's Landing was within hay scented walls of stables with the horses. What was there to grieve when you had refused to live your life?
"You, husband." The answer found you.
Baelor blinks, head slanted as if trying to catch sound. As if he did not hear you. With the wind, waves, and sprinkling water hitting the stone, it may be that he couldn't.
"I would grieve y—
"I heard." He cuts in.
You sharply inhale. A rejection, then. He will do nothing with this confession of yours.
Honestly, what else could you expect? After icing him out for so long? For him to weep, be overly joyed? Hold a smile as he pulls you in his arms in a grand victory! No. You deserve none of that, and those theatrics were unlike either one of you in any matter.
You didn't what to expect beyond something that will weigh down your heart for eternity, yet he still shocks.
Baelor steps closer, enough that you sense the constant heat radiating from his body. The coveted heat you so wanted to soak in from your sheets, even if only one time. The heat you had felt when brushing shoulders through the halls, and when he put his cloak over you only on that one eve. An eve you were fool enough to hold on to.
You assume his movement is for practical reasons, as the dark clouds looming over your heads grow heavier and let rain fall as quickly as your tears felt to be leaving your eyes. The rain muffled everything. His beating heart desires to be heard, almost as much as he desires to hear the beating of yours.
The rain does not muffle the sound of Baelor dropping to his knees, right there in front of you. As if he is at the Septs, head hanging in his confessions—or grief? Or… some thing you lack the nerve to recognize.
He is here. Right on the stone, water soaking his trousers with no patience. Sopping his clothing, splashing onto the skirt of your dress. Red. The color meant to represent you are his, but most days only stood for your resentment. And now? It is your pain.
"Do not go." Baelor speaks from below, decisively breathing the words.
Your head shakes, your feet trying to flee as they step away. "Do not be mean to me, Baelor Targaryen."
His hand stops you, gripping the fabric of your dress just above your knee. It is a delicate hold, even in his desperation. "Do not falsely accuse. I am doing what was asked."
"Do not do it only because you were asked. Your acts of kindness make you seem malleable." You stay in his touch.
"Let them." He muses. He did not mind to be shaped by you. "It may only be the truth."
Humidity swells in your chest with a deep breath. "You are a Targaryen, it is unbecoming."
"As is being on my knees," he cannot help but laugh. "And showing my own wife a way to escape me, whilst hoping she will refuse to run. I do not care to be a Targaryen right now, wife. I care to be your husband."
What is he saying? Can he hear the words that are slipping past his lips with such a blithe disregard? Thank the Gods, no one else was around to hear his carelessness.
"You are making a wretch out of me," your chest falls. "You are making me cruel. For who else could possibly walk away from a prince—Our future king-whilst he begs on his knees?" Your inhale is sharp, fast. It pains your chest. "I did not ask for this."
His hands frees your fabric, falling onto his lap. Sitting on his heels, he looks up at you with his palms turning to the skies. "There is chance that I took liberties, but that does not take from the legitimacy of my words. End this game. Stay."
Eyes focusing on the puddles gathering in his hands, you feel violence. Angry that he presented you with this opportunity to run, furious that you wished for him to command you to stay. What sort of command would it even be? You know that you cannot pretend that if you stay it will be for any other reason than it is your desire.
"Stay." He repeats in your stillness.
He does not move. He waits. Watches. He has practically rolled over, shown you his stomach in submission. All you must do is pet the dragon.
"What for?" You seethe. "For… for your crowning glory, and your tourneys, and and…" your head is shaking senselessly. "Your lords, your ladies, your rule?"
"For me, wife." He pushes up onto his knees again, hands landing on your hips in a careful hold. "Stay for my confession. Stay for my apologies. Stay… because I am telling you to. Just as you wanted. Stay, because you belong right with me."
Breath hitching, your throat bobbing as you swallow. To hear it, to hear him want you so plainly… it is near convincing.
His fingers dip into your plush hips, thumbs skimming, catching over the dampening scarlet fabric. "Stay. For it is me you say you will regret leaving, and I am here."
Your own fingers entangle themselves through his peppery hair, and he is more than willing to lean into your touch. The heat seeps through. It is everything you had been craving, warming you straight to your bones. Lasting.
"So are my faults." You whisper, hoping the rain will cover your voice. It does not.
"Faults follow," his head tilts back in your hand, eyes closing. Whether it is the avoidance of rain or sensation of your fingers tugging at his hair, he will not confess that now. "Here I can help you."
"You have so much to care for as it is." Your fingers flatten out, running back again.
He hums, pleased by your touch. If anything, you are with him right in this moment. "I will care for you whether you are here, or clear across the Narrow Sea. Do not think your physical absence would expel you from my mind."
Denial is no longer an option for the sorrows of your situation. Baelor's hands move up along your ribs as you fall to your knees right with him. His grip only tightens enough to steady you.
You weep.
"I wish you did not care for me." Your selfish confession spews out with your cries.
His hands smooth around to your back as you collapse into him. He holds you with finality. As if he has been waiting to take you into his arms.
Had it hurt his knees as greatly when he landed? Bruises feel like a promise.
"I don't believe I know how not to care for you, my darling." Muffling of the rain is no issue as he murmurs into your hair, lips sealing a kiss just behind your ear.
"Don't say such an awful thing." You hold him too, against the pleading of your heart.
"I wish this truth did not pain you." His confession is more magnanimous.
As his hands soothe your back, your lungs allow you to catch your breath in a stuttering reset. Why are your arms wrapped around him so crushingly? Why is he allowing it?
He needs it just as much. You don't know it, facing opposite of one another, but his eyes cry too. Beautiful as they are, they cry.
Chests rising in parallel, brushing your skin over the leather of his vest. It pulls you from your spiral just a little more. A rotten mind is something so unfair to live with. Just once, couldn't you share the burden with one another?
"I cannot go." Finally you say it with earnest. "I cannot leave you, I will not leave you."
In desperation, such words fall so harshly. They fall as if a lie, or that they are a thing to be convinced of. You are convinced.
His fingers stutter their movements on your back. "Is this said with certainty?"
It's no wonder he is not convinced. What with you pleading his command one moment, then crumbling with such ease the next. Baelor does not act as if he knows you inside and out, he has only ever dreamed that. He had to be sure of you. Always.
Trouble is, you are no longer sure of yourself. You haven't been in years. Yet still, with your eyes locked straight ahead in a blurred stare, you utter a reply found in truth.
"Yes."
—————
The walk back didn't seem to even happen. Minutes ago you were kneeling on rain soaked stone with Baelor in your arms. Now you are… here.
Arms and hands have left you, and you find yourself longing for that dragon-like heat once more. The cold of the rain overwhelms, yet the humidity of the air holds your throat hostage. How can one be shivering in such heat of a Kings Landing summer?
Lips falling open, you are attempting to regain some of your sense. The breath in fills you with some sort of hope. Salty air suddenly smells like home. I am here, it says. As if to speak the fact that… you are breathing, if nothing else.
Your hands come together, fingers fidgeting with the ring you had worn for… well, it has been years now you reckon.
Baelor had given it to you. The night you met again, for the fourth time. That time you were officially betrothed. The ring meant much less to you then than it did now.
Rain finds its path in the window of the castle's hall. The ocean still fights against the shore, and all your eyes can help to do is watch. The Narrow Sea suddenly seemed closer than it ever had.
You step closer, hand on the ledge to be coated in rain once more. There are times where the waves sound like calls. You almost want to follow.
"Princess!" A mousy gasp comes from behind.
Ah, always perfectly timed, your lady-in-waiting.
You don't bother to turn a shoulder, knowing you would only be fussed over more if spotted with glassy eyes.
"Heights have always done me ill, princess. Heights and rain, and the floor is soaked. You had better step away before you slip." She fusses anyway.
So be it, you want to reply.
Instead, "Oh, you know how I adore the waters. I could not help but glimpse at them roaring in the storm."
A truth, even if wrapped in a sheer cover.
"Well, the waters will pull you in without remorse." Her steps on the way over are chaos on the wet floor. "Come away now."
Your lips force a flat smile. She is only trying to care for you, and it is in good heart, you know. Still, her hand feels much colder than his when it landed on your shoulder.
"I'll have a warm bath made for you." Her nose is scrunched as she feels the fabric of your dress.
"No." Your response is immediate.
She looks with raised brows, as if to challenge you to say it again with just as much fervor. You have always begged her to challenge you.
"That is, I just…" your eyes squeeze shut as you consider yourself.
Don't want to wash him away? Hope to keep his warmth sealed beneath the corset? Don't have the energy or right mind for even a bath?
She does not pry, even in her disapproval of your attitude.
"Alright," she nods. "We will just get you changed for any early night." The softness in her voice is something you always fall victim to.
She reads you with such ease. That, and asks limited questions. It did not matter if you were upset for one reason or another, she just knows it is her job to support you and she always intends to do it to perfection.
"I will have broth brought up, and explain to your husband that you are in for the evening to rest. That you were caught in the rain on another one of your walks." She lacks judgment in her voice.
No trace of accusation, or pressure to expose yourself any more than you already had. Tears never seemed to finish leaving you. Your cold hand swipes them away, droplets of rain trickling down your wrist with the action too.
"Yes," your voice breaks. "Yes, thank you."
She offers a sure nod, hand on your back now as you walk together. There was no point in dragging it out when you would do that well enough on your own. Thank the gods someone just knows what to do here.
—————
He misses the cool that calms. What reminds him he, in fact, is not aflame. In all of the bursts of glory crowned upon his head by a public that craves a fair rule, Baelor often feels the burning of his skin as dragon's blood courses his veins. What he craves to soothe that fire is your touch to his palm, even if the grip was desperate.
Should he not be elated? The world would have felt so empty had you taken up his offer. His fevered blood could have—would have ruled him. Even with that flaming potential, he has no regrets of showing you a way to your own safety.
Your misery is so blatant. No one can blame you. You attribute your misery to the lack of challenge on your newfound royal status, but Baelor knows what it is. Not many people dreamed of sincerely being attached to a name that had such a weighted duty and charged council against it.
So, elation? No. Your decision to stay is no call for celebration, but he swears he can hear the ringing of bells in the distance. They sound as if they are chiming in a death march. He cannot help but feel he has led to your demise.
Who would you confide in? It certainly wouldn't be him. No, you had bolted your separate ways as soon as your foot landed on castle grounds, Baelor watching you flee. Letting you go.
What a victory this is. Standing at the edge of the entry, listening to the ocean roll just behind him. Alone.
Indeed, Prince Baelor has had a fair number of successes within his life thus far. Well known, well respected, well received. As he travels, hands oft reach up to him as they beg for his kindness, his generosity, of which he always gives. These qualities that he is so sweetly known for were going to kill him, he sees that now. Or worse, leave him lonely.
Amazement still comes over him at the thought of a lonely prince. How could one be so lonely when there was always someone. Someone to fetch his wine, someone to hunt his boar, someone to attend his feast, someone to beg his aid, to entertain his boredom, to mask his sorrows, distract his aching heart, remind him that there is something greater than the breaking of his own soul. How dare he be so bold to feel sadness?
To fault you for rejecting the same fate of meaningless companionship for yourself would have been overtly wrong. For Baelor to reject his birth-given right is an entirely different problem. He thinks, in truth, you are wise for wanting a way out. Get away before you find yourself neck deep, surrounded by a crushing pressure to be one of the few good people of power within the kingdom.
Your ambitions guide you elsewhere, he sees that. Inner personal ambitions of the arts, the world, the soul. Baelor cannot fathom keeping any person from their true life. Least of all you. Who is he to do such a thing?
The one to marry her, tethering her to a very public, permanent position. It is unacceptable. The truth, no matter how much it may wound, persists. This is no thing to be written on the pages of his achievements. The truth lays— Prince Baelor as been abandoned by his own wife, even as her heart beats within the same walls of his own.
"What the fuck are you doing?" The harsh voice of his brother pulls Baelor free of his mind.
Back to it, then.
He inhales, posture correcting and fidgeting fingers forced to be still behind his back. "Just watching the storm consume the sea."
Maekar scoffs, looking out at the horrid sight. "The rain seems to have consumed you. Why in the Seven Hells are you standing around in soaked garments?"
"Oh, you know how I ponder." A friendly smile.
His brother scowls. Of course Maekar knows. Most days it wouldn't bother him to listen, but he was feeling particularly self-interested as of the last hour. Baelor is grateful for the lack of care and notice this time.
"Get changed for supper." A smile of pride spreads across Maekar's face. "We will be having venison. Finally caught that bastard that has been slipping away. Not quick enough it seems."
"Ah, congratulations." His hand falls to his little brother's shoulder, stepping side by side as they made their way. "Tell me of your hunt."
Distract me. Even if it won't work.
Maekar's pride washes in, volume increasing as he tells his tale. His hands move with the story, too, once he is comfortable enough in telling it. It is easy with his brother.
Baelor laughs heartily when expected, asks for the perfect details at the perfect time. Of course, he teases his little brother as well, nudging his shoulder and earning a coltish push back. The perfect listener.
His eyes show less perfection. Or, more specifically, his gaze shows less perfection. It trails along the stone floor leading deeper into the castle walls. Taking in the rough surface splattered with careless drops of rain. Then… his gaze is taking in a trail of it.
Rain, smeared on the floor with haste. Your rain. His mind is so easily persuaded to think of you again.
So his eyes follow the reminiscence of your steps, imagination filling in the portrait of your pace. Maekar was plenty pleased hearing his own tale, too taken by himself to notice he was losing Baelor. Even if he had been caught, Baelor could not mind.
He follows on, thankful you left a trace of yourself behind. Whether intention was entirely there, or completely lacking, he had to know. Curiosity is quite consuming.
Especially upon seeing a puddle ahead. There are several steps to go, still, before reaching it on their stride. This gives his imagination time to conjure.
Had you considered turning around? To him? Were you stopped in your tracks to think of the consequence if you went? No. More likely he had overwhelmed you. You must have stopped to catch your breath, regretting your choice to stay.
Yes, he thinks as his foot lands right next to the water. Regret begged you to freeze. Called you to the window, asked you to look out to the sea and reconsider.
The window. He sees it now as he passes. You had stopped just at the window? Had you been looking out it, imagining the world that you had denied? Cursing him in your rightful vengeance? Hoping the storm would take you?
"And THUMP!" Maekar's voice crashing through, so loud that Baelor jumps. "The loudest crash you ever heard! The beast just fell!" He laughs, arms flaring out at the recollection of his victory.
Baelor's eyes break from the puddle, forward seeking once more. "You must have been quite pleased with your capture."
—————
"Your wife will not be in attendance, my prince." Your lady in waiting repeated.
"Yes, I heard." Baelor hummed. He hadn't heard, actually. Or… had not wished to. "Is she ill?" He questions, hoping for any scrap of information you had allowed the woman to share.
"Trying to avoid illness, more so." She has a pleasant presence. "You know how she enjoys her walks, but she was caught in the storm. She stayed in her dress for a bit too long, likely lost in watching the sea."
Her practice response is flows with such ease. The perfect cover. Better than the words that spilled from Baelor when his brother had asked. It was truly one of his most lacking performances.
His reaction now is no performance. "Then I should check on her, to be sure she is resting."
Gods, were you going to fall ill due to his own idiocy? He would never forgive himself. He had caused you enough trouble as it was, let alone to be the reason for your sickness.
Baelor is already moving, readying himself to be at your side. Hands smoothing over his clothing as his mind spirals over you once more. What would you need in a moment like this? For a possible illness?
"Oh," your lady murmurs to herself for a moment. Then, "That is very kind of you, my prince. However… should your lady be ill, you would not want to catch the same."
Baelor shakes his head, eyes darting about the room for… something. "Nonsense, it is my duty."
He hears a sigh from her, thinking little of it. For him to be sick would only cause disruptions to the ones around him, it is a partial reason for his tedious self care. He hates to be a problem for others, but now he had you to consider.
The room seems so boring, lacking any of the things that might interest you. It makes sense, being Baelor's study for his duties. Still, he makes a note to make it more inviting for you in the future. Everywhere he looked he considered how the hollow, haunted spaces could be cleansed just for you.
Ah, yes. A book would suit for your circumstance. A distraction from the treason your princely husband had nearly drowned you in. His steps guide him to his shelves, flickering through the options with a finger hovering across the spines. Most are stories of history. Tales of traveling men, pushing their way to places they did not belong. But there is one—
The sweet voice of your lady tries once more. "The princess asked for you not to trouble yourself, my prince. She truly just needs an evening in. She will be right back to herself come morning."
He fully picks up on the signals being thrown at him with an obvious delivery. Baelor is no fool. That being said, he is willing to play the part at his own convenience.
"I will have to remind my dear wife that I do not mind trouble when it is caused by her." He smiles down to the old book that lays flat in his left hand, right hand smoothing over the cover.
It is a rather old book now. Corners bent, edges worn, leather scratched. You would love the way its appearance spoke of its life. Likely, you would have a story for it upon seeing only the cover.
"And," he moves the book to hold at his side, beginning his walk to your chambers. "I will explain that caring for her in a time of need is no trouble at all. Rather, an act of which any husband should participate."
—————
"Is it?" You question his reasoning.
He had to have known you would not so easily accept that response. Perhaps he knew you wouldn't, and hoped you might bicker with him over the issue. You very easily could.
"I heard of Maekar's victory, your being here prevents that shared celebration. Your brother is sure to be seeking your company." You leave no room for his denial.
He came. He had the nerve. Of course he had, and likely with pure intention.
Before his intrusion, you had heard the rap on your chamber door and were thrown from your wandering mind. It was quick, ill at ease. Short after the knock, your lady in waiting rushed in, immediately closing the door behind her with a bow to the outsider before rushing over to you in her fit of muttering.
As she pulled you from your bed you both bickered at a whisper, trying to think of any way to prevent his entry. Clearly neither of you were successful at this attempt. You begrudgingly accepted your fate, allowing her to make the slightest tweaks to make you at least somewhat presentable. He is a prince, after all. It seemed that title felt of more value to you than his one of husband.
Now you are sat across him, at least having the comfort of your favorite reading spot. Your fingers work to destroy themselves as you await Baelor's response. Your nails are pushing at cuticles that were already destroyed. Your lady had tried to stop you, a gentle hand resting on your shoulder.
"I will still attend his celebration," Baelor's eyes flicker up from your restless.
That causes you to stop. Your cheeks burn at your own embarrassment. Why is it that he must observe every detail of your being? Your palms press into your lap, a less destructive distraction.
He does not press you. "While I do not possess the ability to be in more than one space at a time, I do have every right to be just a few moments late so I may check that my wife is well."
"I am fine, as you see." It pours out of you quickly. "My lady in waiting takes wonderful care of me. I am very lucky."
Lucky that she had not left you alone with him. She must have read it on you. Gods only knew how you may deteriorate if you were left again.
"I have no doubt of her attentiveness. It is something I am rather grateful for as well." He bows his head in her direction, just off to your side.
Must he be so kind? A part of your mind repeats over and over, it really is the bare minimum. Yet you have yet to see it from anyone else highborn. Not that you claim to have met them all.
Point being— he has fed your heart another slice of hope. Your consciousness will steal it away in no time.
"Then leave me to her care, and please do enjoy your brother's capture." You had tried to find the kindest way to say leave me be so I may suffer in private. "Send my apologies for my absence, and my congratulations for his winnings."
Have a congratulations for your own as well, you prick. Is that what this was about? Baelor coming to be sure you had stayed? To reward himself for being convincing enough to keep you?
Pride could explain his sudden demand to see you after being so quick to urge you away. The accusation is ill fitting, though. You may wish he was so selfish, but he had yet to ever be so.
His silence occurs to you. He only gave a simple nod, sitting on the edge of his seat as he continued his observations of you. It causes an awareness in yourself.
Your hair was damp now, having mostly dried from the rain that had poured over you. The weight of your soaked dress had actually brought some sort of comfort to your desperate soul, though you had peeled out of it near an hour ago. Now it was the weight of your blanket across your lap. The one from your home, from your grandmother. He would read into that too, no doubt.
You read him too. He had changed into something more fitting for a feast, likely whilst you were still captivated by the sea. He hated the feel of wet leather and cloth against skin, and always quietly fussed to himself about his concerns for the leather's care. It didn't do well to be wet, so you know his other boots are drying by a fire in his chambers.
While your own hands are empty, fingers somehow curled into a fist which you gently unfurl, Baelor's hands hold an occupant. A small, red leather book. It looked to be old. Probably from his personal collection, and likely his current read. What is he reading about?
What does it matter? You look to your own hands. "I do thank you for your kindness, husband. I simply ask that you extend it to those that must need it more."
Why is lying so easy with him?
"I believe you misunderstand me, wife." One of his hands smooths over his book, head tilting as he looks right ahead to you. "I am not requesting your permission to stay, or insisting that I will remain here for the evening. But my mind will not allow me to leave before I know that you are comforted enough to…"
"Stay," You finish his sentence.
He misunderstands. "I do appreciate if you would be accommodating to my request, thank you."
"No," your head dips.
Your lady in waiting's chest tightens. Why in the Seven Hells were you so freely telling the crowned prince of the Seven Kingdoms No? She would certainly scold you for this in private, and you would certainly take her scolding to do absolutely nothing with.
"That is," you allow your fingers to pick again. "I should no like you to remain here any longer, and I should not like you attempting to correct your mistake, my prince. I should like to be left alone, if only you would simply allow it."
Mistake. As if it can be summarized down to only that. Vagueness was in your favor, though, with the company hanging behind your shoulder.
"Then we will find ourselves at a standstill." Baelor is plenty capable of his possessing his own stubborn tendencies. No one but his family may believe it, but you had learned it to be true the first time you had met him.
The sea is roaring ceaselessly. It has been the entire time, you figure. You are only now refocusing back to the world around you in all of its terror. Thunder causing quakes through all of your bodies, the continued torrent of rain splattering across absolutely everything within its reach.
Your eyes sting again. How it is at all possible that you still have tears within your system, you haven't a clue. Baelor seems to have a knack for plucking them out from you.
"Your persistence on the issue is finding me with indignity now, my prince. I will be fine, and I do not think you should be taking my word so lightly." You somehow managed to choke out your defense.
Baelor does not seem so upset. No tears springing in his eyes, only a discomforted adjustment in his sitting. Did he not enjoy the tears he brought on?
"And your avoidance has always found me with a glimpse of your superiority." He rests the book behind him.
"My superiority?" You laugh, the lifting of your cheeks causing one of your tears to fall. Good. "I do not appreciate what your accusation implies, as I could never be superior to the blood of the dragon, my prince."
"Is that why you requested my command, wife?" He questions, elbows resting on knees so he may be closer to your conversation. "Because of my blood? It would have been impossible for one to flee when commanded by a dragon, yes?"
You swallow. You hadn't known Baelor to be cruel. If that is what this even was. It certainly felt it compared to any other way you have ever known him.
He continues. "No, we both know our ranks to the world, and you lack the vile nerve to commit going against that role. It is not about my blood, it is not about any crown. You find yourself superior in that you run from every situation as if you are the only one involved. You hide away in your silence, in your chamber, in your chair," he gestures to your current position. "And you do it because you can. Who will ask a lady for her company beyond the performance of her most basic duties?"
It is perplexing. He has no hint of anger, or disapproval, or criticism. He voices these things with a total lack of hesitance, but a complete presence of distress.
"You are faulting me for my lack of socialization?" The tears fall heavier now, spite adding to their volume.
"No." He pushes his elbows off his knees, leaning back against the chair.
"Then you find yourself jealous that your role matters so much more? I assure you, my prince, that being a ghost within my own life does not cause my heart to swell with contempt." It is you leaning forward now. "Do you believe I revel in the fact that when I disappear there is not a soul to notice?"
"People take notice, do not be so ostentatious." One of his hands waves away your remarks.
"Oh, yes!" You huff a laugh. "Then worse, they do notice, and they do not care."
"You believe I do not care when my own wife vanishes?" Baelor's eyebrows knit together, leaning forward again at this offense.
You scoff at his query. "Do not play some hero knight, as I cannot recall any instance of you seeking me out from my hiding."
"I have never claimed to be a hero," he holds up an impatient finger. "And just because you did not see me, does not mean I wasn't there. I was. I was there every time, whether it be myself or my sending of your dearly trusted lady—" he points to the woman you had both nearly forgotten was still in the room. "I have always been sure of your well being. Always."
Another bead of water slips down along your cheek as you turn to face your lady. While it is apparent she would prefer to not be a part of your exchange, she gives you a stuttered nod. It is true, then.
Your shaking hand lifts to swipe away your tears, hopefully quick enough to go unnoticed in all this fury. You sniffle, posture straightening. Going down so easily is non-optional.
"I am well aware of my occasional envy of you." Baelor rubs his hands together, having a guilt for his knee-jerk reaction. He feels like a child. "But I do not regret the life I have inherited either. I know the pleasures my position brings, just as well as I know the opportunities I must cease with my power, and—" he laughs quietly. "This conversation is straying heedlessly. My point is being lost."
"What is your point?" You push. "Why did you bring yourself to my chambers, knowing so well how I run from everything?"
Mismatched eyes are looking at you again. Not observing, just… looking. His eyes had darkened, the way they do when he is surrounded with chattering woes of the kingdom that he is expected to fix. One as dark as the ocean that threatened your shores, then other like the mud that had stained your dress.
Baelor's need to solve is incessant. You allow him the grace to think it over. Truthfully, you were thankful to have a moment to gather yourself just as well.
He sighs, eyes falling to the floor and fingers splaying on his cheek. There is no escaping your need for answers. He does not wish to.
"Because I wanted to thank you for staying." His palm offers up. "In your grief, you stay. Even when you run from me, I know where to find you. You must know it, too. I know that I do not do well in hiding my interest when it comes to you."
You hadn't known. You used to. Years ago, when everything between the two of you was new. When the ocean was calm, and the skies matched that brilliantly blue eye of his. When the sun felt like your friend, and the moon brought quiet nights you had shared.
"My previous offer was hazardous, I was senseless for putting you in such a position…" he shakes his head. "But I would have aided you, if it was what you coveted. I suppose I came to say that I am glad it was not your want."
There was only the winds now, and a modest pattering of the rain against the stone walls. You are angry with the Gods for their timing. The drop in noise made the severity of the situation… different. It suddenly didn't feel so violent. It feels mournful.
"Leave us, please." You whisper to your lady in waiting.
Always astute, she gives a curt nod and proper dismissal before closing the door on her way out. She not only trusts you have your situation handled, but also is aware Baelor will do nothing to harm. And, she was relieved to be free of whatever was about to happen.
Your eyes have not left his form, and his have not dared to meet you anew. "Speak plainly, Baelor. Talking through suggestions and extended speech has done nothing for us."
A sigh falls from his chest, conscious that you are correct. He feels the book pressing between the cushioned seat and his lower back. His feet push himself further back, as if trying to hide his offering.
"I dare say I have spoken plainly." He huffs. This is unlike him.
You sigh too. "Then I ask you to do me the kindness of speaking even simpler."
Glance shooting your direction through the corner of your eyes, he runs his tongue over his teeth. This is no trap. You have no intention to cage him, or for him to dig himself a pit he would have zero hope of climbing from. Each of you simply wants one thing: the truth.
"It would have broken me if you left." His confession feels too condensed, but he is trying.
"I did not leave," you point out.
"But had you," he stresses. "Had you left, I would not have known what to do with myself."
He eyes the rings on his fingers, twisting them about in the manner conducted only when he could not bare his entire mind to the world. You watch him too. He is growing impatient.
"Life would have gone on." You inhale, lifting the blanket from your lap and tossing it over the arm of the chair. It was creating an overwhelming warmth.
"You cannot say that," he disagrees.
"But I have." You shrug. "Surely you are not so self-centered to believe the world would have stopped for you. You would have mourned because it is the humane thing to do, of that I have no doubt. But you would also move on because it would be the just thing to do for those that you serve."
He just shakes his head, irritated that you are not hearing him. "It was the wrong choice of words, it seems. We could sit and discuss possibilities all day."
"Then what would be the right words?" This puts knots in your stomach again. Perhaps this would not be so easily debated.
"You told me that you could not leave me." He begins again, fact checking. "That you will not leave me."
Oh, right. "Yes."
"It gave me hope." He lifts his shoulders, ring lifted halfway up his finger in its next twist. "I have known for the last few years that you will never love me, and while it was a hard truth to accept, I did it."
"I have never claimed I do not love you. You are my husband." You are only talking to talk, whether it is true or not.
"Love is not always found in marriage." He still shoots back, though with a casualty that does not drag that issue out. "It is not a requirement that you do love me. I just regret that your life became uncomfortable since our marriage."
The arrangement was not of truly either of your wills. Categorically, you could have married into a much worse life. Baelor loves you, has shown you nothing but kindness and compassion, has given you every ounce of patience he has to offer. Most of all, he has been here, through your temper and sorrow.
You know there is no denying his statement. Your life had become uncomfortable, and you had no issue with making that incredibly known. Being highborn, you had always had eyes on you. But this? This is incredibly different.
"My discomfort is not due to you." You try your best to comfort, as hard as you find it to do.
"A farmer's drought is not caused by hand, yet I still do what I must to aid." It is in Baelor's nature. "I know you have not requested my help, but I plead you to accept it."
This is no simple ask. There is some snarling resentment in you each time his hand is offered. To accept his aid felt as if you were accepting your fate. That you knelt to the life you were handed off to, and you gave up your own will.
"I find pleasantries in my life, I do not need you to make myself happy." You cannot help yourself.
"No, you do not." He agrees. "And, if life is as you say it will go on and you will learn to accept your life as it is. Or perhaps you already have; I am not pretending to know. I just mean to say, it may not be a need of yours, but I do think it is a one of my own."
Baelor sees the shift in your posture, readying yourself to dispute. But he doesn't allow it.
"You owe me absolutely nothing." Clarity tries to find his words. "It would only be a kindness to me if you would allow me in, even if it is just a crack in the door. We must tolerate one another now, whether we like it or not."
Hot air huffs from you. This is beginning to feel like a business deal. For the last several years you had it in mind that ithe relationship might come easier if it was pure negotiation. But there are strings tethered between the two of you that have been knotted since you met. It felt clandestine at times, though you could not stomach that possibility.
"I quite like the way things are." You cannot look at him when you lie.
The rejection hits him harder than he had thought. He hadn't expected it.
"Why are you presenting me with this falsity?" Before he knows it, he is standing. He didn't know what to do with himself.
"It is not a falsity. I do enjoy my own company, the gardens here are quite lovely. There are aspects to this life that I have come to enjoy." You watch his quick steps.
"But there is a general unhappiness, you had said it yourself. Discomfort." His hands hold the back of the chair as he stands behind it. "You said we are to speak plainly. I did, so it is your turn. Why is it that you loathe me now?"
"I do not loathe you, Baelor. I—
"Please, do not shield me with another lie. Everything has changed between us, everything." His hand swoops in front of him. "Six years ago you would have married me with a smile on your face. Even if to stave off the suitors that would never be worth your time, you would have been happy in the marriage. We occupied one another's time selfishly, we wrote letters perpetually when we were apart. We laughed together!" A fit of it bursts from him, though he sounds absolutely mad.
"I extend my apologies for my making your experience so difficult, husband. Is that what you want to hear?" Your hands wring in your lap.
"I want the truth. I want you to say whatever it is I did to drive us apart so viciously." His knuckles turn white with his grip.
"You accepted the arrangement." Your reply comes much quicker than you knew it would. So be it.
"Because it made sense, I knew we could be happy." He doesn't his knowing about your lack of involvement, just moves on.
"So you believe that justified the absence of my choice?"
He stares ahead, right at you. His head is angled, though, so he can easily glance away if he gets too uncomfortable. Red creeps up his neck, heat burning him in such an unfamiliar way. He feels so cruel.
The silence he was facing you with feels insulting , aggravating, unfair. He was denying nothing, but he was not accepting any ounce of responsibility either. He just stands there, thinking.
"No, you have known it doesn't." You speak with absolute surety. "It is the reason you have not looked at me the same since that night in the field."
"That was so many years ago, we were so young." His voice is the smallest you have ever heard.
You laugh bitterly, "You do not get to blame youth, nor time. Not when you stand demanding reasoning from me for the same span."
He pushes off from the chair, turning away from you in his sudden… embarrassment? You haven't found the right label yet. It does not matter, you decide to double down on him as he had you.
"You, my prince, knew well that I hadn't so much of a whisper in the matter of our marriage. You made that decision for me—for what you call us- and you did it because you could. Because you presumed it would be no insult for me to marry a prince, a man whom had presented himself as caring and trustworthy and kind. How could I have been anything but relieved to marry the one man who had made it safe to offer for me to offer my life?"
Baelor has a tendency to hide behind his own tail when being faced by you. As if he could handle the push to get you to the edge, but the moment you bite he whimpers. You could act as if you did not understand, waste time blaming it on petty things while skirting around the truth. You have always known you hold his heart, though.
What a fragile thing it is. Rage entices you to close your fist around it, beating and bloody. The heart within your chest refuses to allow it, pulling back at your muscles with a habitual sadness.
Pain finds you with just as much ease as it had found him. It hurts to hear this perspective. After years of his begging, knees sore from kneeling at your alter, awaiting your mercy, he is finally receiving it. It is not as freeing as he had hoped.
And you, on your pedestal with bloodied edges from your attempts to crawl off the top. You are hanging off the edge, voice hoarse as it finally speaks of your woes. Your fingers are tensed, pain shooting from your knuckles with your grip.
You are seething. "No more of your well thought defenses?"
He is sheepish. "You avoided marriage for so long, I thought that marrying me would relieve you of that pressure. You knew marriage was inevitable, you spent years saying that yourself."
"You blame me?"
"No, I'm—" his eyes squeeze shut. "I just thought I was doing the right thing. Saying yes because I meant it, and because it meant preventing the possibility of some loathsome marriage of misery."
"You felt as if you were saving me, then?"
Yes.
"No." His head shakes like it will be a safeguard for his downfall. "No, no. I was only trying to help. Your circumstance was not one with time to mull things over. It was marry the woman I had spent years yearning for, or lose her to some desperate man."
"So it was to save yourself." You are relentless, it seems.
"You would have been the one married to some man you could hardly tolerate." He points out.
"It would have been impossible for me to find a match that was not miserable if it was not you?" Vitriol drips from your words.
"You had rightfully sworn off marrying some wretched man that would only view you as livestock to breed. That does remove over half of Westeros." Baelor does not like how desperation sounds from his lips, nor the way it makes him feel so ashamed. "Your family would have done as they pleased regardless. It could have been any old man, it would not have mattered so long as they had you tamed and free of their name."
The accuracy does sting. It no longer pains you to remember that your family only ever wanted to be rid of you. It was never a surprise, given the way you so publicly detested and defied expectations of a lady.
"It does not put me in the right." Baelor turns around to see you again. "I am sorry for it."
Tears had finally freed you, making their way to haunt him. His eyes are glassy, holding his grief just there for the both of you to see. If you looked hard enough you could likely see every thought held in his eyes, behind the watery sorrow that refused to fall.
"For assuming. I never should have assumed a single thing about you." His head dips into a nod. "I never should have taken your freedom, and I regret that I cannot give you back the time that I stole."
It was the reason you denied his escape, he realizes. There was no justice for what he had done. There was no undoing, or getting back. There was only getting on with life.
"You resent me." Baelor's fingers trail the wood of his chair again. "I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, though I know I never can."
"I do not want you to make up for anything." You whisper, chin trembling.
The blanket hanging from your chair pools to the floor as you stand. It is you turning away from him now. Understanding is always your downfall with him.
"Is that why you treat me so coldly now? Because you do not seek righteousness?" He uses sarcasm.
Trying to find balance, one hand holds the back of your chair. The other runs over your stomach, feeling a very familiar sickness returning from your soul. Your eyes refuse to see him.
"You cannot make up for something so personal." Your body chills, like a fever trying to free the sick. "And I cannot stand the look of your regretting gaze."
Seeing Baelor damaged never feels natural. Be it viewing a frown brought by his brother stealing the last pie, or watching tears swirl in his eyes for the years long problems he had been the root of all along. He is not meant to be hurt.
The pressure on your chest is just a dagger now, stinging through your bones and trying its way to your heart. "I do not want your pity, I do not want your acts of forgiveness. Please, do not be sorry for me. Do me the decency of neglecting my trouble."
"I cannot neglect you." His voice whispers gently.
"I need you to, husband." Your palm tries to soothe your pain. "You must not torment me with your penitence. I cannot stand to think I have hurt you."
"I would deserve any strike you deal." He comes around his chair.
Your palm can't make the stinging fade. "I wish I could feel the same."
"This is nothing for debate. The Gods will be punishing me for my theft for the rest of my life."
Your eyebrows knit together, looking at him questioningly. "Must you be so dramatic now?"
Cheeks rising in a grin, a tear flows from the ocean blue of his eye. "The dramatics will always find me when I am talking with you. How I love to get your attention with a bit of theater."
Vibrations pacify the dagger in your chest, laughter falling out despite the desolation between the two of you. Baelor allows himself to smile at your acceptance, regardless of the way he will reprimand himself for it later. You are happy, even if only for this second.
Missing this hurt more than you knew. Having this reminder was sharp, glaring. Things really had changed. You hate it.
Air finds your lungs with less reluctance. "I have held a grudge against you for years."
There is no need for his response. It is a statement, one you both know to be incredibly true. He just invites you to say what you will.
"I think that in doing so, I have wounded my being." Your shaking hand glides over the waist of your dress. "I know I have wounded our relationship, and I am truly sorry for that because I do love you, Baelor."
A tear flows from his opposite eye now. Your fingers twitch with a desire to wipe his cheek clean. Thankfully, and regretfully, you are too far to do so. It wasn't likely he would want your touch anymore either.
You sniffle. You don't feel any less nauseous, but you feel a great deal more relieved.
"I would have married you with a smile if you'd have just asked." Your lungs rattle beneath your ribs.
He is nodding profusely, hand swiping his own cheek off. He understands. He doesn't push.
"You knew how much my liberty meant to me, and you treated it with the cruelty of assumption." Your eyes are flickering, surveying for reason. "Why did you not just ask?"
Tears cascade down both your faces, like the retreating waves of the ocean down the rocks of the shore. It is helpless.
"I don't know." Baelor is choked by his shame.
You refuse this. "Did you not love me?"
"You know I did, before you ever even paid me real mind."
"Then why?"
"Because I thought I knew, I did. It truly is that straightforward." His palms are dishing outwards.
The answer should have felt impossible when it felt as if he knew you entirely. Since the day you met him, he knew you. You offered him your whole self, bared your truths and your shames for him to take with his open hands. He accepted them.
It did not seem so impossible now. Your heart has been closed behind a door too heavy to open, and your willingness to be held in his hands had all but evaporated. Yet you love him.
"If you could have loved me then," Baelor begins, looking at you with intimacy that melts your guard, "do you think you could love me now? If we were to talk through it all, if I was to own up to all of my faults. Could you?"
It comes as no wonder that he doesn't see your love for him. You had done too good of a job holding your grudge. It felt right at the time, but now it only burns.
"I do love you, just as I said." Your head falls, looking at the ring upon your finger.
He steps closer. "But could you love me beyond some stilted act? Could you love me how you might have?"
The flickering light of the candle shines on the metal of your ring. It is a nice distraction. Or, would have been had Baelor not taken yet another step closer.
"Baelor…" you whisper, throat feeling tight.
"Please, tell me that you could." He takes a risk, gently taking hold of your cold hand with his hot fingers. "I need to know that it is possible, that I have not ruined everything."
"Of course you have not ruined everything." Your chest sinks with a huff. "Theater does not suit someone so serious, I do wish you would end the dramatics."
"I am not being dramatic now." His head dips down, meeting your eyes with his own seeing as you were avoiding him. "Please, wife. Tell me where we may stand, if I were to mend all of your wounds. Tell me that you may open your world to me once more, but only if it is the truth. I can no longer life off of false hopes and dreams."
Damn him for his beautiful gaze. And damn him for his good intentions. Unfortunately for your heart, your brain knows he means every word that he speaks. It knows that he does not say such things lightly, nor does he say them if it is not something he would be anything but guaranteed to put in action.
"I want to love you again." The final truth comes out in a whisper, hot breath ghosting over your lips with the confession.
You see it immediately. The relief that washes over him, the excitement that feeds his heart. His shoulders relax, his hands squeeze yours gently, and his eyes soften from their deep state of worry they had held for the last few years.
"I want to share joy with you, and feel your laughter rumble from your chest." Desires you had forbidden yourself to think of spill out with a trembling hand and shaking laugh. "Please, won't you love me too?"
"Yes," he cries, laughter mirroring yours as you both melt into one another. His forehead rests on yours. "Yes, of course I will. I will do it right this time."
Four eyes closing, letting the last of their tears slip away, there is nothing but delieverence lapping over the both of you. Silly fits of laughs come out with hot breath, fanning over one anothers faces. Your hand must have been squeezing his, though your grip relaxes as he kisses the back of it over and over.
"Thank you for staying." He kisses your closed lid, tears wetting his lips. "Thank you for giving me this chance. Thank you."
A slight shake of your head, your nose bumps his. This is the closest the two of you have been in so long, and your heart is reaching out for more. Hold him. Hold me.
"I am so sorry," you sob, kissing right above his thumb, then his cheek. "I am sorry for what we became."
His lips land on yours cheek too, holding place there for nearly a minute, you swore. You wanted it to go for longer. Your head follows his when his lips part from their place, causing your noses to bump again. Neither of you minds, wanting any bit of contact you could get.
"I will love you," Baelor's lips seal his promise in the corner of your own. "I will."
"Please…" you whisper, cupping his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard over your palm.
His eyes are on your lips, tongue smoothing over his bottom lip as he considers. He knows what you are requesting. "It wouldn't be right. Not now."
"I do not care," you say it, hand going round to the back of his neck.
One of his hands brings your hand to his chest, the other rests on your waste. His fingers twitch here, wanting to melt into your body forever. He needs this just as desperately.
The heat of your breath on his lips lulls him closer, a careful, cautious kiss landing on your top lip. Your lips return the favor, something tender and a bit more lingering pressing into his lip too. His eyes flutter shut, nose pressing into your face as he goes in for a much hungrier kiss.
His chest rumbles against yours palm with a satisfied affection. It's encouraging, sending you back for another kiss… and another… and another. The tears of your faces wash together, slick cheeks brushing.
"Thank you," he says it again between more kisses.
Your fingers curl in their place on his neck, nails lightly scratching into his hair and earning another pleased sigh. You smile into the next kiss, proud. He has plenty to be proud of too. Your seeking touch, and prolonged replies of your kisses.
What you both feel to be the final kiss is held with tender care before the soft pop of your lips parting brings it to an end. Foreheads rest for just a moment as you both catch your breath and your right mind. Baelor gives your hand a careful squeeze, and his fingers smooth over to your back, pulling you just slightly closer.
"You will miss Maekar's celebration," you hum, eyes opening into his.
His hand raises, thumb swiping over your cheek to wipe off those lingering tears. "Yes… I ought to go, give you space and give him his attention."
You lean easily into his touch, and his thumb responds by pressing softly into your skin. You both know it is only a reason to give you both time. Something you had spent years wasting, but now needed desperately to sort things out the right way.
You kiss his lips softly. "I am pleased that you came."
He chases with another kiss. "I am pleased that you accepted me."
A few more pecks, and you are separated. He almost hesitates to go, his heart desperately wanting more. But he promises to return, you promise to have an open door, and those threads tying you together have no where else to be.
He does not look back at you as he exists, but he does freeze at the door. You watch him inhale, making himself taller and more sure. His foot pauses in its next step, head lowering briefly before walking out the door. A reset before reentering reality.
The waves had settled, and the rain had found its end. You tried your best to ignore that coincedence. You are not so self-centered to believe the weather depends on your emotion. Regardless, life feels calmer now.
In the silence of your bed chambers, you question what it was that could have possibly been worth missing out on him for so long. The only answers that find you are embarrassment, stubbornness, and animosity for what your life was forced to become. Perhaps the anger had been worth it. Perhaps it only made this that much sweeter to have.
Summary: You spent a peaceful, romantic day in Italy together - filled with a romantic start to the day, some shopping and a nice wind-down.
Disclaimer: All content on this blog is fictional. Any characters, scenarios, or portrayals of real people are created for storytelling and entertainment purposes only. They are not intended to represent real events, real personalities, or factual information about the individuals mentioned.
Word count: 3k
Warnings: One suggestive comment
The first thing you felt were the warm sunbeams dancing on your face. The soft pillow beneath your head felt impossibly light, as if it were still holding onto the last traces of a dream. You didn’t move. You just breathed – slow and deep.
Somewhere beyond the half open window, you could hear the distant hush of the sea. Not loud, not dominant – just there. A curtain stirred in the breeze, brushing softly against the wall.
You opened your eyes.
The room was washed in gold. White walls, a wooden chair with yesterday’s clothes draped carelessly over it and on the small table beside the bed two half empty cups filled with water.
You turned your head slightly and there he was. Still asleep. His hair was caught in the sunlight in a way that made it look almost unreal. His breathing was slow, even – a quiet snoring escaped his lips. He was laying on his stomach, his face turned toward you, his cheeks squished against the soft pillow, his lips puckered. One hand rested between you, close enough that your fingers almost touched.
His naked back was on full display, the blanket barely covering his backside. A smile tugged on your lips as you watched his calm frame. The usual frown on his forehead was gone, he looked genuinely at peace. Your fingers slowly ghosted over his skin, burning to touch him. You slowly lowered them, barely making skin contact, but you still felt the heat radiating from his body. The fingertips flew across his skin, dancing over his muscles.
That moment felt so fragile, so sacred, so intimate between the two of you. Your touches were gentle and soft as if you were scared that this peace would vanish if you moved too quickly.
Outside a church bell rang once, then again. Chris stirred – his eyebrows furrowed, taking a deeper breath, you noticed movement beneath his eyelids. Your fingers found his and he immediately tightened his around yours in a quiet way. In that small, unconscious gesture, there was something grounding.
He made a small sound, then his eyes fluttered open, just barely. At the view of you his eyes immediately softened and he raised your interlaced fingers to his lips, leaving a gentle kiss on your knuckles. “The sun drew a halo over your head, you look like a literal angel”, his raspy, tired voice half mumbled against the cushion and your smile grew even bigger.
“And you look like someone sculpted by god himself.” He chuckled quietly, hiding his face completely, his ears turning red. You chuckled and scooted closer to him, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, leaving featherlight kisses there. He tucked in his neck, completely caught off guard by your touches. “Baby”, he exhaled, followed by a loud cackle, which only encouraged you more.
Your lips moved down across his spine, leaving a kiss here, a light bite there. His back was now a playground for your affection and you fully enjoyed your togetherness in this moment. You slowly worked your way back up, your lips now hovering next to his ear. “Good morning, baby”, you whispered and pressed a kiss on his ear. He turned his head to face you, sleep still in his eyes. He shot you the most devastating smile as his thumb and index finger found your chin, gently grabbing it and pulling you toward him to leave a soft kiss on your lips. After he detached himself from you, he whispered a low “Good morning, baby”, to you too.
You slowly climbed down and laid next to him. You buried your fingers in his hair, gently massaging his scalp, which earned you a satisfied grunt. “You wanna grab some breakfast?”, you suggested, while he closed his eyes again, fully melting into your touch. “Yeah, sure”, he replied, but didn’t make any effort to get up.
Your stomach started to growl. “Ok, just lay there for a couple of minutes, I’ll be in the bathroom”, you were about to detach yourself and get up, but his hand quickly found your wrist, preventing you from doing so. “Nooo”, he whined, trying to pull you back to him. “Let’s just lay here.” His eyes were still closed, but boy his grip was strong.
“If I don’t get anything into my stomach, I am going to riot.” He chuckled and put his forearm over his forehead. “You know what? I have an idea, what you could put into your stomach-“ You slapped his chest, gasping. “Christopher!” He laughed, finally letting go off you. “I am kidding! Ok go get ready, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
Now you sat outside a café at a small table with an exquisite sea view. The morning air was soft and salt kissed, drifting in from the sea just beyond the low stone wall of the café terrace. The water shimmered in slow blues and silver light. A white tablecloth, one Cup of Espresso and one Cup of tea, a basket of warm bread still releasing faint steam when torn open.
You were talking about something – nothing important, a dream you had half remembered, but you kept getting distracted by the view, pausing mid-sentence just to look out at the horizon.
“You’re not even listening”, you said eventually, narrowing your eyes at him. “I am” , Chris replied, too quickly. You raised an eyebrow. He didn’t deny it again. Instead he reached casually for his phone, pretending to check the time. But you noticed immediately. “No”, you laughed. “Put that away.”
“It’s not what you think”, he lied, badly.
You leaned back in your chair, suspicious now but amused. “If you’re taking photos of me while I’m eating bread again-“
“But you look so pretty and cute right now.”
“Ugh, you’re unbelievable.”
The wind moved lightly through your hair as you turned back toward the sea, pretending to ignore him.
Click.
You reached for your coffee, sunlight catching the edge of your sleeve.
Click.
A small laugh slipped out when a wave hit the rocks below a little harder than expected.
Click.
“Are you done?”, you asked without looking at him.
“Almost”, he said, lowering the phone but not entirely. You turned back. “Let me see.”
He hesitated just long enough to make you suspicious again, then he slid the phone across the table. You scrolled slowly. There you were – unposed and completely yourself. The wind tangled hair, the half smile you didn’t realize you were making, the way the light softened everything around you. You looked up at him.
“They are actually good”, you said softly. “You are so good at taking pictures. Is there anything you can’t do?” He shrugged like it was nothing. “It’s not difficult to take pictures of someone who literally looks like a goddess.” You handed the phone back, shooting him an eye roll. “Have I already told you, that you’re unbelievable?”
His hand caught yours over the table, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Maybe you’ve mentioned something like that.” You leaned back in your seat, glaring at him, but he acted like nothing happened and took a bite of his bread, while he typed something on his phone.
Now it was your turn to take some candid pictures of him. You took some pictures of him mid bite, some with his full cheeks and some normal ones – all without him noticing, he was completely oblivious to it.
“So, now that we are fueled, should we go explore the city a bit?
The streets were alive but unhurried. Small shops spilled onto the cobblestones: ceramics painted in bright blues, linen dresses fluttering on racks, and tiny bakeries perfuming the air with lemon and sugar.
You stopped in front of a shop window full of hand painted tiles. “Look at this”, you said, pointing at a small plate decorated with lemons and sunbursts. He stepped closer. He looked at you in awe, as you adored the plate – looking all excited. “I am looking”, he said, though his eyes were on your face. “It’s so pretty”, you mumbled and entered the store to go to the check out. Before you could place the plate onto the counter, Chris gently grabbed your wrist. “Hey, before you buy it, I just saw matching mugs out there, you should check it out.” Your mouth widened, as you gave him the plate to hold. “Shut up, what?”, you ran past him, running toward the shelf where the alleged mugs were, but you couldn’t find them. In confusion you started to check out the environment around it, but you couldn’t find it.
As you went back to the check out you stumbled into Chris, who looked at you with a mischievous smirk. “Did you prank me? I couldn’t find any”, you pouted. Instead of answering you right away, he just kept smirking and grabbed your arm, pulling you out of the shop. “Wait, my plate!” “Don’t worry about it”, he held up a bag, which now dangled in front of your nose.
You looked at the bag. Then at him. Then back at the bag. “You … you did prank me right? You just didn’t want to let me pay for the plate myself, right?” You crossed your arms in front of your chest, looking at him all disappointed. He started whistling, looking into the air, acting all innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but stepping forward, wrapping your arms around him. “Next time you let me pay”, you mumbled against his chest. He put his arms around you as well, squeezing you tightly. “Debatable.”
At a corner shop, a woman was arranging bottles of olive oil in the sunlight. You stepped inside and the bell above the door chimed softly. It was cool in there – filled with the scent of herbs and citrus. He wandered toward a shelf of limoncello, while you got distracted by a stack of handmade postcards.
“You’re going to buy everything again”, he said, watching you pick up a postcard, then another. “You mean, you’re going to buy everything again, because no matter what I do, you are not letting me pay for anything? Like in the last five shops we went in?”
He leaned closer, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear without thinking. You paused for a fraction of a second, then softened into it, like the gesture had undone something small and unnecessary. He slowly took the postcards out of your hands and without another word he headed to the checkout to pay for them as well.
This sneaky … When he got back, you still stared at him dumbfounded. “I can’t believe you distracted me like that!” With a crooked grin he booped your nose, before he grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the shop.
Outside again the light was sharper, brighter. You tried to grab the 100 shopping bags that he was carrying (and paid for), but he was insisting on not letting you do any work today.
At this point you had been walking for hours through the winding streets, drifting in and out of little shops, stopping too often for things you didn’t need. By the time you reached a quieter stretch, the charm of the day was still there, but your steps had started to slow. You hesitated for a moment on a sun-warmed cobblestone, then shifted your weight slightly. He noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”, he asked. “It’s nothing”, you said too quickly, then sighed when he raised an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe my feet are kind of dying.”
“Kind of?”
“Okay, fully dying.”
He laughed softly, glancing down the street as if thinking. Then he pulled you with him. “Come on”, he said. “Where?”
“I have a better plan than continuing your slow suffering.” He pulled you gently forward, weaving you through a small side street until you reached a tiny grocery store – nothing fancy, just a slightly cluttered shop with baskets of fruit outside.
Inside it smelled like citrus and bread. He grabbed a small basket and started tossing things into the basket: cold drinks, a couple of pastries wrapped in paper, a small box of strawberries. “Pick out some things”, he told you and you did as he told you. You had no idea, what he was up to, but you couldn’t say no snacks, so you added some chips and grapes into the basket.
When you stepped back outside, the light had softened into the late afternoon gold. The sea was closer now, visible between the buildings. He pulled you to a quiet stretch of rocky shoreline just outside the busier paths. No crowds, no noise – just waves folding gently into stone.
You kicked off your shoes the moment you sat down. “Ughhh, freedom”, you sighed dramatically and flexed your feet. He sat beside you, opening the bag and handed you a drink first without even asking. “Drink something.” That was him – always making sure you were hydrated.
You leaned into his shoulder as you took a sip letting the cool drink contrast with the warm air. He tore open the bag of pastries and handed you one, brushing his fingers lightly against yours as he did.
For a while, you didn’t talk much. Just the sound of the sea, the occasional laugh, the rustle of paper bags.
At some point the sun had started to dip lower over the coast, turning the sea into a darker shade of blue. Half empty snacks bade you, the last of the strawberries gone, the world around you quieter than before. The warmth of the afternoon had faded into something softer – pleasant at first, then just a little too cool.
A small shift in posture. A subtle pull of your sleeves over your hands. A glance toward the horizon that lingered a bit longer than usual. “You cold?” Without waiting for an answer, he shifted closer took of his own flannel, that he wrapped around your shoulder, before adding his arm, pulling you closer.
“Better?”, he asked quietly. You nodded against his chest. “Much better.”
One hand was resting on your shoulder, while the other brushed lightly over your arm, creating some extra heat.
The wind picked up slightly, carrying the faint salt of the sea and the distant sound of waves breaking against the rock. You exhaled slowly, sinking further into him. “You’re like a human heater”, you murmured.
“Always for you”, he murmured and pressed his lips on your forehead, while pulling out his phone at the same time. A quick look at his display revealed that he recently had changed his lock screen. It was replaced by one pic of you that he took this morning during breakfast and you couldn’t help but smirk against his chest.
He raised his hand, opening the camera and pointed it at the two of you. “We look so cute together right now, let’s take a pic”, he exclaimed in excitement. He put his cheek on the top of your head, while he happily looked into the camera and you also shot a shy smile.
You glanced at the screen as he pulled the phone back, his grin widening instantly. “It’s actually … really nice”, you admitted quietly. “Really nice?”, he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly. “That’s all I get? This is clearly masterpiece-level.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile lingering on your lips gave you away. “Okay, I like it Picasso.” He laughed, satisfied, then glanced back at the picture again, his expression softening for a split second – something more genuine.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at you again. “Come on”, he said, a spark of excitement returning to his eyes. “Let’s get closer to the water.” Before you could respond, he reached for your hand.
And just like that he started leading you down toward the shoreline, the sound of your footsteps mixing with the rhythm of the waves. You left your shoes back and got closer to the shoreline. Without overthinking it, you stepped forward and you squealed for a moment, as you made contact with the water, that was colder than expected. You instinctively grabbed his arm. “Oh my god, that’s freezing.”
He laughed immediately, wincing as the water hit his own feet. “Okay, yeah no one warned me about that.”
But neither of you stepped back.
Instead you slowly adjusted letting the chill settle into something refreshing. The waves rolled in gently, brushing against your ankles, then retreating again. You started walking along the shore side by side, your shoulders occasionally bumping, while holding each other’s hands. “Gosh, it’s beautiful here. Look how the sea is glistening”, you pointed out to the sea that reflected the moon on the sky. “It is indeed”, he agreed, giving your hand a gentle squeeze, before halting to a stop.
You looked up at him in confusion. But before you could say anything, he suddenly wrapped his arms around your waist and lifted you off the ground.
You let out a surprised laugh, instinctively holding onto his shoulders as he spun you around, your feet leaving the wet sand completely. “Hey, what are you doing?!”
He laughed and spun you once more before finally slowing down. When he sat you back on your feet, he didn’t let go. Instead his arms stayed wrapped around you, pulling you into a warm steady hug. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and close.
Then he tilted his head slightly, his voice softer now. “You’re really cute, you know that?”
Your face warmed instantly. “You’re unbelievable”, your murmured. “If I had a dollar for every time you said that to me today I’d have three dollars”, he replied with a smirk and you playfully rolled your eyes. “But that doesn’t change anything about the fact that you’re cute.” And before you could come up with a comeback, he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips – soft, a little shy despite everything. As if he wanted to consume everything in this very moment.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead lightly against yours, both of you smiling without even trying – somewhere at the Amalfi Coast surrounded by nothing but the sea, in a moment you knew you’d carry with you long after it was over.
Chris was already in bed when Y/N entered the room. Or rather, he was on top of it, his sturdy torso nestled amongst the soft duvet as he scrolled lazily through his phone. He was giggling to himself in a way that made his broad shoulders shake lightly, the glorious stretch of his smooth skin glistening golden under the dim lamplight. His hair fell into his eyes in frazzled coils and he ruffled a hand through it, pushing it away before resting his chin on his forearm. Head tilting a little to the side, Chris yawned, legs rustling amongst the sheets as a sleepy, content expression crossed his face.
Y/N bit her lip as an overwhelming smile spread its way across her face. There was something so comforting yet heart wrenching about seeing her husband in his own little world. He looked adorable with his crinkling eyes and feet kicking around at the end of the bed when he came across something that amused him.
Quietly stripping her own clothes off with Chris still completely unaware of her presence, Y/N set the garments aside before padding over to the bed. The end of the mattress dipped a touch as she crawled onto it, and Chris turned his head slightly just as she landed on top of him with a giggle, her entire body draped over his and her face flat in her hair.
Chris burst into hushed chuckles. “Hello to you too. Didn't even know you were here.”
Y/N sighed happily as she curved her arms around her husband's frame. “I know … too busy scrolling.”
She nuzzled her face into the crook of Chris's neck. He was warm, so much warmer than she had anticipated, and Y/N shivered upon feeling his rolling heat seep into her skin. She let out a shuddery breath as she buried her face deeper into the small dip between his neck and shoulder; the scent of him surrounded her in a musky, sweet cloud, almost as if tiny molecules of his fragrance and skin were locking millions of arms around her body, the very essence of him clinging to her being.
And she loved every single bit of it.
“Am I too heavy?” Y/N murmured, kissing the sharp curve of his shoulder. She lifted her hips a little, unloading some of her weight; but Chris's legs were quick to tangle around hers like veins, ensnaring her into the curve of his body.
“Never,” Chris said. “You're perfect.”
Her smile was satisfied against his skin. She turned her face so her cheek rested against the nape of his neck, and one of her hands started tracing her way down his side. She smoothed over the soft dips of his lats, marvelling at the way his firm muscle rippled with the smallest of movements. She adored the feel of him - he was strong, yet so soft at the same time, and every inch of him moulded to her frame as if he was made just for her. Her fingers continued to dance along the pepper of moles along the expanse of his silky skin, and Chris hummed at the feeling, his fingers loosening around his phone.
“You're so warm,” Y/N whispered, kissing just below his ear. “And so soft. You're always so soft. And comfy. And you smell so good … “
Chris's body vibrated underneath her skin as he laughed silently. He reached an arm out without looking, intending to gently pat her head. But the palm of his hand collided with Y/N's face instead, her nose and her lips and her flushed cheeks soft against him, and laughter broke out of her at the impact. Chris chuckled alongside her just as he curled her fingers around his wrist and kissed his fingers.
“Sorry baby,” Chris slurred, fatigue creeping up on him. He moved his hand again, finding his wife's cheek, and he gently caressed her warmth before his fingers drifted to her hair, his fingers brushing lightly the way he had wanted to in the beginning.
Another smile on her face, Y/N lifted her head from Chris's shoulder and gently cupped his jaw. “Kiss,” she hummed, and Chris let out a happy sound before he turned his face to the side where her head was just an inch away.
Y/N's hands swept over the curves of Chris's back as he turned his body a fraction so he could kiss her better. He was too tired to move again; one of his arms was thrown lazily above his head, fingers curled into his pillow, his other fingers like individual furnaces against the back of Y/N's neck as he drew her closer to him. His lips were sealed over hers in a long, languid kiss, and the heated tickle of his breath skimmed her cheek as he exhaled, the very tip of his tongue tracing the seam of Y/N's lower lip. She hummed under her breath and ran the flat of her hand up his waist, the slope of his spine, and up to his head where she sank her fingers into his silky curls, gripping and tugging at them ever so slightly. Chris's groan was low in his throat, spilling into Y/N's mouth, and she shivered, pressing the heated skin of her chest further into his back.
When she pulled away, Chris's lips were rosier and they curved up into a sleepy smile. He leaned forward against to brush a kiss to her nose, and then her cheeks, and then her forehead, before Y/N's head took up residence on the upper portion of his back once more.
“You're so clingy today,” Chris whispered, reaching over his head for her hand. He laced their fingers together before bringing them down to the sheets, tangled together on his pillow. “I love it when you're like this. My little koala.”
Y/N giggled. She grazed a series of lingering kisses along the planes of his shoulders, and then up his neck. “You're a tree.”
He squeezed her fingers as he chuckled into the sheets. “A tree? Mmm … you telling me to work out more? I don't think trees are comfy.”
“No, not like that,” Y/N whined. “You're comfy. Very comfy. You're only a tree because you called me a koala and koalas love hugging trees.”
“Mm. Aight. If you say so.”
“I do say so,” Y/N breathed. Her fingers had begun trailing down his hips now, down to the sharp grooves that tucked inwards below his abdominal muscles. She traced the ridges with a featherlight touch, and Chris's breath hitched, his body tensing below hers as his skin prickled with goosebumps.
“Baby … “ Chris swallowed thickly. “You're gonna kill me.”
Her fingers danced along the soft dimples at the very bottom of his back in response. The man groaned again, the end breaking off into a smitten puff of laughter, and he shifted just a little, tightening his legs around hers.
“My pretty boy,” Y/N kissed into his skin. The constant heat emanating from her husband was making her incredibly drowsy; her eyes began to droop a little, and she dragged her hands back up the sides of his thighs, using the tips of her fingernails to softly scratch against his skin as she did so. Her hands settled at his middle and she slid them beneath him, tucking her arms underneath his body as she hugged him tight.
“Now you really are a koala,” Chris commented. “Clinging to her branch.”
She responded by dragging her hands up; her fingers grazed the underside of his pecs, and then the very peaks of them, making the entire man jerk at the sensation.
“Fuck,” Chris huffed into the duvet. “Baby … you're the biggest tease ever, you know that?”
Y/N burst into quiet giggles against his neck. Her hands retreated and she settled them neatly just over his heart, the steady thud thud thud pressing against her fingers.
“Don't wanna move,” Y/N mumbled. “Wanna stay here forever.”
Chris smiled to himself. “Then stay.”
She hummed sleepily. Y/N shifted so her body was completely curled around his, tucked into his back in a bubble of safety and unmistakable peace.
“Love you,” she yawned, letting her eyes fall shut.
Chris was about to reply when he felt her arms loosen just a touch. He peered over his shoulder; the shadow of her eyelashes kissed her skin and her lips formed a soft pout as her cheek squished up against his back. She was well and truly fast asleep, chest rising and falling like a weighted blanket against him, and the man's face almost melted with softness.
He placed his hand over hers as he dragged his pillow gently beneath his face so as not to jostle her. He turned one more time and planted a warm kiss to the bridge of her nose, his voice the faintest whisper in the quiet room.
Aside from the gentle rustle of pages from Y/N's book and the faint pitter-patter of raindrops rolling down the large bedroom window, the only other sound was the rhythmic breathing from the man laying in bed beside her. Chris's cheek was cushioned by his pillow, his eyes shut, the dim lighting from the bedside lamp creating tiny dancing shadows along his cheekbones from where his eyelashes fluttered softly in his sleep. His body was entirely relaxed, his fingers loose against the duvet and his forehead smooth, yet he was angled towards Y/N in a way that was beyond devastating. Even though he was fast asleep, he still sought her out, his unconscious body language gravitating towards his wife.
Quietly shutting her book after sliding one of her favourite bookmarks into it - something Chris had gifted to her a while ago - Y/N set it down on her nightstand. She was sitting up against the headboard; she turned so that her front was facing her husband instead. Her eyes softened as she took in the peaceful outline of him. It was one of those rare nights where he was still in clothes; the wide neckline of his dark t-shirt had slipped to one side and revealed the long like of his collarbone, a warm amber in the lamplight. His tiny moles were like paint splatters across his smooth skin, and they travelled up his neck, kissing the curves of the cheek that wasn't pressed up against the pillow.
Y/N found herself tracing the marks for the millionth time. She knew their placements like the back of her hand, and she found comfort in the familiarity of them beneath her fingers. The act of automatically counting each one as her fingertips danced along his limbs was soothing to her nervous system. She exhaled through her nose as her fingers reached the sharpness of his jaw, her thumb caressing it delicately before sweeping across his cheekbone.
The longer she watched him sleep, the more her eyes filled with slow tears. He looked so innocent and vulnerable while fast asleep that Y/N's mind suddenly began to remind her of all the things he had endured with his quiet strength. He had spent such a large chunk of his life surrounded by dozens of people, yet still utterly alone. There were so many experiences he had held close to his heart from when he was a child, all the way into adulthood. Things he had kept to himself and had pushed through with silence, refusing to lean on people around him, yet being the pillar for others to rely upon instead.
He had always been that sort of person. Quietly holding onto all the people who needed him, while his own pain piled on top of him like a tall, rickety tower, swaying fast or slow depending on the weather. Yet he would never push away anyone who came to him in need. The bridge might collapse, but he would always get them to safety before thinking of himself.
And if he was to fall?
Then so be it.
Y/N's wet cheeks glistened in the shadows as he kept up the tender caresses over her husband's face. It was late, the early morning hours filled with a haze of blackened indigo, thicker from the rainclouds covering the stars. Her heart always expanded to triple its size at such a time; emotion flooded over her until there was nowhere left for it to go, except for the exit through her eyes in the form of burning tears.
Her fingers gently stroked Chris's dark curls away from his temples. He shifted then, eyebrows twitching momentarily as he moved in his sleep, his stomach pressing up against the mattress, his head turned towards her, and one of his arms slipping below his pillow. His other hand reached out and sleepily curled around Y/N's wrist, his head pressing up against her thigh.
“Stay … “ Chris mumbled in his sleep, his words thick and slurred. “I … “
“Shh … “ Y/N breathed, cupping his jaw in her hand again. “I'm right here.”
“‘M … sorry … “
Y/N's heart sounded in her chest, another tear spilling over her lashes.
“I'll be better … “ Chris continued quietly, fingers tightening just a touch around her wrist. “I'll … I can take it. I don't … get hurt … “
Breath catching in her throat, Y/N leaned down and gently brushed her lips over his cheek in a tender kiss. “Shh. I love you, Channie. I'm right here. You're safe.”
Chris's heavy breathing halted for a moment, and his mumbled words stopped. His grip on Y/N's wrist loosened, and he hummed sleepily as his eyes began to open.
His gaze immediately landed on his wife, the rich brown of his eyes turned onyx in the shadows, tiny stars dancing about the centres. They were hooded, and he breathed slowly, the broad expanse of his back rising and falling as he continued to look at her. The corners of his plump lips lifted minimally at the corners, and his thumb started to smooth back and forth over the soft skin of her inner wrist.
She didn't say anything. Just watched the way he was touching her so gently, his eyelids fluttering shut again. A split second later his arms hooked around her waist, and she was pulled down until she was laying face to face with him. He exhaled heavily, his breath hot and sweet on her lips as he leaned closer, the sheer emotion in his dilated eyes making Y/N's breath catch.
“Why did you wait so long … ?” Chris suddenly asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Y/N blinked in surprise. “Wait?”
A tear spilled down Chris's cheek, and her eyes widened.
“To find me,” he breathed, eyes locked on hers. “All those years before we met … I felt so alone. Why didn't you come to me earlier?”
It felt like someone had punctured Y/N's lungs with a hundred blunt needles all at once. All she could do was stare at her husband, completely dumbfounded with an aching chest.
Because what was she supposed to say?
“It wasn't time,” Y/N whispered shakily, pressing her hand up against his cheek. “We … weren't supposed to meet before we did.”
“But why?” He gasped brokenly as more tears rushed out of his eyes, spilling across his nose bridge and into his hairline. “I needed you. I … “
His words broke off, and he dropped his face into a hand, shoulders heaving.
“Baby … “ Y/N's lips trembled as she pulled her husband into her arms, his head falling against her shoulder as his entire body shook in his embrace. “I'm here now. I'm not leaving … you're not alone anymore, Christopher.”
He sobbed into her skin, the sounds quiet but no less painful to Y/N's ears. Her own eyes clenched shut as she held him tightly, her fingers sinking into his hair as she cupped the back of his head. His shoulders caved into her body, the width of them shaking with each silent cry that left his body.
It took him a while to settle down again, his breathing slowing yet punctuated with tiny hiccupy sounds that each made Y/N's heart twinge with sympathy. She was holding him as secure as she could under the duvet, their limbs completely tangled when Chris finally lifted his head so he could look at her.
“‘M sorry,” he sniffled. His ears were pink now, and he looked embarrassed. “I … I don't know what just happened.”
Y/N pressed a kiss onto his warm forehead. “Did you have a bad dream?”
He nodded once. “Yeah,” he swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple jutting outwards with the movement. “It was … more like a memory?”
“A memory?”
“From over two decades ago,” Chris laughed awkwardly. “It sounds so stupid. I'm sorry.”
Y/N cupped his wet face in her hands. “Tell me.”
He sighed and turned his face to kiss the inside of her palm. “It just felt like I was … back there. Going through all the pain and … and … loneliness all over again. I haven't felt like that in a long time, but … “
He broke off and dropped his forehead against his wife's plush chest. “I know there's nothing either of us could have done. I wouldn't want to change anything either, not really. But sometimes … sometimes I wish I'd known you way before.”
Y/N's smile was soft as she kissed the top of his head. “I wish I'd known you back then too. But … “
“But … ?”
“But there's no point thinking about the past now,” Y/N whispered. “We met when we did for a reason. We can't change that, but ... we can somewhat control being together in the future?”
At that, Chris started to smile. He hummed in agreement against her skin. “I want to stay with you forever. Even when we die. And afterwards too. Me and you in every lifetime, no matter what.”
“I'm going to hold you to that, Bahng,” Y/N whispered. She pressed her forehead against his, their eyes finding home in each other across the short distance. “I'm so proud of you, you know that?”
Chris's lips parted in surprise. “All of a sudden?”
Her fingers found their way to his hairline where they gently swept the silky strands away in a soothing, repetitive motion. Her eyes flowed over his face with reference, taking in each one of his features that she so loved.
She didn't give him her reasoning. Just smiled and pressed another kiss to his nose and his cheeks. “I love you. So much. I … I'm so grateful that you exist. And that I get to spend my days with you. I feel like the luckiest woman alive.”
Y/N heard the way her husband's breath got stuck in his throat at her words. She also felt the soft puff against her lips when he exhaled, his eyes shining all over again in the darkness below the sheets.
His arms tightened around her waist like a vice as he pulled her closer, trying to completely merge their bodies together into one. Chris's face was steaming when he buried it deeply into the crook of Y/N's neck. His fingers too had wandered beneath the hem of her pajama top, and they curled into her skin like he needed it to anchor himself.
He didn't verbally respond to her words. Instead, his lips drew shapes over her skin in the form of reverent kisses, each one followed by a fresh tear.
synopsis ✿ it’s been a rough night. your heart is still recovering from being broken, you need an uber home, your phone is dead, and everyone else has already left the class 1-a yearly reunion. well—everyone except bakugou. he gives you not just a ride home, but a solution to your lonely predicament
✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; pro hero bakugou + pro hero reader ; reader was in class 1-a ; reader has a quirk (she's stretchy - think like elastigirl from the incredibles LOL) ; reader gets her heart broken by an unnamed random guy + has insecurities ; bakugou is silently pining (and quite good at hiding it tbh) ; friends (sort of) to lovers ; cunnilingus ; p in v ; creampie ; morning after ; confessions (sort of. its bakugou ok) ; getting together ; the class 1-a girls are gossips
꒰ word count ꒱ 12.0k words — give it a chance plssss
꒰ commentary ꒱ hi my name is riv and i am going thru mental breakdown after mental breakdown about my life but it wont stop me from writing about letting bkg hit
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing.
Sure, years pass. Adulthood kicks in. Lives become busier, more hectic, more demanding. Time is a funny thing—nine years ago, you were sitting in a classroom with these people, learning how to be a hero. Nine years later, you’re sitting in a rented-out bar, sharing a drink with them as they trade hero stories like it’s part of the average day.
Then again, you suppose it is the average day for pros. Wake up, go to work, save people, crack cases, go on patrol, and go to sleep. Repeat.
Adulthood is a bummer. Everything is so different now—you don’t gossip with Toru every day or giggle with Mina in passing periods. You don’t tease Ochako about her rapidly growing crush or share headphones with Kyoka during lunch. You don’t study with Yaomomo or sit in Tsu’s room and have deep discussions about philosophy. Class 1B isn’t there to rival you and your peers. Mister Aizawa isn’t popping around at the oddest moments in that ridiculous sleeping bag.
And then adulthood is nice. Some things never change—Bakugou is yelling about something in the distance like a maniac, while Midoriya rubs his neck sheepishly. Todoroki says something with that deadpan face of his, and that only seems to set the blonde off even more. You can’t help but huff, rolling your eyes fondly.
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded, and fuck if it’s not one hell of a bond—adulthood claiming your lives and free time or not. You’ll find the time to get together like this at least once a year—with someone as good at planning as Yaomomo and someone as persistent and vocal as Iida, everyone makes it to the Class 1-A routine meet-up.
If only you weren’t so fucking devastated at this meet-up, you could have appreciated it properly. But you are, and there’s nothing to do about it now but suck it up—and hey, there’s always next year, right?
That’s what you tell yourself as you robotically hug each girl goodbye. That’s what you tell yourself as you watch your former classmates—turned occasional colleagues—file out of the bar and head off in different directions, dispersing along all the paths life has dragged them down separately.
You stand there for a good second after everyone leaves—you’re the only one left, you’re sure. Alone. As always, you think with a self-deprecating scoff, you’re alone. Even when you’re surrounded by a room full of people, you’re alone.
You should just get an Uber home. It’s late, you have morning patrol, and it’s getting really fucking cold, the night breeze biting at your skin. But you stand there anyway, stiff and unresponsive, because you are, despite trying to shove it all aside for one night, devastated. And so fucking alone.
“The hell are you still standing out here for?” comes a gruff voice from behind you.
You jolt—and that’s how out of it you are, because who the hell sneaks up on you so easily? You’ve honed your fighting abilities and reflexes better than that. You’ve made sure your skills are good enough that you aren’t crept on so easily. So why didn’t you hear Bakugou coming up behind you? You have no clue.
“Bakugou,” you mumble, “why are you still here?”
“Hah?” He looks at you, mildly irritated. “I asked you first, Stretchy. Answer me before you ask me stupid questions.”
Stretchy. Even after all these years, Bakugou calls everyone by those obnoxious nicknames he comes up with instead of their actual names. You’ve noticed a long time ago that he always goes one of two routes when picking his stupid little names: by physical appearance or by quirk. It just so happens he chose to use the latter for you—ever since the day your body stretches out like elastic in front of him for the first time, you’ve been Stretchy. Have been nothing else. Will probably never be anything else.
If you weren’t so emotionally downcast, you might’ve rolled your eyes and snapped back: my name is not Stretchy! But you don’t have it in you. So you just mutter, “I’m getting an Uber.”
“So get it, then,” he grumbles. “The hell are you waiting for? It’s the middle of the fucking night.”
You don’t point out that it’s…kind of sweet, in a blunt, Bakugou sort of way, that he’s concerned about your safety. Or that it’s pointless to be, considering you’re a pro hero too—one who patrols in the middle of the night on a regular basis. But anyone who’s shared years with him, classroom and battlefield alike, knows better than to argue with him over meaningless things if they value their eardrums.
“Yeah, whatever,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to call the damn Uber. You should’ve just driven yourself, but you’d been too exhausted—and, frankly, too sad—to deal with the thirty-minute drive. It’s not like you can’t afford to waste the money, anyway.
You tap your screen once. Then twice. Nothing.
Huh.
You press and hold the power button. Still nothing. You’ve got to be fucking kidding, you think.
As if your week couldn’t have gotten any worse.
First, you get ghosted by your almost-but-not-quite boyfriend, who was never really your boyfriend, but that’s not the important part. The important part is that he almost, just almost, was by anyone’s standards. Then, after he gets you fucking attached, you find out he ghosted you for some other girl with way nicer fucking tits and longer legs than yours (no, you did not stalk that girl’s socials, thank you very much. You just happened to stumble onto it and accidentally…tapped the tagged user. That’s all). Then, you miss out on enjoying the one night you look forward to every year because you can’t pull yourself out of this stupid, heavy funk. And now, finally, your phone is dead. Completely dead. No Uber, no ride home, no immediate access to the ice cream in your freezer to have a good, necessary cry.
And Kaminari has already left, so he can’t charge it with his quirk. Great. Fantastic, even.
“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Bakugou’s voice cuts through your spiral as he glares at you. “Were you here to be social or be on your damn phone all night? How’s that thing already dead, huh?”
“I wasn’t on my phone,” you shoot back, a little more petulant than intended. “I just…forgot to charge it before I got here.”
He stares at you with what can only be pure, hard judgment. “You people are so poorly prepared for everything, it never fails to piss me off.”
Well. If your week couldn’t get any worse, you now have to have Bakugou Katsuki, of all people, call you an Uber and get you home, which means you have to tell him your address. Which means you will, inevitably, lie awake all night wondering if he’s going to look up your apartment and judge it. Not that you think your place is bad, or that Bakugou is even the type to care about that kind of thing—but your brain is not exactly known for being reasonable once it gets going.
At the same time that you say, “I’ll pay you back if you call me an Uber,” he exhales sharply and snaps, “Well, fucking follow me, then.”
You pause.
“What?” you blink.
He’s already started walking off, and your question only seems to irritate him further. “Exactly what the fuck I said. Follow me.”
You do—only because you have to, if you want to ask him again to get you the damn Uber. “Bakugou, I’ll pay you before the Uber even gets here, okay? You don’t have to worry about your money—”
You hear the sharp beep of a car unlocking, and then a sleek, obnoxiously fancy Porsche lights up from the inside. Bakugou yanks the passenger door open and jerks his chin toward it, already glaring.
“Get in. And don’t talk like I can’t afford a fucking Uber—I’m not so desperate for money that I need you coughing it up that fast, you damn loser.”
“You…what?” You just blink at him, stupidly.
Bakugou looks like he’s just about one minor inconvenience away from exploding. He tips his head back with a long, aggravated groan. “God damn it, Stretchy—I’ve got shit to do in the morning, okay? Get. In. Did you hear me that time? For fuck’s sake, your hearing can’t be that bad.”
“…Why?” you ask, somehow even more stupidly.
You can’t help it—this doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to do. And it definitely doesn’t feel like a Bakugou thing to be doing for you of all people.
“Can you just fucking get in the car so I can drive you home and call it a night?” he grits out.
His eye is twitching now, just slightly, and you decide you would actually like to make it home tonight, so you decide not to push your luck. You walk over and get into the car without another word. It’s best not to piss him off to the point where he changes his mind on helping you altogether. That would be rough.
The door slams shut behind you almost immediately after you’re in, and Bakugou is in the driver’s seat just as fast. “Put your seatbelt on,” he mutters, reaching for his own.
He says this as you’re in the process of reaching for it, and you sometimes forget just how unnecessarily annoying Bakugou can be. And bossy. Very, very bossy.
“I am,” you mutter back, rolling your eyes.
”Here,” he only grunts in response, handing you a charger, and you wordlessly take it, plugging in your phone.
”Thanks,” you say quietly. “Good thing you were still there, huh?” You give him a sheepish look.
His only form of reply comes as a flat look. You wither under it.
”What were you still doing there while everyone was gone anyway?” You mumble.
”Taking a phone call,” he mutters. And then, because he’s apparently still as petty as he used to be back in the day, he glances at yours and adds, “Because I keep mine charged.”
You all but pout at his pointed statement, huffing as you start to defend yourself. “Okay, well, I never make this mistake usually. I just—”
You cut yourself off when your phone lights up from charging and turning on, catching your attention at the same time it does Bakugou’s. Well—that was pretty fast, at least. You almost wonder if the five percent he’s managed to get you to will be enough to last you on an Uber ride home. That would be better than a long thirty minutes sitting next to the agitated lump of blonde hair next to you, right?
You can’t entertain the idea for even a second longer than you had it, though. Because Bakugou is already muttering under his breath, “Finally,” before looking at you and saying, “now send me your address so I can type it in.”
”You know, if you were this pressed for time I could’ve just typed the address into your GPS myself,” you say dryly.
”Great idea,” he says just as dryly, “next time, maybe I’ll try that when you talk less. Now gimme the address, idiot.”
Well. You give up on your idea of the Uber and you do. And you watch as he slots his phone into the holder on the dash, your message lighting up the screen—Stretchy. That’s your contact name.
Of course it is. (But then again, it’s a miracle Bakugou even saved your contact at all—you’d always assumed he had the class group chat muted.) You fight the urge to roll your eyes again and just slump back into your seat instead, resigning yourself to your fate for the night as he taps on your message and pulls up your address in his GPS.
The engine hums to life, low and smooth, and the car pulls out onto the road. You sink a little deeper into your seat, letting your head fall back for a second before, against your better judgment, your eyes drift over.
Bakugou drives like he does everything else: so absurdly impressively, it’s actually ridiculous. It’s just driving, and yet he makes it look like it’s something only he can do so well—one hand on the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, relaxed. His posture is easy, shoulders set, gaze sharp on the road ahead. And it’s just one of those attractive things men do for no reason.
It’s…annoying. How natural he looks. How good he looks.
The streetlights flicker over him in passing streaks, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brows, the way his eyes narrow just a bit when he switches lanes. Bakugou looks so annoyingly good, and you’re helpless to notice it.
Because that’s just the thing—you’ve always noticed it.
You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought he was attractive back in high school. You definitely did. It was hard not to. He was bulky and muscular and tall with a good face—he even wore baggy pants and a tight-fitted shirt for his hero costume. He did all the right things (without meaning to, of course) to be attractive to the average girl.
But his attitude? Well…that’s another matter.
That had killed the attraction before it could ever be anything more than a passing thought. A surface-level thing. Something you’d notice and immediately shove aside because Bakugou Katsuki was not someone you entertained a crush on unless you were actively trying to make your own life harder. And you definitely didn’t need that, so you never put much thought into it.
And yet, now, years later, watching him drive like this, you’re painfully aware that it’s…still there. That lingering attraction that you undeniably have for him. Persistently so.
You tear your gaze away before you can get caught staring. What the hell is wrong with you? It’s just Bakugou. You’ve known him for over a decade, and you’ve never been affected by him like this, and you won’t start now. Your broken heart and devastating loneliness are getting to you. That’s all.
The silence stretches—not uncomfortable, exactly, and you’re sure Bakugou would prefer it this way, if anything. But still, you feel like it’s too stiff for you to handle, so you do what you’re best at. Awkwardly making small talk to fill in the awkward silence, even if it’ll annoy him.
(If anything, you hope it will.)
You clear your throat. “So.”
He doesn’t look at you. “So?”
“…Busy lately?” you try, immediately regretting it. God, that was lame.
He huffs quietly through his nose. “Yeah. Work doesn’t exactly stop for heroes.”
“Right,” you nod, even though he isn’t looking. “Same.”
Another beat of silence. You glance at him again, just for a second, and immediately regret it when you notice the way his hand shifts slightly on the wheel, forearm flexing.
Holy fuck.
“Your new agency’s…uh. Doing well?” you ask, grasping at anything that sounds remotely normal. Remotely interesting. Bakugou would love talking about himself—right?
“Tch. Obviously,” he mutters. “We’re not half-assing shit over there.”
“Yeah, I figured,” you say quickly. “I’ve heard good things.”
He shoots you a brief sideways glance, like he hardly believes it. “From who?”
“People,” you shrug, already cringing. “Around.”
“Hn,” he grunts. He looks back at the road. “Well, they’re right. I’m gonna be the best agency soon, too—you’d do well to remember that.”
You press your lips together, trying not to smile. God, he’s insufferable. You hum, letting your head rest back. “Kaminari said you’ve been working yourself to death without some sidekicks.”
“Dunno why you’re listening to that idiot,” Bakugou scoffs. He looks a little sulky at the mention of having no sidekicks—like it’s a sore topic. (You’re not surprised in the slightest when Kaminari tells you that no sidekick stays for long after getting a taste of Bakugou’s abrasiveness.) “Dunce-face talks too much.”
“He said you don’t take breaks.”
“I don’t need breaks.”
You snort softly. “Yeah, okay.”
That earns you another glance, longer this time, but the sulkiness is gone, and there’s something almost amused sitting underneath it. Barely there, but it’s there. “Worry about yourself,” he says, turning back to the road. “You’re the one who looks like shit tonight.”
You blink, then scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” he mutters.
Yeah. You do. You’re sure you looked miserable and stiff as a board all night. No way the girls didn’t notice, but they know you well enough to know you’ll come to them on your own time—and you will. When the time is right, you’re sure you’ll vent away about men and their shittiness and their lack of communication and commitment when you’re feeling up to it.
For now, though, you’ll just sit here and be driven home by Bakugou Katsuki, who seems to know something is up, yet does not comment on it as he does a surprisingly nice thing for you. And for some unknown reason, that makes something in your chest feel just a little less heavy.
The rest of the car ride goes rather smoothly, and you pull up to your apartment in what feels like a surprisingly fast amount of time. Time…doesn’t seem to drag on with Bakugou, even when it’s silent. Of course, he’d actually entertained your small talk when you tried here and there, but you find that there’s almost…comfort in Bakugou’s silence.
He parks in front of the building. And then, he surprises you as he says bluntly, “You've been actin’ weird all night. What’s with you?”
You stiffen, jaw tightening. “Nothing, I don’t know what you’re—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not fucking stupid,” he cuts in, flat.
“Well, why’s it your business?” you snap, sharper than you mean to.
Bakugou shrugs, like it really doesn’t matter either way. “It’s not. But I drove thirty minutes in the opposite direction for your dumbass, so I’m curious why.”
You huff, looking away toward your apartment building, arms crossing tighter over yourself. “It’s nothing. Just…a shitty week.”
“Tch.” He leans back slightly, still watching you. “Shitty how?”
“Just stuff,” you mutter. “It’s not a big deal.”
He clicks his tongue, clearly not buying it. “Liar.”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me?”
If there’s one thing that Bakugou is that people tend not to give him credit for, it’s that he’s perceptive. Observant. They make the mistake of thinking that he always rushes right in, charges head-on without an ounce of a plan or a single thought in his brain other than brute forcing his way out of everything. But that’s farther from the truth than anyone would assume. Bakugou is so smart, it just adds to the list of reasons why he’s infuriating.
He’s smart, and he notices things, and he always has a pretty fucking good idea of what he’s talking about.
So when he says, “You’ve been off all night. Quiet—and not your usual type of quiet,” you look at him funny. You never assumed he’d have a good idea of what he’s talking about when it pertains to you.
“Wow. Since when do you know me so well?”
“I know all of you freaks—have to if I’m gonna beat you all and be number one,” he shoots back immediately. Then, after a moment, “You still seein’ that guy Dunce-face was talking about?”
You still. Just for a second. How did…how did he know that’s what was wrong? (And why is Kaminari airing your business out like that? From now on, you’re going to stick to the girls, and that’s it—Kaminari has lost his gossip privileges.) And of course, Bakugou catches the way you stiffen almost immediately, so he catches on that he was right. “Hah. Knew it,” he mutters. “Sparky says the guy’s lame as shit.”
“It’s not—” you start, then exhale sharply. “It’s nothing.”
“That means you’re not seein’ him anymore, I take it,” he says. “So was he a jerk?”
You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Can you not?”
“No,” he says, without hesitation. “You’re sitting here acting like shit over some guy?”
“I’m not acting like shit,” you snap, even though you know you are. “And he’s not just some guy, either.”
“You are acting like shit,” he says flatly. “What, you love him or something?”
“No,” you sputter, “we didn’t even know each other like that for it to be love.”
“So then what’s the big deal?”
You look away again, jaw tight. “I don’t know! It’s like…it’s just…” You trail off and sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Bakugou shrugs. “Probably.”
Your head snaps back toward him in disbelief. (At least now you know there is at least one thing he’s not good at—he can’t comfort people for shit.) “Wow. Thanks, asshole.”
“But you’re clearly stuck on it,” he continues, unfazed. “So it’s not stupid to you. Are you gonna be fine, or are you gonna go up there and spiral all night?”
“Still don’t see how it’s your business,” you grumble.
It’s only silent for a moment before Bakugou grabs his keys and turns the ignition off on his (very fancy) car. His door opens and closes, and before you can even get an idea of what’s happening, he pulls your door open and gestures for you to get out.
“Let’s go,” he says.
“W-what?” you stutter.
“I said, let’s go,” he rolls his eyes, “We’re goin’ up to your place, and you’re gonna give me a bottle of water and somethin’ to snack on. Least you can do for making me drive all this way.”
It’s his way of keeping you company for a bit longer. This much, you know.
Bakugou is a complicated guy. He’s mean and rude and crass and loads of other unpleasant things that people could use to describe him in order to convey that he’s…not easy to get along with. Not even a little.
But he’s a good person at heart. It’s undeniable. People are always safe around Bakugou, even if it costs him his life (though really, it hardly ever does because he’s just that good), and even if it takes every ounce of his blood, sweat, and tears. He does it because it’s in his nature to do so—ingrained in him since the day his quirk was manifested. He’s the best at winning against bad things, and it helps people—imperfectly, sure, and not always in a very heartfelt manner, but as sincerely as it comes.
If he decides to come up and spend time with you for a bit to keep your mind off of your broken heart, it’s not because he pities you or feels this self-righteous sense of justice. He never does what he doesn’t want to do. So he wants to do this—and it’s because in his own, weirdly unexpected way, he cares.
Perhaps it’s not entirely unexpected, though, you suppose—after all, Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life. All of you.
—
When you let him into your apartment, he takes a quick glance around. Lingers over the small trinkets and items you keep as decor, and then marches his way over to the kitchen as he mumbles, “What sorta snacks you got?”
You pull out one of the bags of red, hot, spicy chips from the convenience store that you keep stashed away—they can’t be good for you, but you figure you only live once—and hand them to him. He perks up minimally.
Bakugou likes spicy things. It’s one of the first things you ever learned about him, actually about him as a person and not just him pertaining to the nature of the hero course, and for some reason, it’s a detail you seem to remember.
He grabs the bag and slinks off to your couch while you grab your long-awaited ice cream and slump onto the opposite end of it right after, which isn’t too far, considering your couch is not that large. His feet are thrown over your coffee table, and you don’t care enough to bother with scolding him about how ill-mannered it is.
“So,” he grunts, popping a chip into his mouth. “Why the pity party? He dump you or somethin’?”
“We weren’t together,” you mutter, digging your spoon roughly into your frozen treat. You’re long past the point of wondering if it’s a wise idea to tell Bakugou all your woes—he’s already here, so you figure, why the hell not? “I don’t think it qualifies as a dump.”
“Ah,” he huffs, chewing as he seems to get whatever clarity he was searching for. “So he ran off before things got official, and now you’re sulkin’.”
“I’m not sulking,” you click your teeth—all of which is said through a rather sulky tone, so he only snorts and raises an eyebrow at you. You just respond by glumly taking a spoonful of your ice cream as you add, “And it’s not even like I fell for him that hard, okay? It’s just…the principle of things—he shouldn’t have strung me along like that, and he could’ve just told me instead of disappointing me when things seemed to be going great. And, he definitely never implied that he was seeing other people, so it’s particularly low of him to do all that just so he could see another girl who is clearly so opposite of me, so I’m not even sure I was his type, rather than an easy situationship. Except I didn’t give him what he wanted easily, so I bet that’s why he lost interest so suddenly when he realized he wasn’t going to get what he—”
“Holy fuck,” Bakugou groans, “you sound like the damn nerd with all that mumbling. Okay, so some guy wanted to get in your pants, you didn’t let him, and he got bored. Big deal—just means you picked a fucking loser. So don’t do that next time.”
He says it like it’s so simple. It’s never that simple. Men are so naive.
“Thanks for the stellar advice,” you say sarcastically, shooting him a flat look.
He only smirks, shrugging as he hums, “Yeah, don’t mention it. Don’t get used to it though—I’m not a fuckin’ therapist who solves your shit for you.”
“I’ll try not to depend on you too much,” you roll your eyes. You take another spoonful of your ice cream and sigh tiredly as you slump back against your cushions, and he sighs heavily and throws his head back exasperatedly.
“Look, I know I’m not always the most…fuck, I don’t know the word—”
“Kind? Compassionate? Empathetic? Understanding—”
He shoots you a withering glare, and you huff as you trail off. “Anyway,” he fixes you with a pointed look, “even though I don’t get all bent up outta shape over nonsense like this, I’d get it if you were head over heels for this bastard. But it sounds like you didn’t even like the loser that much, so I’m failing to understand why it matters that bad.”
“Because,” you sigh in exasperation, “I just…I don’t know…I wanted someone to choose me and like what they see, okay? No one ever cares to even bother getting to know me, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why.”
“You just haven’t set your sights on the right guy yet,” he shrugs, “big fuckin’ deal. You’ll stop being dumb and choose a good one eventually—I’m willing to believe you’re capable of at least that much.”
“They really ought to give you your therapy license,” you say dryly, your face as unimpressed as your tone. “I bet people would pay good money to hear this.”
“I’ll consider it if my agency is a bust,” he snorts, shooting you a sly smirk as he leans back into the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “Seriously though,” he adds after a second, side-eyeing you, “you’re makin’ this deeper than it is. Some shallow guy bein’ shallow is a stupid reason to get all in your head about shit or whatever.”
You press your lips together, staring down into your melting ice cream. “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” you mutter.
“Hah?” he grunts.
It is easy for someone like Bakugou. Someone who’s always good at everything and knows it. Has enough confidence for two people and then some. You’re certain that if Bakugou actually let women come near him long enough to entertain the idea of a romantic relationship with him, they’d be at his feet the way they are for Todoroki. Women have a thing for men they feel like they can change, can make soften up just for them. He’d be a magnet for the fix-it type of girls if he were actually interested someday, and it only frustrates you further when he talks like your problems are so simple.
“This is how it’s always been for me—even back in high school, it was the same thing.”
Bakugou’s brows knit slightly. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”
You stare intently into your pint of ice cream, stabbing the spoon in and out. “Like…with guys. It’s always been like this.”
“That’s bullshit.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“I was there, in case you forgot,” he says, as if that alone settles the matter. “Don’t rewrite shit. You got asked out once by that extra.”
You frown. “That’s not—okay, first of all, that was just so he could try and show off his support gadgets to the agency I did my work study with. It doesn’t count. And second, that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” he shoots back.
You hesitate, then sigh, dragging your spoon through your ice cream again. “Like…I don’t know!” You gesture with your hand vaguely, “I’m never memorable…or the sort of person that stands out enough for people to be interested, you know? Even Mineta made a list once when we were in school—did you know that? Ranking all the girls. And I was last. Like, dead last for whose tits he’d want to see in order. And I know it’s stupid—it’s Mineta. But some part of me wondered why I was last, and…I just figured maybe when I got older, got more confident, and figured myself out, then it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s just the same thing again—and now I’m starting to wonder if there’s a reason why I was last on that list.”
Silence settles heavily between you. Bakugou stares at you incredulously, like you’ve just said something that’s genuinely incomprehensible. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right?” He scoffs.
You don’t meet his eyes as you bring your legs up to your chest and hug your arms tightly around your knees. “What?” You frown, sulky and self-conscious.
“You’re tellin’ me you’re still hung up a decade later over that small fry not wantin’ ta take a peek at your tits? Why the fuck would you even want him to see them?”
“I don’t want him to see them,” you defend, huffing. “But like…fuck, c’mon! If the perveiest, creepiest guy you know doesn’t get excited at the thought of seeing you naked, who in their right mind will?”
He looks at you in pure distaste. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you weren’t this much of a fucking idiot, Stretchy. Sitting here wanting people to see you naked. Fuckin’ absurd.”
“Don’t be purposely dense,” you snap. You don’t know why it matters so much that Bakugou understands where you’re coming from, but it does. It’s important that he understands. “I’m not…I just…all my life, I’ve never been the one people want. There’s always someone better. Hotter, or smarter, or funnier. Nobody wants me—not even for the wrong reasons. How can I expect anyone to want me for the right ones?”
Bakugou is silent. For a moment, you think he finally understands. Think he’ll finally have an odd moment where he’s compassionate and gentle and you see eye to eye and have a heart-to-heart about your lifelong insecurities and your raging sense of inferiority when it comes to anything outside of your job. (Because at least you can give yourself that much—you’re good at your job.)
But then he says, “You’re so dumb, it physically hurts to watch you sometimes.”
And you bury your face into your knees and just sigh. Why did you have any hope for anything else? Why did you expect Bakugou Katsuki of all people to have empathy for your lack of confidence? The walking epitome of confidence is sitting on your couch, and you had the gall to think he’d even try to understand you.
But then he takes you by surprise.
“You see the shit people say on the internet about you, don’t you? You got fans. They think you’re hot.”
You blink as you lift your head back up. “Well, sure, but—”
Bakugou cuts you off. He looks at you like you’re dumb as he speaks, and you almost wonder if you are with the way he holds so much conviction in that gaze of his. Like he believes wholeheartedly you’re a stupid fucking idiot with stupid fucking thoughts.
“But fucking what? That means you’re clearly not the ugliest girl on the planet. You’re sociable enough that you got plenty of friends, too, and you have talents. You’re half decent enough at hero stuff. You’re tellin’ me you think no one wants you? You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever.”
All things aside regarding the…well, delivery of his statement, it’s a pretty nice statement. Something about the idea that Bakugou believes someone could definitely want you makes your chest feel rather light. It’s kind and comforting in an odd way, despite the rough and borderline mean way of saying it. That’s Bakugou for you, though, you suppose. Always doing good in the least seemingly good way possible.
“You’re being weirdly thoughtful,” you fix him with a look as you stir your ice cream around. You fight back a small smile.
He huffs, throwing another chip in his mouth before he mumbles, “I’m always thoughtful, you loser. I’m fuckin’ awesome, you’re just blind as shit.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you smile.
“Just eat your ice cream before it turns into soup,” he grumbles.
You take his advice for once, scooping up another bite just to give your hands something to do. The cold bites at your tongue as you think on his words. You have to be pretty air-headed to think no one’s gonna desire you or whatever. Are you? Are you air-headed to think that? No one has given you a reason to think they do want you—but he seems to say it like he knows it’s true. Like he knows someone wants you exactly in the way you want to be wanted. It eats away at you in your head. Does he know who? Is it someone from your old class? A friend of his? Kirishima, or Sero, or hell…even Todoroki? (You rule out Kaminari rather quickly—you almost pity the guy for how long he’s pined after Jirou.)
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s already looking at you. You freeze for half a second, catching him eyeing you down, and he doesn’t even bother pretending otherwise. Just watches you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure something out, trying to search for something that he can only find in you.
“What?” you mutter, a little defensive.
“Tch.” He looks away first, shoving another chip into his mouth. “Nothin’.”
You don’t buy that for a second. “You’re staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Eat your damn ice cream,” he snaps back, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Why’re you being all weird all of a sudden?” you mutter.
He scoffs. “You’re the one who’s weird. Don’t start projecting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes as you go back and forth with him, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips again, uninvited and almost second nature somehow. It lingers longer than you expect. Who knew it could be so easy to smile in Bakugou’s company? You wonder if the you from high school would be shocked to see this now—hell, you think the you of last week would be shocked to see this, too.
You look back at him, and he’s still staring—softer this time, less like he’s searching for whatever it is he was searching for a moment ago, and more like he’s staring just to stare.
“What?” you ask again, furrowing your brows.
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—looks at you hard and good and…and so full of certainty and conviction like earlier. Certainty for what, you wonder. You have no idea, but it almost feels like something is shifting in your relationship with Bakugou—or perhaps, something that was always there that you never knew of is revealing itself. It makes your stomach twist.
What relationship do you even have with him? Outside of being semi-friendly? You shared a class with him for three years and fought through a dark, heavy disaster side by side. It’s unfair to say you don’t know him that well—he was your friend. That much, you think, is fair to say. Perhaps not your closest friend, nor a lifelong one. But a friend all the same.
So what is it? Why does it feel like there’s something that’s making itself noticeable now, all these years later? What is it exactly? Your head spins as you try to figure it all out, all while he just keeps on fucking staring.
“Nothing,” he mutters finally, but it sounds distracted. It sounds like his mind is elsewhere, and his body is here.
“You’re still staring,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Stop sayin’ that,” he mutters.
“Then stop staring.”
“I was making eye contact, you fucking idiot.”
“I think you were staring.”
“No, the fuck I wasn’t.”
“You’re looking right at me as you say that.”
“'Cause it’s called fucking eye contact—are you dumb or something?”
You stare at him. He stares right back. And then, because you’re you, you break it first—huffing out a quiet laugh and shaking your head. “I see. Are you just now realizing I’m super gorgeous or something?”
“Tch. Weren’t you just going on about how no one seems wowed by you?”
You glare at him. “Low blow. And I said that’s how it seems to be for some reason—I never said I agreed with it. Personally, I think I’m rather delightful, and people should notice it more.”
“Yeah, real charmer,” he mutters.
You bump your knee lightly against his without thinking. “Shut up.”
It’s small. A casual touch, if anything. You didn’t think much of it—in fact, it almost came to you naturally. But sitting on your couch and spilling your heart out and sharing snacks with Bakugou feels so oddly familiar, though, that perhaps your judgment is a little clouded.
He stills at the small touch. Your smile fades a little when you realize it—when you realize he didn’t just brush it off like it’s casual. His gaze drops again, slower this time, to where your knee is pressed against his. And then back up. Did you cross a boundary? Did he find that weird? Is he uncomfortable? Was that a more intimate gesture than you thought it was?
You’re sitting there spiralling in your head as you just watch him, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He doesn’t. Instead, he leans forward slightly—just enough that the space between you closes so that only a few bare inches remain. Your breath hitches.
“Bakugou—”
“You’ve always been pretty dumb,” he mutters, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“Exactly what I said,” he closes his eyes and sighs, like he’s tired and conflicted and…and something else. Something else you just can’t decipher, no matter how much you try. “I don’t get how you don’t fucking see it.”
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer. But he does open his eyes—deep and sharp vermillion eyes that are looking at you, and he seems to have made a decision that he’s almost a little hesitant with. Like he’s reluctant to fully go through with it, but still. He’s determined. That much you can tell—you know what a determined Bakugou looks like, and this is it. This is it if you know it, and you know that you know it.
And then he leans in.
He leans right in, pressing his lips to your and kisses you softly. It’s so soft—softer than any touch you’ve ever felt. So careful and considerate, as if you’re a fragile petal that’s on the verge of falling off the stamen, and he’s taking every ounce of willpower to keep you tethered to where you are. Keep you from falling away. Keep you there and whole and pieced together so that even the most delicate of touches doesn’t ruin you.
You almost wonder if he thinks he would—ruin you, that is. You wonder if all that careful consideration is because Bakugou believes you’re a fragile petal that could blow away, and he’s nothing but a harsh, cold wind that would blow you off your balance and carry on like it’s just his nature to do so.
And then he pulls back just as fast as it happened to look at you, brows furrowed slightly like he’s bracing for you to shove him off or yell at him.
Your brain is still catching up. He just kissed you. Bakugou Katsuki just kissed you. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and for once, he actually looks uncertain. Nervous, even—almost disappointed. And it does something weird to your chest.
“Fuck, I shouldn’t have done th—”
“You just kissed—”
You both speak at the same time. You pause, he does too, and then his jaw tightens. “Yeah. I…that was stupid. Sorry—I…fuck, I don’t know what I was think—”
You don’t know why you do it, but you lean forward and kiss him again. It just happens before you can process it—some invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable force that makes you just do it.
And instantly, without even questioning it, his hand comes up, quick and certain, as it grips lightly at your jaw to steady you so he can kiss you properly.
It’s slower this time. More deliberate. Less like he’s being careful and more like he’s trying to savor it now that he knows that he can. His lips press into yours as if they fit like puzzle pieces, and his tongue slides past your parted mouth to press against your own. Your breath catches, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt without you meaning to.
It’s weird, but it’s not—kissing Bakugou. He’s the last person you ever expected to kiss tonight, maybe even ever, but fuck does it feel like it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.
“How the fuck do you think no one wants you?” he grumbles between kisses, like he’s personally insulted by the idea. It’s starting to occur to you that perhaps he is just a little insulted by the idea. “You’re so…so fuckin’ dense.”
“No one has ever made it clear,” you snap, bringing your hands around his neck and tugging on his hair as he kisses you deeper.
He hisses, but it only eggs him on to kiss you harder, more fervently. “You want it clear? Then here the fuck you go.”
He kisses along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone. When your shirt slips off, you don’t even have the clarity to stop and think about what it is you’re doing—it just feels that natural and right to let him do it. He takes in the sight of your tits in your bra, grabbing a handful of them with large, warm hands as he scoffs.
“These the tits that small fry didn’t wanna see? I’m fuckin’ glad—I’d be pissed as hell if he got to see these.”
He pulls off your bra. Rips it right off your back and makes you gasp as you feel the claps fly clean off somewhere in the distance.
“Hey—”
“Oh, shut up,” he huffs, “it’s a fuckin’ bra. I’ll buy you some more if you’re that pressed over replacing one.”
Before you can even scold him for tearing your undergarments and being so nonchalant about it, his mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking and rolling his tongue over the nub as it hardens under his touch. You gasp, arching into his touch, whining when one of his hands moves to cup your other breast and use his fingers on the neglected nipple.
“Oh my—fuck,” you breathe, your heart rate getting faster as your breaths come out more labored.
Bakugou grins against your tit, still sucking and licking—and when you feel the faintest pressure of teeth around your nipple while his fingers pinch around the other, you let out a sound that you’d be mortified about if your mind wasn’t so stuck in the clouds, hazy and unclear.
He kisses down the valley of your breasts when he finally pulls away—right down your belly and right above the waistband that’s sitting against your skin before he looks up at you for permission. “This okay?” he grunts.
You nod quickly as you breathe heavily.
He gives you an unimpressed look as he raises a brow. “Use your words,” he says firmly, “I know you can—can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whine, “yes, this is okay. J-just…get on with it.”
That satisfies him enough, it seems, because he’s pulling all the cloth that separates your core from him down, revealing your dripping cunt as he lets you kick off the cloth that pools at your ankles.
“Look at you,” he coos, grinning smugly at the sight of your arousal smeared along your folds and your skin. He leans closer to get a better look, and you whine in shame. “Fuck,” he grunts, parting your legs with strong hands along your inner thighs as you try to close them from embarrassment. “Quit that,” he hisses. For whatever reason, you obey. “Fuck, you are so wet.”
“Bakugou,” you whine again, horrified, “what is wrong with you?”
He gives you a deeply bothered look. “Katsuki,” he snaps.
“What?” You furrow your brows. Why is he introducing himself to you as if you’ve never met him before—does this man forget that he and you not only shared a class for three fucking years straight, but you fought a war side by side? Of course, you know his first name is Katsuki—
“For fuck’s sake, Stretchy,” he says in pure exasperation, “you’re so dense, you make rocks seem weightless. Say Katsuki, not Bakugou—s’weird to hear that during sex. That’s my fuckin’ mother’s name, too, y’know.”
“Thank you for that mental image,” you fix him with a glare, “and I’m not denser than a rock—”
He licks a stripe along your pussy to shut you up, and fuck does it work. Bakugou—or…well, Katsuki, you correct in your head—is so good at everything he does, it’s almost infuriating. But you aren’t a liar, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t grateful for him being so good at eating you out. It’s like his life depends on it, the way he laps away at your folds, pressing his tongue into your cunt and pulling back away to roll over your clit. It’s so…so fucking good.
It feels good. Feels right. Somehow, it feels like this is natural and like he’s supposed to be there between your thighs. You’d expected yourself to be a bit more self-conscious about him seeing you like this, doing things to you like this, for a bit longer. But you’re not.
Instead, you’re throwing your head back into the couch as you moan, “Katsuki—mmhhh.”
“Yeah?” he grins, so smug and handsome at the same time. Just unfair. “You like that, huh?”
“B-be quiet,” you huff, whimpering when a finger sinks past your folds and stretches you open, “you always talked too much.”
“And you always talked too little,” he counters, “tell me how good you feel and say my name like that again while you do it,” comes his blunt demand.
And he earns what he asks for, of course, because a second finger follows that first, and it makes you whine out his name in response like it’s an inevitable chain of events. He’s pumping his digits into your wet cunt and pressing into your sweet spot like it’s that simple. His mouth closes around your clit, and he sucks, his tongue working some sort of unearthly magic along the bundle of nerves as you practically sob in pleasure.
Good, good, good—everything that Katsuki does is so good. He’s so good at everything, it blows your mind. Literally. You can hardly think as he fucks his fingers into you and builds that familiar pressure up in your lower belly. They’re longer and thicker than your own—and all those years of explosives at his fingertips have really roughened up the skin. They’re calloused and scarred. And they feel amazing when they glide along your walls. The friction is so different when it’s his fingers and not yours—they hit angles and stretch places you never hoped to do so yourself.
Like he can read your mind, he asks, “Feels nice?” with a low voice.
You can barely think, let alone form a proper response. Everything feels too sharp, too overwhelming—your breath catching, your body reacting before your brain can keep up. You roll your hips into his fingers as they thrust into you, grinding down onto his mouth so his tongue can lap away at your clit.
“Yeah—” you manage, voice uneven, “so…so good, Katsuki—”
“I know, baby,” he murmurs. Baby—he just called you baby. And it’s…sweet. He says it oddly sweet and oddly gentle as he kisses your clit and smiles into your thigh when the kisses trail along the insides of them. His fingers are still pressing into that soft, sensitive spot in the back of your walls, still applying pressure exactly where you see white every time, and all the while, he seems to be so unexpectedly happy to be doing it.
You stare down at him, watching him between your legs, and when vermillion eyes intensely stare right back, piercing and calculating and yet so…so soft, you can’t look anymore. Just close your eyes and let it happen as your body starts to creep towards that familiar sensation of euphoria.
“Katsuki,” you whine, voice cracking.
“Jus’ let it happen, sweetheart,” he hums, “gonna cum for me?”
“Yeah,” you whine some more, “yeah—fuck. M’gonna cum.”
“Then do it, baby.”
You do. Katsuki is there to work you through it. Your walls spasm as you fall—no, plummet—off the edge, and he doesn’t hold back for an instant. His fingers are fucking into your tightness, the squelching sound of them gliding against your wet folds invading your very good hearing. His tongue is rolling back and forth against your swollen clit—so unforgiving and ruthless in his pace.
You can feel your back arch off the cushions of your couch, your hips working on their own accord as they move and grind down into his touch. Katsuki devours it all—laps away at your juices and groans at the taste of you. Groans right into your pussy and leaves you shuddering at the vibrations his gruff voice leaves against where you’re most sensitive.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, “driving me crazy here, y’know—sucking my fingers right in, I don’t even have to do much myself.”
When you’re done chasing your high, chest heaving as you catch your breath and slump back against your couch, his mouth doesn’t stop. He just stays there, pressing his lips where he can along your thighs, kissing and sucking into your skin, leaving blossoming marks in his wake while you try to gather some coherence in your mind.
“Fuck,” you say breathlessly. “I…just…yeah. Fuck.”
He snorts. “You’re too easily impressed,” he mutters.
“Yeah, well,” you glare, not meeting his gaze, “it’s not like I’ve ever done…this—” you vaguely gesture at him between your legs, “—to have a proper assessment of your skills.”
He looks at you. Bewildered. “Wait—you’ve never been fucked?”
“I’m not a virgin!” you sputter quickly, “not…not that there’s no reason why I can’t be a virgin—but I’m not, okay? I’ve been fucked.”
“So what is it then?” he raises a brow.
“I’ve never had someone do…this,” you gesture again.
“Eat you out?”
“Why do you have to go and say it like that?” you whine, covering your face with your hands—you’re sure said face is bright red and flushed.
He’s always been so vulgar. Even when you were kids. At least then, he was just vulgar with his language and not the connotations, but right now, he’s being vulgar about everything. And it’s seriously fucking with you right now—in more ways than one, evidently.
Katsuki only snorts, looking at you in mild amusement. “If you can’t say it, you got no business doing it. And you gotta have better standards, too—the fuck do you mean you never been eaten out before?”
“Men are not so giving,” you glare at him, “they’re in it for themselves. You’d know that if you weren’t a man.”
“Well, I am a man,” he shoots back, “and as a man, I know I’m pretty fucking giving. Cause I got standards and shit for my performance, and you should fuck people who have standards. And while you’re at it, you should get some god damn standards yourself, too.”
“I think you should take off your clothes instead of sitting there and lecturing me,” you huff.
To your mild surprise, he stands up and pulls you into his arms, lifting you up easily—seriously, what is he built from?—before mumbling, “Where the fuck is your room?”
You mumble out, “Hall to your left—s’the door on the right at the end.”
In what feels like record time, he’s there, tossing you onto the mattress softly enough that you don’t feel the recoil of impact harshly, but hard enough that you do a little bounce. He chuckles as you glare, easily lifting the black t-shirt he’s wearing over his head. It reveals his bare torso and…shit.
It’s not as though you’ve never seen Katsuki shirtless. Of course, you have. You’ve trained with him and battled alongside him, and more than once has he been shirtless, or even had his shirt burned clean off. It’s nothing new to you that he’s muscular and well-built and so fucking broad—but fuck. He’s really bulked up since you last saw him shirtless. The biceps you can see from his short-sleeved shirt were already proof of that, but seeing him now without it, seeing his pecs and the clear indents of every ab while the broadness of his body is on full display, is just something else, entirely.
And you’re staring. Because how could you not? Of course, you’re staring. You’re only human, no matter how superhuman this society is—you can’t help it that you’re simply in awe as you look at him.
And he seems to notice it instantly, because he gives you a teasing grin as he murmurs, “Likin’ what you’re looking at, huh? Makes sense.”
“Would you be quiet?” you huff. You sit up as he unbuckles his belt, watching as he strips himself of his pants and boxers in one go, easily revealing his erection as if there are no second thoughts.
It must be nice being so easily sure of yourself, you think. Everything about Katsuki’s life seems like it must be so nice. Good quirk. Good intuition. Good looks and an equally good body. Good everything—he must never overthink things. He must never overthink if the person in front of him likes what he has to offer and if it’s good enough to like for longer than one short instance. Of course, it’s good—it’s him.
It must be nice being Bakugou Katsuki, born to be so confident and so great at everything.
At least that’s what you think until he mutters, “Quit starin’, you freak,” with a huff. His ears are pink at the tips, and he doesn’t meet your eyes, and…it’s weirdly adorable that he’s shy.
You smile, endeared as you reach over, grabbing his hand, pulling him down to hover over you in bed, his arms caging you while his nose bumps against yours. You can see his eyes better from here. Closer than you’ve ever seen them. His lashes are darker than the rest of his hair—almost a light brown that flutter so beautifully when he blinks.
You hum, kissing his mouth with a soft peck, there one second and gone the next. He frowns, almost pouts, at how quickly it’s over.
“Don’t get all shy on me now, Blasty,” you murmur.
“I’m never shy, Stretchy,” he shoots back.
Your hand moves between your bodies, hesitantly reaching for his hard, swollen length. There’s a blonde patch of hair between his thighs that is neatly trimmed, and he’s got a small birthmark at his hip bone. As for his cock—it’s…well, it’s big. Thicker than it is long, but no less impressive. You figured it would be. Of course, just like everything else he’s got, he’s blessed to be impressive.
You wrap a hand around his cock, stroking slowly as he shudders and lets out a soft, breathy groan. Your hand barely wraps around the girth of it, fingers just shy of meeting, and you look down to watch your fist slide up and down the length of him. He’s slick with pre cum that dribbles from his tip, twitching a little when you squeeze at the base experimentally as you stroke him.
“S’that even gonna fit?” you gape at the sheer size of him, and that’s all it takes for that minimal shred of shyness to leave him. He has the nerve to look at you smugly—so wholly amused.
“Course it is,” he snorts, smirking slyly. “Got you all nice and prepped, didn’t I? B’sides—isn’t bein’ stretched out and all kinda your thing?”
You give him a dirty look. Your quirk doesn’t work that way, and he knows it, but you suppose it’s naive to expect anything less from Bakugou. Of course, he’d throw in a cheeky, asshole-kind of poke at your meta abilities when he sees fit.
“Be quiet,” you warn.
“If that’s what you want,” he hums, “then you should fuckin’ do something about it.”
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in, kissing him hard and rough, earning a deep, satisfied rumble from his chest as you do. His cock nudges against your inner thigh, grinding against you for a short moment before he stills, jaw gritting tightly as he forces himself to be patient and mutters, “You got a condom?”
“On the pill,” you peck the corner of his lips, “so just fuck me—fuck me, Katsuki.”
That’s all he needs to hear. His tip is nudging against your entrance, sliding along your folds, and gathering the slick that’s practically dripping so he can coat himself in your mess. It’s filthy, and it makes you shudder as you feel the hot, heavy weight of him simply brush against you.
“Fuck,” he groans, “gotta feel you—m’gonna go insane.”
He’s pushing past your folds, sinking inch after agonizing inch so slowly, so carefully, you almost want to hiss that you won’t break. But something stops you—the way he stares between your bodies, that dazed look in his eyes with wide pupils as he watches himself sink into you is enough to force you into submission and be patient.
For him—just for him, you’ll be patient.
“Baby,” he drawls, his voice a low, rough purr, “baby, you’re so fuckin’ tight—god.”
“Fuck, Katsuki,” you whimper. He stretches you out good—fills you up and then some as he presses into all the right spots. “S’so deep—need more, please.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he presses a soft kiss between your brows before his hips are moving.
It’s slow at first, like he’s testing the waters, and when your head throws back into your pillow as you whine in pleasure, it’s like every worry in his head about hurting you flies out the window. His hips snap faster into you, his thrusts go a little deeper, his movement a little more frenzied. By the time he sets a fluid pace, it’s quick and rough and so fucking good.
“Wanted this for so long,” he grits his teeth, letting out a long moan as you clench around him. “Shit, wanted this for so fuckin’ long you wouldn’t believe—wanted you for so fuckin’ long.”
“More,” you whine, “p-please—give it to me, Kats.”
Oh. Oh, he likes the sound of that—there’s a deep, almost animalistic groan in the back of his throat that erupts before he goes impossibly faster, bullying his cock into your walls and slamming into that soft, sensitive spot he did so easily with his fingers, too. Something in his brain is almost rewired, you think, when he hears the nickname fall from your lips.
Something that makes him bury his face into your neck and nip and bite at the skin hungrily.
“Say that again,” he demands. “Say it.”
“Kats,” you sob, “mmhh—s’good, baby. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh? Like you mean something?”
“No,” you shake your head, “no one.”
“Only me, huh?”
“Only you,” you whimper, nodding along as your hips roll as much as they can into his own, trying to match his movements so he can press even deeper into you.
Katsuki does fuck you like you mean something. No one’s ever really done that. You’ve always had sex just for the sake of sex. It’s never been anything more outside of that—sure, you’ve had your eye on a guy, or two that you wished maybe would look at you as something more than a good fuck. But they don’t make a lasting impression to keep you wanting more. Keep you craving more. Keep you hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more.
Somehow, Katsuki makes that possible. He grabs your hips softly, rubs his thumb back and forth like he’s worshipping the skin when he angles you down on his cock for deeper access to your cunt. He kisses your jaw and cheeks with soft, wet pecks instead of just shoving his tongue down your throat. He bites his lips and looks at you with soft, dazed eyes and not the usual dark, lust-filled ones you’re used to.
You never really minded being used. Never minded being more than an easy fuck if it meant you could get something out of it, too. But he makes you feel wanted—and you like being wanted. You like being something worth coming and staying for.
“Fuck, m’close, sweetheart,” he rasps, sweat collecting on his forehead as his pace gets sloppier. The thick head of his cock slams roughly against your walls, and a thumb finds your clit to bring you closer to your peak with harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You can feel it—can feel the slow build of pressure in your belly, that familiarly delicious ache between your thighs as the friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy accumulates in every nerve. You’re close too, and Katsuki can tell—it’s so fucking easy for him to read your body. Like he was made to understand it.
“Close too, huh?” he pants, “you almost there?”
“Yes,” you wail, “yes—fuck, yes! Wanna cum.”
“Then do it,” he hums, “cum with me, baby.”
He rolls his hips into you once—then twice, and you feel it snap. That coil in your belly that was tight and waiting to burst. It makes your mind go blank and your lips part, and a cry of his name rings in your own ears loudly. You can feel the way you contract around him, spasming and squeezing and pulling him in as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
It makes his cock twitch before he tenses and stills—his own orgasm hits him just as hard. Hot, white ropes of his release fill you up, the messy, sloppy pace of his thrusts fucking his load into you as he works you both through your highs.
It’s good—not just because it’s pleasurable, but because you feel important. You feel like only you could give him this, and only you could be the one he wants it from. He leans down and kisses you, slow and messy, drinking in your moans as he pours his own into your mouth. He says your name so pretty when he’s like this—so breathless and soft, you feel like your ears are ringing just listening to the sound of him.
“You’re so good, baby,” he mumbles, “so good for me.”
“K-kats,” you whimper—it’s all you can even say.
“I know,” he moans, “I know, sweetheart.”
And then it’s over. You finish, and so does he, and then it’s just the two of you tangled like that while you both pant and catch your breath. Sweaty skin on sweaty skin, lingering touch on lingering touch. Your fingers weave through his blonde locks, tracing along his scalp and fiddling with the small baby hairs at the nape of his neck. His fingers are wrapped around your hips, digging softly into the plush skin and making home in the warmth of it.
“People want you, dumbass,” he mutters, leaning and kissing your cheek. “You’re just an idiot who doesn’t know how to look.”
“Be in my line of sight next time, and maybe I will,” you mumble.
He laughs as he slumps down next to you, pulling your body into his as he wraps you up with his body and the sheets on your bed—it’s the softest sound you’ve ever heard from him, and fuck, do you want to hear it more.
You wonder, as sleep creeps up on you, if this will all be an odd, weird, crazy dream when you wake up.
—
When you wake up, it is not an odd, weird, crazy dream.
Well, it’s definitely odd and weird and crazy. But it’s not a dream, that’s for sure. A sleeping, clearly bare Katsuki is in your bed, right beside you, and you’re in his arms. He’s holding you close and tight, and there would be no chance of escape if you wanted to leave his embrace (which you don’t really think that you do).
One minute turns into two. Two turns into three. And eventually, after a few agonizing minutes of trying to slowly inch away just enough to get a closer look at his sleeping face, Katsuki says without opening his eyes, “Quit squirming.”
You still. And then, you huff, squirming around just to annoy him.
“Oi!” he glares, opening two sharp, yet sleep-hazed red eyes. “I just said stop.”
“Well, I don’t answer to you,” you scowl. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since you decided to stare at me like a creep.”
“I was not staring,” you say, giving him a scandalized look.
He only grins, giving you a sly look as he yawns and mumbles, “Yeah. Whatever you say, dumbass.” Then he pulls you closer, bringing your cheek to lie on his chest while his chin props itself over the crown of your head. “You okay? From last night, I mean?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “M’fine.”
“Not hurt? Wasn’t too rough?”
“Nope,” you answer easily.
You realize this position might have less to do with the fact that he wants to hold you rather sweetly, and more to do with the fact that he might not really want you to look at his face when he asks his next question.
“You uh…you regret it? Or some shit?”
You pause, taking in the odd, rare moment of…vulnerability in his voice. Like he’s scared to hear your answer but needs to know desperately. You find yourself answering rather honestly when you say, “No. I don’t. Last night was really nice—I liked it.”
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
“Great. Go out with me, then.”
You do a double-take as you pull away and look at him in equal parts disbelief and equal parts irritation. He has the nerve to look rather expectant. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?” he huffs. “Go out with me—exactly what I said.”
“You can’t just throw that out there randomly!”
“Randomly?” It’s his turn to be shocked and irritated. “The fuck do you mean? I was balls deep in you last night, and this is random?”
“Yeah b-but…” You sputter, smacking his chest. “First of all, don't say it like that! And second, I had no idea until last night that you even thought I was attractive, let alone likable. Now you want to date me out of the blue?”
“I don’t ask shit for no reason out of the blue,” he grumbles, “of course I think you’re attractive and likable if I’m asking you out. You think I’d waste my time with just anyone?”
“Usually,” you give him a flat look, “when you ask someone out, some sort of confession comes first. You know? Like, hey—I think you’re pretty cool. Or you’re really beautiful. Or even, hey, I think we get along nicely, don’t you? Do you wanna go out sometime?”
Katsuki closes his eyes and sighs exasperatedly. “Hey, loser,” he smiles tightly. It’s rather petty, honestly. “I think you’re cool and beautiful—thought it since we were fuckin’ brats in school. We get along nicely for the most part, too, when you’re not a pain in the ass. Let’s go out.”
“That was a demand, not a question.”
“You are so fuckin’ difficult for no reason,” he groans, digging the palm of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “Holy fuck—you’d say no, or somethin’? That why you need it to be a question?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t…but it’s the principle of things—”
“Fuck your principles,” he mutters, pulling you close and planting his lips onto yours. You melt rather instantly, kissing him right back without hesitation. He grins against your mouth and pulls away, leaving you breathless. “The only damn principle you need to know is that you and I are good for each other. And that means we should go out.”
Class 1-A is trauma-bonded for life—it’s this invisible, untraceable, yet undeniable thing. You think it’s a good thing that you are, because it leads you straight to Bakugou Katsuki.
—
One new message from: ♡ PLUS ULTRA GIRLIES ♡
Mina: sooo can we talk about last night? SOMEONE was def giving us the cold shoulder
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
Momo: Come on, guys. I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation. We should be ready to listen whenever she’s ready
Ochaco: absolutely!
Tsu: but we do want to hear the reason asap
Mina: yeah it better be good bc that was just mean
Toru: ^^
Kyoka: ^^
You: i promise i’ll tell u everything soon ok? but guys.
You: holy fuck. guys…
You: i slept with bakugou last night
Mina: WHAT?
Toru: WHAT?
Tsu: WHAT?
Kyoka: WHAT?
Momo: WHAT?
Ochako: WHAT?
Mina: I KNEW HE HAD THE HOTS FOR YOU I KNEW IT
Mina: THIS NEEDS TO BE A GROUP CALL RIGHT NOW
You: I CAN’T TALK RIGHT NOW HE’S LITERALLY IN FRONT OF ME MAKING BREAKFAST IN MY KITCHEN
Ochako: aw wait that is sooo sweet of him. he’s a great cook too
Toru: proof or it didn’t happen :P
You: [ one attachment ]
Kyoka: HOLY SHIT THAT’S DEFINITELY HIS BACK
Momo: Well…As long as you’re happy!
Mina: LMAOOOOO STOP YAOMOMO
Ochaco: bakugou can be nice when he wants to be!! don’t be so hard on him
Tsu: when has he ever wanted to though…?
Toru: never lol let’s be real
You: he has a soft side OKAY? ochako is right u guys are being way too hard on him
Mina: oh god it begins
Toru: she’s already making excuses for him
Kyoka: the sex was that good huh??
Momo: Make sure you pee so you don’t get a uti ok?
yeah i wrote this in one day. this asshole has taken over my life yet again 6 years later i feel like history always repeats itself
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
Y/N: Because. I'm sick of people and I hate everyone
Chrissy ♡: Realest shit I've read all day
Chrissy ♡: Wanna come over and do nothing together?
Chrissy ♡: Wanna come over and hate everyone together?
Chrissy ♡: Maybe I'll cry with you if you behave 😉
Y/N: Omg you know my knees get all weak when you talk dirty to me, Bahng
Chrissy ♡: 😂😂😂
Chrissy ♡: Hurry up … it's boring being pissed on my own
Y/N: 🏃♀️💨
When Y/N pushed open the door to Chris's bedroom, her gaze panned around the spotless space before she frowned. Chris was nowhere to be seen. Traces of him lingered in the form of a sweet candle wafting its vanilla clouds over to her and enveloping her in a familiar cloud, his laptop shut on his desk, and a worn hoodie hanging off of the edge of his bed. Y/N blinked, looking around again, and she darted her head out of the room to make sure he wasn't in the main area - but then a set of warm fingers curled around her wrist and she was suddenly tugged into a sturdy body.
“Gotcha!” Chris's voice was playful as he squeezed her tight, and Y/N's breath hitched when his immense heat swallowed her up as soon as her face hit chest. “About time. You took ages.”
“I did not,” Y/N huffed, squeezing him back, arms tightening around his strong torso. “I left so fast that I forgot my phone and then I had to go back to get it.”
Chris chuckled, kicking the door shut. “Ah … so that's what took you so long.”
Y/N looked up at him indignantly. It just made him laugh more, and his face crumpled as a sudden wave of affection flooded over him for her. His arms tightened around her before Y/N found herself being picked up off of the floor, her legs automatically tangling around the man's waist as he held her close to him.
“You should have just left your phone,” Chris grinned, kissing her nose.
Y/N cocked her head to the side in question. “Why?”
“Well, I just thought … we're both sick of everyone so maybe we should just turn our phones off for the night. Just me and you. Whaddya say?”
“You're gonna turn your phone off for the whole night?”
Chris nodded. “Yep.”
“You?”
“Yep.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“What if the kids need you?”
Chris smiled. “No doubt they'll barge in here and attack us both.”
Giggling, Y/N pressed a kiss to Chris's forehead. “Wow. You really do hate everyone right now.”
“Mhm,” Chris wrinkled his nose. “They don't deserve me.”
He was joking, yet Y/N grinned. “Confidence looks sexy on you.”
“Dunno what you mean,” Chris flushed, just as he dropped Y/N softly onto his bed. He crawled down beside her until they were laying side by side, the ceiling warping with shadows from the lamplight above them. It almost looked like little galaxies swirling around and around, and they were both quiet for a moment, hands tangled between them both.
“You okay?” Chris hummed after a while, squeezing Y/N's fingers. “i mean … you said you were crying."
Y/N turned her face to the side. He was already watching her, and their noses bumped from the movement. Y/N's eyelashes fluttered as her eyes fell shut - she could still feel Chris's gaze on her, intense, but comforting, like a ray of sunshine.
“Just tired,” Y/N whispered. “Of breaking my back for people yet still always being the last choice.”
Simple words, yet they were words that Chris felt deep to the core of his bones. He too often felt the same - as much as he tried not to think about it, as much as he tried to distract himself by immersing himself further into his work and giving more to the people around him, he still couldn't shake the heaviness from his head sometimes. The thoughts were like cobwebs, fine, delicate, but somehow completely unshakeable.
Wordlessly, Chris's hand cupped the back of Y/N's head. He brought her towards his body, and Y/N let her face fall into the crook of his neck as he kissed the top of her hair. His touch was gentle in the way he caressed her neck, cascading down slowly before moving to the top of her head again in a soothing, repetitive, motion.
“I feel like you're the only one I can actually say is my best friend,” Y/N breathed into Chris's skin. “I can be myself with you … everyone else makes me feel like I have to hide.”
She felt the curve of Chris's throat bob against her temple as he swallowed thickly, his hand gripping her head just a touch more in a protective manner.
“I'm kinda relieved,” Chris murmured. “It would have been really awkward if you were my best friend and I wasn't yours.”
Y/N giggled. She buried her face deeper into the hollow of his neck, her fingers gripping onto the sides of his top with such a ferocity that it made Chris's heart twinge.
“I love you,” Chris brushed against the crown of her head. “All of you. You know that right?”
“I know,” Y/n nodded. “You know I love you too, don't you?”
Smiling at that, Chris hummed in agreement. He was prone to double guessing himself and overthinking his self worth, more than he ever wanted to admit … but despite all of that, he did always know in the bottom of his heart that he was loved by her. Like her love for him was as steady and sure as the sun rising day after day, and as calm as the moon illuminating even the darkest of nooks in the depth of night.
Just as his love always flowed freely for her too.
“I know,” Chris brushed a kiss to the corner of Y/N's mouth. Their foreheads were pressed together now, fingers intertwined, and just by laying there in each other's bubble, the couple felt their agitation and sadness for the world begin to seep out of them, leaving their bodies all melty on Chris's sheets.
“We're so pathetic,” Y/N joked under her breath.
It made Chris chuckle against her lips, the soft lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as wriggled closer to her. “Hey, I mean … at least we're pathetic together. Better being pathetic together is better than being pathetic on our own.”
Y/N grinned. “I like being pathetic with you.”
“Yeah?” Chris hummed. “Wanna eat some pathetic ramen with me?”
“Pathetic ramen? How can ramen be pathetic?”
“Well, if it's made by two pathetic people who are hiding from the world and eating ramen because they're sad, then I guess the vibes just … turn it pathetic.”
Y/N's laughter was warm. “What?”
Chris shrugged. He pulled her closer, his long limbs encasing her in his addictive embrace. “Dunno. Maybe I'm going crazy.”
Cross legged on Chris's bed, Y/N and Chris gently blew on their piping hot noodles, their noses and cheeks already pink from the rising steam. True to Chris's earlier words, he had switched his phone off, and Y/N followed suit - then they both tossed both devices into the back of Chris's wardrobe for good measure with a string of slightly delirious giggles. Perhaps it was just a placebo effect, but both of them had instantly felt a wave of calm wash over them as soon as they had shut the doors of the wardrobe. Like nothing was tethering them to the chaos of the world outside anymore. No half-hearted messages, no unnecessary rude comments floating around, no negative opinions in sight that always had a way of needling through the both of them and lodging inside their minds with a dull sort of ache that neither of them could quite ignore.
It was just the two of them in Chris's room (which, to Y/N, was one of her most favourite places on earth) with enough food to feed a dozen people, a marathon of movies lined up, and of course, so many blankets that they couldn't exactly tell whose limb was whose anymore.
“We should do this more often,” Chris said before shovelling an overestimated mouthful of ramen into his mouth. He instantly regretted it when the heat sizzled his tongue, and the amplified low level spice kissed his lips.
Y/N shook with silent laughter as she watched him inhale lungfuls of air like a dying fish. She reached for the water beside her and unscrewed the cap, holding it to him before she gently patted his back as he began to choke.
“Idiot,” Y/N giggled. “You do that every single time.”
“Accident,” Chris wheezed. His tongue hung out of his mouth now, and he panted quickly, eyes round and making Y/N's laughter grow. “But yeah … we really should do this more often.”
“Do what? Burn your tongue?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “No … this. Turning our phones off. Who needs ‘em, eh?”
Y/N slurped on her own noodles. “Christopher … it's been ten minutes.”
“Best ten minutes of my life,” Chris said happily, swirling his chopsticks back into his ramen. “No stupid people, no disrespectful people, no fucking idiots with thick fucking skulls - “
“There, there,” Y/N patted Chris's back again before steam could start shooting out of the man's ears like an enraged cartoon character. “Eat first … yap later.”
Chris grinned. “You're just trying to get me to shut up.”
“No,” Y/N smirked. “I just think you'll feel a lot better after you've eaten something.”
She was right, of course. So right that once Chris had finished his third extra large cup of ramen, he had flopped back down onto his bed, eyelids already drooping with sleepiness.
“Cuddles … “ Chris mumbled, arms outstretched lazily towards Y/N as she moved away to drop the cups into the bin. He clenched and unclenched his fingers in her direction, a pout on his soft lips until she moved back towards him, dropping into her space on the bed.
“So when you said you wanted to do nothing, what you really meant was go to sleep?” Y/N smiled as Chris immediately draped himself over her like a koala.
Chris giggled against her collarbone. “No. I meant … do nothing. We are doing nothing.”
“Were actually cuddling,” Y/N corrected as she slipped her fingers into his curls. “That's not nothing.”
“Nuh uh … ‘s nothin’. ‘M not letting you move now … you're all mine.”
Grinning at the soft state the man was drifting into, Y/N hooked her legs over his and held him to her as tight as she could under the fuzzy blankets layered on top of them. It was stifling, to say the least, but it was safe, and comforting, and neither of them wanted to vacate the bubble. If anything, they gravitated even closer to one another until their faces were almost smushed together, every inch of their bodies somehow touching the other in the biggest hug they could manage.
Hands tender on either side of Chris's sleepy face, Y/N landed a series of fluttery kisses to his lips, one after the other. Her kisses spilled over his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his forehead, his jaw, anywhere she could reach, until Chris was a mass of bashful giggles and weak protests with a smile that made Y/N's insides ache.
“I love doing nothing with you,” Chris mumbled, breaking the soft silence that had started to grow between them both. “Wanna do nothing with you forever.”
Y/N bit her lip, her mouth curving up into an affectionate smile. Chris's eyes were shut, and she shut hers too as she leaned her forehead against his, her fingers still tracing the impossibly smooth grain of skin at the side of his neck. But then she heard the quietest of sniffles and her eyes snapped open again just in time to see a shining tear slipping down the flushed skin of Chris's cheek.
“Baby?” Y/N blinked in surprise as she kissed the tear away. “What's wrong?”
She didn't need to ask, though she did anyway - she already knew that the vulnerability he had kept locked inside of him from the past few weeks was spilling out of him now that he was feeling safe beside her. But Chris smiled as another tear glistened against his lashes, and Y/N leaned closer to hear the whisper of his words.
“I told you I'd cry if you behaved.”
Spluttering with quiet laughter, Y/N smoothed her fingers over his tears. “Well in that case … keep crying. It's hot.”
Chris laughed at that, his breath hot on Y/N's cheek, and he tightened his hold on her waist, fingers tracing abstract shapes into the heated lower skin of her back, almost as though he was self soothing himself. Y/N kissed his temple as her other hand continued to lightly scratch at his scalp, her smile mirroring his.
it absolutely wrecks him like a freight train hitting a wall when you cry in front of him for the first time.
chan, who was so sure he knew his happy-go-lucky girl inside and out. who was so sure that his girl, his girl, lived in a bubble of security he'd so delicately formulated for her. thick and warm sheets in the morning, woken up with his smiling lips on your skin. he let you lie on the studio couch late nights when he refused to leave. he'd find you on the living room sofa when he came home late after studio sessions, kissing the little furrow out of your lax but tense expression. he'd buy you anything at the drop of a hat. support you through anything. you wanted to open a clothing shop for cats? chan would ask to be your cashier.
so when he sees you there, in your shared kitchen, neck bent low and shoulders shaking, quiet hiccups of cries like you didn't want him to hear it? he feels the floor pull out from underneath him.
he crosses the cold tile in an instant. doesn't even think you'd push him away. you often knew the safest place was in his arms. chan gathers you quickly but gently, as if he could shatter you further if he wasn't careful. and he crumbles at the foreign feeling of your body wracking out meek sobs. he's never heard those shallow little breaths and sniffles. he doesn't say anything, doesn't try to offer solutions or press on. he holds you steady against his chest, quick little firm kisses onto your weary head. he mentally curses himself. was there something he hadn't noticed? he should've been there...
only when chan is sure you're tuckered out from crying, he pulls back, running a vascular hand over the back of your head. tilting his head, eyes crinkling at the corners when he gives you a halfhearted smile while you dry your eyes in closed fists.
beautiful, he thinks to himself, before mentally facepalming. he shouldn't think like that, but he can't help it. your puffy cheeks and eyes, eyelashes sticking together with salty tears. and what makes you even more beautiful is your sense of trust you have in him. trust, looking up at him like he can fix the world.
"there you are, sweetheart..." he hummed as his thumb swept under your eyes, wiping away the remnant sadness. he adored how you leaned into his touch, but it made his chest tighten painfully at the same time. "what's got my girl so down? you should be asleep..."
a smile fought at your lips, he was always telling you to never wait up for him. tucking your head under his chin, you let out a heavy sigh. like you could dispense the tension out of you. he reciprocated by holding the back of your head and scratching your scalp gently. he wanted to show you he wasn't afraid. this is safety, here in my arms. my brave girl. sleepy girl.
"just... i dunno, it's... it comes and goes in waves... wasn't even feeling particularly sad..."
your words made his bones ache, and his heart did a funny little thing. but he hummed in reply, closing his eyes, and pressing his plush lips to your forehead. he breathed your name thrice like a prayer into your hairline. he didn't force you to talk any more than you were already willing. he was grateful you shared anything at all. he pulled back with his hands sliding to the sides of your face, cradling your jaw.
"you know i'm always here, yeah? 'm always here to listen... even if you have nothing to say, and we just... sit in silence... i'm your literal and figurative shoulder to cry on, mm?"
his words were met with silence for a moment or two as he swept his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. and then, the achy croak of your voice cut through.
"i don't like... showing that part of me, all the... sad and the... gosh, it's so difficult..."
a little huff left chan's nostrils. not angry, just a bit frustrated at the situation. he wished he could go into your head and kick out all those bad thoughts. he closed his eyes and opened them, lips smiling into a toothless grin with softened eyes.
"i want to see all of you... every bit that you hide, give it to me... i'll deal with the rest. i... i should've payed more attention and... saw you were hurting—"
"you couldn't have known... i've hid this stuff for so long, it isn't you..."
chan opens his mouth to say something, already trying to put the weight on himself. but even with red-rimmed eyes, you hold love there. love, and adoration and that tooth-achingly sweet trust. so he just... softens. doesn't argue. rationalizes with the aftermath and...
"come to me when you feel like that, okay? when you wanna hide it away and your head tells you to deal with it alone? i want to hold you... 's just me... 's just your channie."
he tilts his head to meet your shy eyes, and smiles when you flush from all the attention. he can't help it, making a soft "muah" sound when he kisses your cheek. gives the other side one to match. you sniff away the last bit of phlegm and stand in his warmth a moment longer. looking up at him with those beautiful eyes he cherishes so much.
"i really, really love you."
your voice is breathless and awestruck. and chan's cheeky, boxy smile purses into a kiss on the corner of your mouth. he'd felt hopeless, but this feels like the start of a new chapter in your relatively early relationship. an open door, seeing into the girl he loves so much. his girl, even when the weight of the world feels like too much. he says your name with no preamble, something he loved doing.
like a lyric to a song. his favorite line from a book.
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
blakekathryn
origamiaround
ellievsbear
