series synopsis - in a world where soulmates were real, fate ties you to ryomen sukuna like some cruel and twisted joke. where people felt their soulmates in soft touches and quiet comfort, all you’ve ever known was phantom pain, sleepless nights, and a violent rage that didn’t belong to you. by the time you finally meet the man ruining your nervous system, the city already knew him as its most feared underground boxer. how would you survive? [mdni 18+]
chapters
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ prologue
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ one - coming soon
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ two - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ three - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ four - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ five - tbd
⚡︎ ⋆.˚ six - tbd
i haven’t decided if there’s going to be a taglist, i’ll let you know if there is one!
This is like one of those romance novels where people bond over accidentally writing each other emails but better.
Like Pride and Prejudice but instead of the love interest getting dissed for his toxicity and then reforming, it’s just two people bonding over dissing a dead toxic asshole.
Summary: When Lord Stark brings his eldest daughter to King's Landing, it is not for celebration — it is for alliance. With a new son born in the North, her fate has quietly shifted from heir to bargaining piece. A southern marriage will secure her house. She simply doesn’t know it yet.At court, beneath King Daeron II Targaryen, she clashes with his dutiful son, Baelor Targaryen — steel against steel, winter against flame. He falls first. She refuses to bend. Between sparring matches, sharp words, and almost-kisses stolen by interrupted breaths, something dangerous begins to bloom.But honour is a cage, and politics do not forgive weakness.And in King’s Landing, a Stark daughter does not belong to herself.
summary: another of baelor's memories returns. at least, you think it does.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 6.2k
based off of this! | masterlist
maekar paces by the fire whilst baelor recalls the tale the next morning.
“am i to believe that by some fucking coincidence, you were alone in the gardens with the lord’s daughter-”
“not his daughter,” baelor interrupts his brother.
they are by the hearth, with a table filled with fruit and bread to break their fast. he does not feel hungry, though, with a strange, dull emotion resembling fervor sitting somewhere beneath his heart. it thumps loudly with each breath.
“i thought you said-”
“his niece. his late brother’s only child.”
“never mind that. the man is unbearable,” maekar scoffs, as he sits to eat his food. he toys with a peeled orange, opening it before eating a slice.
“he is still our host, maekar. we eat his food and sleep in his halls.”
but there is no denying the fact that the man is unbearable. entirely so.
baelor had always thought it, even when they had been young men meeting for the first time at some prior tourney. his chest was puffed with ego for a second son, even more so now as the lord of the house, though lords such as he are commonplace.
and yet, he has never thought twice of it until he met you.
in the garden, you had been entirely too sweet. baelor should have guessed that you were not his daughter from your disposition, but he reflects briefly he had no way to know.
you could have been anyone. he, nor maekar, he’s sure, could have properly guessed that you were a lady of the keep
a different sort of irritation begins to seep through, making itself apparent. you are this man’s niece, still a daughter of this noble house, and yet you were not seated with the others of the family at the high table where baelor was.
instead you were with the distant relatives, seated below, and not a single soul had noticed where you had gone off to in the middle of the feast.
not a single soul, save for him.
it is very, very irritating to him. almost angering. though he does not understand entirely why—
maekar clears his throat.
“he is desperate for a match for his daughter. the girl is pretty enough, i suppose, and tolerable for daeron, perhaps. but having to deal with that man and his fucking gloating is enough to put me off the entire thing-”
“daeron must marry eventually.”
“and he will. i will find him a suitable bride. but not here. as soon as he finished inquiring about daeron, he moved onto aerion before i could eat another damned bite.”
“i imagine he is quite eager. you have four sons. he must see in you great deal of-” baelor is interrupted once more.
“too fucking eager. what father would pawn his own daughter off to aerion, i wonder? perhaps she is not tolerable after all. i refuse to marry one headache to another. the gods know i have suffered enough.”
his brother stares, expecting a response. and there are many things baelor could say.
that he trusts his brother will find his nephews suitable, dutiful brides when the time is right. that perhaps the daughter of the house—a girl whose name he cannot remember now—might be the wrong choice after all. or something else, some comment about the food or their journey home once the festivities have finished.
and yet, nothing comes to mind. baelor is sat near the fire, and where he should feel the warmth of the flames, he instead recalls how the cool breeze felt last evening.
it had rustled the leaves of the garden and the skirts of your dress along with it, a dress that looked as though perhaps it was a touch too large for you.
the sleeves were too long, resting somewhere by your fingers, and the skirt danced in the wind, trailing behind you. perhaps made for someone taller, like your cousin.
he shakes his head as though he might dispel the thought by removing it with the motion. he has no business thinking of you or your hesitant comportment or the gown that may or may not belong to you.
“well,” maekar starts, and baelor turns to look at him. how long had he been silent, lost in his own thoughts? “what’s this about the niece, then?”
baelor releases a breath he did not realize he was holding in.
“the girl is… lovely. quiet. polite to a fault. she claims she stepped outside for fresh air.” the truth escapes before he can try to deter it with silence.
his lips pull into a smile without his leave as he reminisces the thought—how you had worriedly tried to make an excuse for not being inside with the guests, before he reassured you that he was not there to get you scolded.
in fact, he had smiled then too. because the two of you had used the same excuse to escape.
could such a thing be called fate?
“without a maid or even a household knight?” maekar asks, scoffing again.
it is indignant. that is what his brother is thinking. no lady would be allowed to leave alone, not unless—
“i imagine she is not the lord’s most pressing concern. she was tending to the garden with her own hands.”
“is that so?” maekar says. “what sort of lord forces his niece do garden work?”
“i do not think she was forced. i… i do not know,” baelor trails off, thinking about the white dress that made you look as though you were not of this earth, with your eyes shining in the moonlight.
their true color remains unknown to him still, though he had spent much of the remainder of the evening deep in thought about it. the moon had made them sparkle brightly, and you had been blinking quickly, looking as though your heart was racing.
there was no need for your fear, but of course, you could not have known that.
you could not have been waiting for him to find you, yet the thought lingers all the same.
it resembles an alter too much, he thinks, before he tries to silence his mind.
“and this is the one seated at the lower table? the quiet one?” he asks, and baelor’s eyes flick from the hearth to his brother.
“indeed,” he breathes. “the quiet one.”
maekar looks deep in thought.
“quiet would be most welcome in king’s landing. how old is she? old enough for daeron, i presume?”
“i suppose,” baelor says, trying not to appear too suspicious. not for daeron, he thinks possessively, though he has no right to think anything of you, least of all as something that belongs to—
no, not for daeron. for me.
“it has been my wish to find a bride for daeron… perhaps someone who might help straighten him out. though i’d hate to please that prick-”
“your point may stand, brother,” baelor interrupts easily, unsure of where he finds the words.
they come out quickly and without any hint of uncertainty. gods forgive me.
“aye?”
“perhaps it is not best to indulge the whims of a minor lord. soon you will find yourself invited to every feast in the realm if you mean to find brides for your sons there.”
maekar considers the thought for a moment before he replies.
“it is hard enough already to keep track of the boys. let alone carting them across the realm every time father refuses to turn down an invitation-”
maekar says something else, some complaint, though it misses baelor’s ears entirely. he picks up a purple grape, breaking his fast while he thinks of what he has done.
there is nothing wrong with his nephew.
in fact, if he had to pick, he would choose daeron over his younger brother for any lady wishing to marry. he was often in his cups, yes, and troubled sometimes in a way that baelor did not quite understand, but still kind.
and perhaps, for you, it might have been a match that changed the course of your life. your family’s life, even.
he has disrupted that for a selfish reason, one that he cannot yet come to terms with.
he sets it aside. perhaps because the idea of seeing you in the red keep, at his family’s dinners and at court with his nephew by your side is nothing short of…
devastating.
devastating to see another by your side that is not—
“your grace?” you ask, fear clear and sharp in your voice, though you try your best to conceal it. “are you sure you are well?”
baelor blinks again, and he is transported yet again. back to the familiar walls and the four-poster bed of the chambers he once shared with you.
gone is the sweet memory of that night by the trees and the flowers, and the rather informative one that followed. in its wake, it leaves a tantalizing ache in him. to figure out more, to understand what else happened after that day.
he can only recall a glimpse of it now—standing in the gardens with you, talking with his brother after. maekar had wanted you for one of his sons but he had thwarted the whole thing, a sign of how enamoured he was, surely.
if only he could remember why he was so enamoured. what had you two spoken of in the gardens? what had happened in the days that followed?
he had once thought he would never marry again, that even the idea of doing so felt like an insult to his late wife’s memory.
he wishes he could recall exactly how you had changed his mind, if not for his sake, then for yours.
had he truly gone to a feast at his father’s request and come back with a betrothal and a bride for himself, unannounced? had he returned moons later to ask for your hand? had he fought some other suitor, or even his nephew to secure it?
baelor releases a rush of breath at the very thought—how far away and silly the ideas feel. it is an odd feeling of humor and sadness, but when he looks at you, it all melts away.
you are crying again.
gods, had he completely forgotten how to be a real husband in these short years? you have cried during every encounter the two of you have had, and all he seems to do is make you weep further.
your hand cradles your stomach, and you chew on your cheek as you watch him carefully, your eyes wide and watery and blinking slowly.
the color of them is truly astonishing, he thinks.
that warm, slippery feeling from the memory possesses him all over again. lovelier than he recalls, now that he has the recollection to sweeten it.
“i am fine,” he finally says, watching as your shoulders sink a little, as you relax your body against the cushions of the bed.
you have migrated from your familiar chair to his side, resting at an appropriate, yet entirely too far distance from him.
“grandmaester must be furious at me,” you say quietly. “i should not have led you to the gardens. he says it is much too warm for you to-”
baelor clasps his hand over yours, bridging the gap between the two of you. your eyes move from him to where the two of you are touching, and then back to him.
“in fact, i believe it was i who led you to the garden. not at all like the first time, is it?”
you do not say anything for a moment.
“do you remember?” you whisper, silent tears trickling down your face. somehow, you are prettier still when you cry. “the night in the garden?”
“the gods have only granted me a portion of it. i remember… meeting you. you were standing by the vines. you seemed frightened of me,” he says, and your expression changes before his very eyes, your mouth curving up and your eyes shining with renewed hope. “you were wearing white.”
“i was,” you say excitedly, your voice rising quickly. more tears follow, but he can almost forgive himself, with the way the news of the memory has made you smile so beautifully.
give me more, he demands of the gods, that i may make her smile again.
“was that your gown that night? the white one?” he asks, and you seem almost surprised. surprised that he has recalled such a distant detail. you shake your head.
“n-no. i... it belonged to my cousin. she had a new one made for the feast.”
“and so you had worn her old one?”
the gown you are wearing now—the very one with the pink silk and pretty pattern—looks as though it fits you perfectly. this one has been tailored for you, he concludes. he hopes it was his own doing.
“nevermind that,” you say, the smile still gracing your lips. he returns it, holding your hand tighter. “how do you feel?” you ask again, using your other hand to wipe your tears.
“the picture of health. i promise,” he says, watching as your hand almost instantly goes to your belly.
you are still scared. terrified that any misstep, any moment too long in the sun or some accidental fall might take him away from you again.
he does not know you, but at the same time, he does.
the fear for your unborn child—our unborn child, he thinks—rests heavily on you at all times. you do not wish for your child to grow with a father, as you had, he knows now.
though the memories are hazy in the firelight, it all seems much clearer now.
“-but i shall continue to rest. perhaps we might dine here in the chambers instead?”
you nod, smiling again. he wishes he knew you well enough to discern if it is a genuine one or not.
“of course, your grace. may i ask grandmaester to come check on your again? j-just to be certain?”
“you may, princess.”
the next few hours come and go—malleon does indeed visit, chastising him for traveling to the gardens without alerting any of the maester’s staff.
it is not so far away, he wants to argue, but he keep silent as he watches you listen intently to the maester’s words.
the guilt is evident on your features, and even more so in the language of your body. you stand, keeping one hand on your stomach while the other plays with your necklace—his ring.
you look better and healthier, at least. not nearly as exhausted or unwell as you had just the previous evening. you eat a small meal with him at mid-day, and contribute to the conversation gently when matarys and valarr come to visit.
it would be evident to a blind man, or even one devoid of memories like himself, that his boys adore you.
he cannot imagine a reality in which they would not, but baelor feels something inside of himself, something perhaps buried long ago, return and begin to grow stronger.
the feeling of watching his family be whole.
of watching the smile grow on the face of his younger son when you are persuaded to request applecakes with honey after supper. of watching bright-haired kiera smile and talk with you, with how everyone’s ease seems to grow as they realize you are in better spirits.
you have made a change within the walls of this keep, one he wishes to know everything about. he only wonders what lengths he will go to in order to find out, if his own mind continues to fail him.
even maekar feels the impact of your warmth returning to the cold, hallowed halls.
his brother, who has been one to express sentiment, even looks… sad, when you depart with kiera to visit the great sept after supper.
“you look more upset than i,” baelor comments, standing by the fire once more as maekar paces somewhere behind him.
“i’m not upset,” he replies quickly. the truth, however, is written all over his expression. “i only wish for them to return before nightfall. with the state of things as they are, the last thing i need is them getting hurt because the kingsguard was chasing some wench-”
“they are with ser donnel. i am sure they will be well protected,” baelor says, returning to an armchair rather the bed. he has laid there long enough. “sit, brother. i have something to ask of you.”
maekar glances at him, with something that baelor cannot make out entirely simmering beneath his eyes. he takes a seat in the chair beside him.
“what is it? do you require the maester? guard, send for-”
“no, no. gods know i am thankful for malleon and his healing, but i have seen enough of that man for a lifetime. this is about something else.”
maekar quietens down, sinking further into his chair. baelor holds back a smile, because it seems to have triggered another memory, another time where he had perhaps scolded his brother for something, and he had appeared just as he did now.
nervous, perhaps?
he had not seen his little brother nervous in some time. even when the birthing bed had claimed dyanna and stolen her from him, he had not been nervous. that had been grief and fear, he knows, but not nerves.
“do not be alarmed. i only wish to-”
“i am sorry, brother,” maekar says, and before baelor can get the words out, they die on his tongue. he stares at his brother, pain haunting him.
“i do not require your apology,” baelor says, the words coming out softly.
“i still wish to give it.”
“it was an accident, maekar. a regretful one, but an accident nonetheless.”
“i thought i killed you,” maekar says, and for a moment, gone is the man sitting beside him.
he is replaced by the boy he once was, quiet and contemplative, angering quickly and forgiving slowly.
even when it came to the matter of forgiving himself, it seems.
“but you did not. perhaps we should let it rest there.”
“i would have made your young wife a widow. left your children fatherless. because of my own pride-”
“but you did not,” baelor repeats, interrupting him sternly. “what good is it to linger in the realm of possibility? i am still here, am i not?”
maekar swallows, turning his gaze towards him. his eyes flash towards baelor before turning back.
“yes. you are.”
“then we shall thank the gods, and leave it at that.”
“no.”
“no?” baelor questions, raising an eyebrow.
“no. no, you should be angrier,” maekar says, his voice rising as he stands suddenly. “you should feel rage towards me. you are here with half of your fucking memories gone. i have stolen the memories of your wife. i almost sent her to summerhall or back to that prick she calls an uncle. i-”
“which of us stands to gain anything from harboring anger? hm?”
“you should be angry. you should send me away yourself. that is what-”
“the humor of it has not escaped me. here i am, struggling to recall the past, while you cannot think of anything but.”
maekar rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth against one another.
“there he is. the brother i do remember. you have been acting awfully gentle, but i thought perhaps it was my own faulty recollection.”
“it is the least i could do,” maekar says, slumping back into the chair, glancing at him again. he looks almost like a boy again, the times when mother would remind him to sit up straight. “i do not think i will ever forget the sound she made when you collapsed. nor her expression when you did not remember her.”
baelor’s heart thuds loudly in his chest.
the very mention of you in such a situation makes it begin to ache, as though he has been struck there instead. your wet eyes are painful enough under these circumstances, let alone trying to imagine the tears you had shed while he was not awake to see them.
“it seems that i am not the one you should be apologizing to, then.”
“i have apologized. several times, in fact.”
“and?”
“it seems the two of you are a match designed by the gods. too compassionate to let me get a single fucking apology out.”
baelor smiles.
“that is why i wanted you to sit. i had a question to ask.”
“about her?”
“indeed. about her.”
maekar takes a deep breath, releasing it before looking back at him. his brother’s lilac eyes have always been hard to read, though he sees the fondness he has for you shine through regardless.
“and?”
“i have recalled a piece of a memory. the morning after the feast when i first met her. we were breaking our fast and you were telling me of her uncle trying to convince you to wed daeron to his daughter.”
“and aerion. and no doubt, aemon as well, if i had not halted the conversation there.” baelor smiles at his brother. “what is your question?”
“how did this all… happen? i had not thought i would ever wed again. and i remember holding quite steadily to that idea. mother had shown me a number of suitable ladies and i had turned down each one.”
“that you did. trust that it came as a shock to all of us.”
“then how did it happen? how did i change my mind so easily? i have tried so hard to recall and it escapes me time and time again.”
“do you truly wish to know?”
“yes.”
-
the sun is setting deep into the orange sky by the time you and kiera return to the keep. ser donnel had accompanied the two of you, keeping guard by the doors as you went inside to pray.
it seems, recently, that you have been praying to the mother almost every day. to watch over baelor, to return him to you, to keep the child growing inside of you safe.
today, you had knelt by the father’s alter.
kiera had been by the mother, and no doubt praying for what she has always confided in you, her desire to be blessed with a child, a son for valarr. you can recall only two moons ago when that was you.
your own prayers were different today. you had closed your eyes, but unlike the others who had knelt there before you, you did not pray for justice.
you prayed for the father’s protection. for him to watch over baelor today and all other days. to allow your own child to have a father, to not deprive your daughter of that comfort and protection that was stolen from you.
when you and kiera had walked back, she had made you smile with her words.
“in a few short months, you will not be able to kneel.”
ser donnel had first escorted kiera to her chambers, where valarr was waiting for her. and then he walked with you to baelor’s rooms, where you had entered without thinking about it, as you had done a thousand times before.
baelor turns when he hears the sound, his tunic in his hands, the skin of his chest and arms exposed.
your face burns as you stare wide-eyed. you should perhaps turn around, but it has been so long since you have seen him, and still—
“i am sorry, your grace. i-i should have knocked, i-”
“do not be silly,” baelor says, setting his shirt aside. “these are your chambers too, are they not?”
“they are,” you answer quickly. “but, still. i did not know you were-”
“merely too warm to sleep in cotton, wife. that is all.”
wife. your heart sings and leaps with joy at the sound of the word leaving his lips. you release a shuddery breath, quiet and forceful, feeling hope possesses you once more. begone, you fickle thing. he will say something that tears you away again, no doubt.
you smile again.
“i only wanted to bid you goodnight. i thought perhaps matarys might still be in here.”
“the applecakes sent him to bed early. he was almost too tired to walk. i thought perhaps ser roland might have to carry him.”
you laugh at the thought, knowing it has been weeks since any of you have indulged in dessert. and now, because baelor has been feeling better, now that his injuries have almost healed…
though, not all of them. bruises, yellow and green like the apples the maids serve in the morning, litter your husband’s chest and back. a particularly painful one rests on his shoulder, blooming like a flower as it reaches the expanse of his always warm skin.
“you are staring,” baelor says, and you feel yourself flush. though, you still do not look away.
“i apologize, your grace.”
you had thought perhaps this might be the end of the evening, but your breath catches in your throat as you see the way baelor stares at you. he walks closer, taking your hand into his.
“just baelor, remember?” he says, weaving your fingers together. your eyes meet his—one brown, one blue, both incredibly beautiful—for as long as you can before your eyelids flutter shut.
it is better to look away than to answer, your mind tries to remind you.
it wants you to remember how you felt earlier today, yesterday, and every other day since the tourney that broke something inside of you.
baelor’s other hand reaches around your waist, resting on your back. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the silk, so hot that it’s almost burning through. you would not be surprised if the fabric is singed after, and yet—
your eyes open slowly. he is so close to you, after so long. you can see the gray hairs in his beard, the small lines around his eyes, the curve of his nose that always makes you blush, because you know it feels against your skin.
“your grace, i-” you breathe, before being interrupted. he chides you, clicking his tongue.
“from this day on, it is baelor,” he says, and you feel yourself melt further into his grip. if not for his strong hands supporting you, you’re certain you might collapse onto the ground. “or husband. i will not remind you again.”
“husband,” you repeat, breathless again, having waited to very long to hear the word leave your mouth again. you blink again, your eyes traveling from his own mismatched irises to his nose, down to the soft pink of his lips. “we… i… i should let you rest-”
“i do not wish to rest, wife,” baelor says, leaning down so close that you think he might touch his forehead to yours. your heart is racing so quickly that you are afraid he might hear it. “in fact, i wish to tell you i am feeling much improved.”
“i am glad to hear it-”
“and i have recalled something else.”
your eyes widen, staring up at him as your mouth parts gently with surprise.
“something else?”
“of our first encounter,” baelor says, and you cannot help the smile that comes forth, nor the tears. baelor brings his hand to your face, cupping it while his thumb wipes away the droplets. “though, i have begun to think of it differently. rather as the moment i decided i must make you my wife.”
you are breathless now, feeling as though his words have stolen the very air from the room. there is nothing you could say, nothing you could think to steal away the joy you feel in this moment.
one you have so long prayed for. your husband remembers you, remembers all of you, meeting you and claiming you and he remembers loving you.
baelor says your name quietly, but before you can think of it for a moment longer, you press your lips against his.
your husband has returned to you.
his hands travel to your waist instantly, holding you tightly, as though he does not want you to slip away from his grip. you do not pull away for an instant, letting his mouth kiss you furiously.
making up for a thousand loss kisses, you think dreamily.
his kisses are as hot and wet, and harder than you remember. he does not pull away for air for even a moment, your bodies pressing together as your hands roam his broad chest. you keep spreading them, touching all over until you are convinced this is not another one of your dreams.
beneath your hands, baelor’s arms are hard where the muscles sit beneath the surface. you trace the veins down with your fingertips until you feel baelor’s hand weave into your hair, holding your head tightly to his.
when you finally pull away, much to his and your own protest, it is only to catch your breath.
“husband,” you whisper, staring up at him again. you can only imagine you must look—lips bruised and swollen, your eyes watery and the handiwork of your maid undone as your hair falls loosely around your face.
baelor cups your head with his hands again.
“wife.”
and suddenly you cannot wait any longer, returning for another feverish kiss.
i do not need to breathe, you think stupidly, but i will die if he stops kissing me.
baelor’s hands roam too, from your face to your waist, down to the soft flesh of your rear, before working their way up again. you do not know what you intend to do, in your state and his, but you pull at the laces of your gown roughly, hoping it undo it without his help.
baelor’s hands grasp your own, moving them aside as he unties it nimbly. the feel of his fingers over yours has you reeling for more, and you pull at the waist of his breeches, though you feel him smiling against your lips.
“there now, wife, have patience,” he says, the words a heated whisper against your skin. he pulls at the strings of fabric, and your dress comes loose as you move to rid yourself of it, leaving you in your thin shift.
baelor stares at you—the curves of your exposed body, through the barely-there fabric, the way your nipples poke against it, revealing your desire. he swallows, and then pulls you back for another burning kiss.
he lifts you gently, as though it is the first time all over again, and you find yourself smiling now too, his mouth hot and tongue wet on yours. your back hits the bed softly, and you grasp at his arms, trying to anchor yourself to him, refusing to ever allow him to escape again.
your fingers will leave bruises on him, you are sure, and you pull away from the kiss quickly.
“wife?” baelor asks gently. “are you-”
you do not let him finish, pressing a gentle kiss to the bruise on his shoulder, and littering similar ones all around, where it has spread.
“oh,” he says, and you feel your chest heaving, with an unbearable urge to rip your shift in two to be rid of it. “you will be the death of me.”
your fingers find the waist of his breeches again, but he takes them both into just one of his hands, holding it above your head.
“patience, sweet girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your ear and then down the column of your exposed neck. he works all the way to where your shift covers your breasts.
he takes his other hand to pull it up, and you help him, sliding it off so you lay naked before him.
“gods,” he says, but you have been rendered speechless with want. “may i touch you, wife?”
you shudder, eyes shutting tightly. why, why does he have to remember that? you do not like to say it, but he loves to hear it regardless.
“please touch me, husband,” you whisper, your heart hammering and blood rushing in your ears.
his fingers, long and broad, tease your exposed cunt, working gently along your glistening folds until you are moaning wantonly in his ear.
that is something you remember, that he will stop in his tracks if you are not being sufficiently loud, loud enough to his liking.
being quiet is a habit he had to work you out of. he had succeeded within the first moon of your marriage.
you gasp with every prolonged touch and teasing motion, moaning into his mouth and your back arching as he glides his fingers against your most sensitive part.
“baelor,” you sigh, your fingers gripping the sheets as he pulls away from your kiss. his head hovers along your neck, pressing kisses until he reaches the valley between your breasts.
when he lowers his burning mouth onto your nipple, you cover your own mouth to keep from screaming.
his tongue flicks against the sensitive skin as he inserts a finger into your soaking cunt. first one, the length of it making your eyes roll back in your head. he pumps it in and out slowly, as though he is testing you, testing how much you can take.
just as you are about to plead and cry out for mouth, he inserts another. your teeth bite down against your cheek, trying to keep yourself quiet. there are guards and servants in the corridor, and you are acting as though this is the first time you have ever been touched, but then—
isn’t it?
feeling baelor’s possessive, strong grip on you as he fucks you with his fingers and teases your sensitive breasts with his tongue, it seems as though it is the first time all over again.
your entire body feels hot like fire, desire churning deep in the pit of your belly, rushing over you with the incessant need to chase your own pleasure.
your hips move of their own accord, rubbing yourself against the palm of his hand, and you are certain if you could see yourself now, and you would die of shame, and still, you cannot stop.
you whine when he pulls away from your breast, but he only goes to the other one, his other hand coming to tease your nipple by rolling it between his fingers.
you stare at his hand, at the ring on his finger, and then at his eyes as he glances up at you during his ministrations.
you think he is smiling, but before you can linger on the thought, he plunges in a third.
despite everything in your body that cries out to you, that wants to prolong this for as long as possible, you have never been able to withstand the pleasure of his fingers for too long.
baelor releases your breast from his mouth, rubbing over the hot, sore skin, he makes his way back to your neck, and then your ear.
“i want to feel it, wife,” he says, and the lust in his voice cuts straight over the loudness of your heart beating in your ears. “i want to feel your release on my fingers-”
“baelor,” you cry out, feeling that twisting feeling in your belly unfurl and then snap entirely.
a feeling as hot as lightning strikes through your body, your legs shaking and fingertips digging into the skin of your husband’s arm. he keeps going, relentless in his efforts to seek your pleasure, and you repeat out his name as though it is the only word you know.
you are breathless and exhausted when he finally slips his fingers out of your pulsating cunt.
your chest rises and falls, and you can make out where your skin shines in the dim firelight, where your husband has his mouth on you, and you feel your face burning at the thought.
“husband,” you whisper, if for no other reason than you wanted to feel the word on your tongue again.
“shh, wife. rest now,” he says, and you feel your body comply before your mind can even try to fight him. baelor pulls the furs from the other side of the bed, covering your naked body and himself.
“but we did not-”
“we have plenty of time for that, yet, sweet girl. close your eyes,” he says, and you listen.
as they flutter shut, you cannot make out a single clear thought.
they merge and blend together, and then you feel your husband’s arms tighten around you, his warmth on your skin, and sleep claims you.
baelor holds you, evading sleep himself as he thinks about what he has done. your juices glisten on his finger, your body lays completely pliant against his, and he thinks of his lie from earlier.
I think I’m literally never gonna be sick of this masterpiece. I think watching it on a loop for eight hours could fix me. Dancing’s what clears my soul. Dancing’s what makes me whole.
I just love that this very video is an accumulation of thousands of years worth of art made by people who have never met each other. The concept of this video was so completely unfathomable to every single artist who made the sculptures and yet they’ve all put something toward the creation of it.
synopsis: your new neighborhood is good so far. the folks are friendly and the big, scary guy next door is hot. but what happens when the noise coming from his apartment becomes too much and—is that a baby you hear?
contains: fluff, little bit of crack, neighbors to enemies to friends to lovers, angst if you squint, domestic moments, slice-of-life, uncle sukuna, nephew yuji, dinosaurs, unlikely co-parents(?), nonsexual nudity, jealousy, slowburn(?), making out, eventual smut (dry humping), sukuna yearning, mentions of clubbing and alcohol as well as drug and gambling addiction.
words: 24.2k (complete)
part one
part two
part three
drabbles:
#1
note: this started off as just a random one-shot but these two grew on me so now it's a series! i may write extras or drabbles for them whenever i get the itch.
One of those fandom things that I love is when there’s new characters around and, with the unwavering confidence of an old farmer appraising cattle, fanfic authors take one good look at them, tilt their imaginary hat, and go “Aye. Praise kink, that one. Mighty case of praise kink if I ever saw one.” And everyone else just “aye.”
“I don’t think the Highschool AU is going to come in too strong this year. Fandoms a touch jaded for that. But the hurt/comfort is growin’ thick as weeds and twice as fast. It’ll be a good harvest, fer sure.”
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