đđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ : rafe cameron x reader
đđ˛đ§đ¨đŠđŹđ˘đŹ: He just wants to feel something.
đđđŤđ§đ˘đ§đ đŹ: 18+/MDNI, DARK!rafe, cmnf, mirrors, rafe has a major pain kink, biting, rafe making reader feel unsafe( by a burning cigarette) (but doesn't actually hurt her), dacryphyilia.
đđ¨đŤđ đđ¨đŽđ§đ: 341
đ/đ: day three of June Jukebox Scribbles by @societynsoelsscribbles!!! Living without internet for a day is a struggle. not recommended. 0/10. Also....this is my first rafe fic hahahhaa meet my new crush everyoneđ¤
đŠđŤđ¨đŚđŠđ: âAnd he shows them pearly whiteâ
He looked like a messâbloody knuckles and bruised skin. But nothing made him feel, not anymore. Not the wounds, not the sting of the antiseptic. Not the burn of the whiskey, and not even the smoke filling his lungs.
Nothing but you.
âLook at us, baby. Don't we look so good?â He grabs your jaw to guide your gaze back to the mirror.
The sight in front of you was beautifully wicked. You, naked and spread on Rafeâs lap, and him fully clothed, a cigarette dangling from his bleeding lips, nursing a drink in one hand, the other holding your jaw in a grip that bothered on painful.
Your eyes drifted to the lit cigarette, the glowing ember dangerously close to your thigh. You squirm, trying to get away, but he just chuckles, finding your poor attempt at escape pathetic.
âRafe, pleaseâŚâ
His eyes lock onto yours through the mirror, and he shows them pearly whites, mocking you without ever saying a single word.
âPlease what?â
âIt's gonna hurt me,â you whimper, voice broken and desperate.
âIs it? I bet you wonât like that,â his eyes were dark now. He didn't look like himself, lost in whatever world he claims his own.
He moves the cigarette closer to your skin, draping you in a warmth you never asked for. Scared he'd hurt you, you grab his hand in a weak attempt to stop him, hoping this would bring him back to his senses.
This seemed to work, as he huffs out a laugh, before leaning in to place soft pecks to the side of your neck. You barely had time to calm your rushing heart, thankful he shifted his hand away, when a sharp, excruciating pain filled your nerves.
Your screams were muffled by his huge palm, and you could feel his grin against your skin. He pouts as he looks at your pained features through the reflection, the tears streaming down your face, the mark on your neck that screamed his name.
âBite back, baby. Make me feel something again.â
             đŁ˛â if you'd like to be added to my taglist, send a letter via a pigeon...or just a reply down belowđŤśđť (i write for ce babes and bocky and now, mr rafe cameron. if you'd like to be tagged for someone specific, please feel free to let me know đ¤đ¤)
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Summary: A conquered daughter of House Blackfyre is given to the Prince of Dragonstone as both peace offering and prize. Each night, at the hour of the wolf, she is summoned in his chambers.
TW: dubious consent (dubcon), noncon, power imbalance, forced marriage, captivity, possessive behavior, obsessive dynamics, emotional manipulation, coercive intimacy, isolation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, explicit sexual themes, reader has valyrian features (plot relevant), skintone ambiguous, blackfyre reader, valarr targaryen has an inferiority complex, fixation on appearance and legacy, political marriage, post-war setting, targaryen vs blackfyre tensions.
WC: 10K
The knock came at the same hour it always did.
Three sharp raps against the iron-banded door of your chamber. Not loud enough to wake the dead, but loud enough to wake you. The rhythm was burned into your bones now, two quick strikes, a pause, then a final blow that seemed to reverberate through the cold stone walls like a death knell. It was the knock of a man who took no pleasure in his task but performed it with the grim efficiency of one who had long ago learned not to question the orders he was given.
Ser Alan of the Kingsguard. A broad shouldered Reachman with a face like weathered granite and eyes that had seen too many horrors to be surprised by anything anymore. He had been assigned to you the day you arrived at the Red Keep, a silent shadow who followed you everywhere and nowhere, appearing only when you were summoned to your husband's chambers or when you attempted to wander somewhere you were not permitted to go.
You were not asleep. You never truly slept anymore, not since the first night they had dragged you from your bed at this same wretched hour. Now you simply lay in the darkness, your violet eyes fixed on the embroidered canopy above you, counting the silver threads that formed the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You had counted them a thousand times. You knew every stitch, every knot, every place where the thread had worn thin from age and neglect. The dragon's ruby eyes seemed to watch you in the darkness, patient and eternal, waiting for you to break.
The door opened without your leave. It always did.
"His Grace requires your presence, my lady."
Ser Alan's voice was flat, carefully neutral, stripped of anything that might be interpreted as either sympathy or satisfaction. He stood in the doorway like a statue come to life, his white enameled armor gleaming faintly in the light of the single candle that burned on your bedside table. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not in threat, but in habit. A Kingsguard was never truly at ease, even in the bedchamber of a traitor's daughter.
He did not look at you directly. None of them did. The servants, the guards, the ladies in waiting who had been assigned to attend you, they all treated you as if you were made of smoke and shadow, something that existed on the edges of their vision but could not be acknowledged without risking contamination. You were a Blackfyre. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre ran in your veins, the blood of rebels and usurpers and men who had dared to challenge the rightful rule of House Targaryen. Looking at you too long might be mistaken for sympathy, and sympathy for a Blackfyre was treason.
You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep, when a young kitchen maid had smiled at you in the corridor and offered you a warm roll fresh from the ovens. The girl had been dismissed the next day, sent back to her village with a black mark on her name and a warning never to seek employment in King's Landing again. You had not seen her go. You had only heard the whispers, carried to you by Lady Jeyne with a smile that did not reach her cold gray eyes.
"It seems some servants forget their place. A shame. She seemed a sweet girl."
The message had been clear: kindness to the Blackfyre was a crime, and crimes were punished.
You rose from the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, the spring chill seeping through the mortar despite the thin rushes scattered across the flagstones. The chamber was always cold. The servants who tended the fires in the royal apartments seemed to forget that this room existed, or perhaps they remembered all too well and chose to let the flames die out of quiet, spiteful neglect. The single candle on your bedside table guttered and smoked, casting long shadows that danced across the bare stone walls like specters at a feast.
You had been given this chamber on your wedding night. You had been naively grateful then. "Your own space," Valarr had said, his mismatched eyes warm with false consideration. "Every woman deserves a refuge. Somewhere she can be alone with her thoughts, away from the demands of court and husband. I would never deny you that."
A refuge. That was what he had called it. But there was no refuge in this cold, barren room with its bare walls and its threadbare tapestries and its single window that looked out over the black waters of the Blackwater Rush. There was only silence. Only the slow, grinding erosion of everything you had been before the war, before the surrender, before they had stripped you of your name and your family and your future and dressed you in Targaryen red.
You had not bothered with a robe. The first night, you had wrapped yourself in a heavy cloak, clutching it around your shoulders like armor as Ser Alan led you through the darkened corridors. When you had arrived in Valarr's chambers, he had looked at you with that gentle, puzzled expression he wore so well and said, "Why do you hide yourself, sweet wife? You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Old Valyria flows in your veins. You should be proud of what you are."
He had taken the cloak from your shoulders himself, his fingers brushing against your skin with deliberate, lingering softness. He had folded it carefully and set it aside, and you had never seen it again. The next night, you had worn a different robe. The same thing had happened. By the third night, you had understood the lesson he was teaching you.
You will come to me as you are. You will hide nothing. You belong to me, and I will see all of you.
So now you wore only your shift. Thin linen, pale cream in color, cut low enough to show the elegant soft swell of your breasts. It had been laid out for you by one of your ladies in waiting, Lady Alia, you thought, though it might have been Lady Mariene; they all blurred together in your mind, a procession of cold faces and colder eyes.
The shift was too fine for a prisoner, too revealing for a proper lady. It was a garment designed to display you, to emphasize every curve and hollow of your body, to remind you that you were an object to be looked at and touched and possessed.
And you hated it. You hated your beauty because it was the reason you were here, in this cold room, in this cold castle, married to a man who looked at you like you were a prize he had won in battle. If you had been plain, if you had been ordinary, perhaps they would have sent you to the Silent Sisters, like your sisters had been, or allowed you to join your brothers at the Wall. But you were beautiful, and your beauty was Valyrian, and Valarr Targaryen wanted to possess it.
You followed Ser Alan through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. The hour of the wolf, they called this time. The torches burned low in their iron sconces, their flames reduced to guttering embers that cast more shadow than light. The stone walls were slick with condensation, moisture beading on the ancient masonry like sweat on a dying man's brow.
The Red Keep was never truly silent. Even at this hour, there were sounds, the distant tread of guards on the battlements, the scurrying of rats in the walls, the mournful cry of gulls wheeling over the Blackwater. But the silence between those sounds was vast and empty, a yawning chasm that seemed to swallow everything it touched. You walked through it like a ghost, your bare feet making no sound on the cold stone, your breath forming small clouds in the chill air. The thin linen of your shift did nothing to ward off the cold, and you could feel your nipples hardening beneath the fabric, could feel the gooseflesh rising on your arms and thighs. By the time you reached the Prince's chambers, you would be shivering, your body betraying your vulnerability to him before you ever spoke a word.
You knew the way by heart now. Down the winding stair from your tower chamber, past the door to the servants' quarters where you sometimes heard muffled laughter that fell silent the moment you drew near.
At the end of the passage, a heavy oak door bound with iron bands marked the entrance to the Prince's private chambers. Two more Kingsguard stood on either side, Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, their white cloaks hanging still in the motionless air, their faces hidden behind the gleaming visors of their helms. They did not acknowledge you as you passed.
Ser Alan pushed open the door and stepped aside, his duty discharged. His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity, quickly suppressed, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the corridor like a wraith.
You crossed the threshold alone, as you always did. The warmth hit you first.
It was like stepping from a frozen wasteland into the heart of a dragon's lair. A great fire roared in the stone hearth, flames leaping high and golden, filling the room with a heat that seemed to seep into your bones and thaw the chill that had settled there during the long, cold walk. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet and faintly musky, like the perfume of night blooming flowers mingled with the clean, sharp scent of male skin. It was the scent of him, you realized. The scent of Valarr Targaryen, embedded in every tapestry and cushion and fur, saturating the very air you breathed.
The Prince's chambers were vast, easily four times the size of your own barren room. The furniture was dark and heavy, carved from exotic woods that had been imported from the Summer Isles and the forests of Qohor at unimaginable expense.
And there, in a high backed chair before the fire, sat your husband.
Valarr Targaryen did not look up when you entered. He was reading a leather bound book that lay open in his lap, its pages yellowed with age and covered in the spidery script of some long dead maester. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. He was dressed in a robe of black silk embroidered with red dragons, loosely tied at the waist, revealing a glimpse of his chest, lean and muscled, with a dusting of dark hair that matched the short cropped locks on his head.
He did not look like a dragon. That was the first thought that had crossed your mind when you had seen him at your wedding, standing before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor as the realm watched and whispered. And it was the thought that returned to you now, as fresh and bitter as ever, each time you laid eyes on him.
He was handsome. You could not deny that, no matter how much you wanted to. His jaw was strong and sharp, his nose straight and aquiline, his brow noble. His mouth was perpetually curved in a half smile that never quite reached his eyes, giving him the look of a man who knew a secret that no one else did and found immense satisfaction in that knowledge. His body was lean and well made, not bulky like a tourney knight, but wiry and graceful, with the long muscles of a swordsman and the easy, coiled tension of a predator at rest.
But his coloring was all wrong.
His hair was dark, a deep, rich brown that bordered on black, and cut short, close to his skull in the martial style his father Baelor Breakspear had favored. It was thick and soft looking, and you had felt it beneath your fingers enough times to know that it was indeed as soft as it appeared. There was only a single streak of silver gold to mark his Targaryen blood, a narrow ribbon of pale brightness that ran from his temple to the nape of his neck like a brand. It was as if the gods had begun to paint him in the colors of Old Valyria and then grown bored, abandoning the work halfway through.
And his eyes. Those mismatched, unsettling eyes. One was a clear, piercing blue, the blue of the Stormlands sky, the blue of his mother Jena Dondarrion's bloodline. The other was a deep, warm brown, almost black in certain lights, flecked with amber and gold, the brown of his Dornish grandmother. They sat together in his handsome face like two strangers forced to share a room, never quite meeting, never quite agreeing. They gave him the look of something assembled from spare parts, something the gods had cobbled together from whatever materials they had at hand and then sent out into the world unfinished.
He looked like a Stormlander. He looked like his mother's son. He looked like a mongrel.
And there you stood, Y/N Blackfyre, the spitting image of Daena the Defiant reborn.
You were everything a Targaryen should be. You were the living embodiment of the bloodline that had conquered Westeros, the bloodline that had ruled for nearly two hundred years, the bloodline that Valarr Targaryen could claim by name but not by appearance. And you wore the name of his family's greatest enemy, Blackfyre, the house of the usurper, the house of rebellion and treason and broken oaths.
The irony was not lost on you. It was certainly not lost on him.
You could feel his attention on you even before he looked up. It was a physical thing, a weight, a pressure, like the heat of the sun on bare skin. He was always aware of you, always attuned to your presence in a way that made you feel like prey being stalked by a patient, methodical hunter. And when he finally raised his eyes from his book, the impact of his gaze was like a blow.
His mismatched eyes traveled over your body with the slow, deliberate thoroughness of a man savoring a fine wine. They lingered on the swell of your breasts, visible through the thin linen, on the curve of your hips, on the length of your legs. They traced the line of your throat, the soft hollow where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath your skin. They drank you in, consumed you, devoured you. And when they finally met your eyes, there was something in them that made your breath catch, a hunger so raw, so intense, so utterly possessive that it stole the air from your lungs.
He wanted you. That was nothing new; you had known that since your wedding night. But there was something else in his gaze tonight, something darker and more complicated. It was as if he resented you for making him want you. As if your beauty was a personal affront, a reminder of everything he was not, everything he could never be. He looked at you like a man starving, and hating himself for his hunger.
"My wife," Valarr said, his voice low and smooth. He did not look away from your face, though you could see the effort it cost him. His eyes kept flickering down, tracing the lines of your body, before he forced them back up. "How kind of you to join me. I was beginning to fear you had forgotten the way."
As if I could forget. As if I could ever forget anything about this nightmare you have constructed for me.
You said nothing. You had learned that too, in the long weeks since your wedding. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with that gentle, reasonable smile he wore so well. Words could be used to trap you, to expose you, to give him more ammunition for the slow, grinding war of attrition he waged against your spirit every single day.
Silence, at least, was your own. He could not take your silence. He could not twist it or weaponize it or use it to humiliate you. He could only wait, and watch, and try to find new ways to make you speak.
He closed the book and set it aside, but he did not rise. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading slightly, his posture one of casual, arrogant ease. The robe fell further open, revealing more of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the silk. He was aroused, you realized with a jolt. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, pressing against the fabric of his robe, and he made no effort to hide it. Why would he? This was his chamber, his kingdom, his world. You were the intruder here, the supplicant, the conquered.
"Come here," he said.
Just that. Two words. Soft as a lover's whisper, heavy as a command. It was not a request. It was never a request, no matter how gently he spoke it. Every word that fell from his lips was an order wrapped in silk, a demand disguised as consideration.
You walked toward him. Your bare feet made no sound on the thick Myrish carpet, and you moved with the unconscious grace that had been drilled into you since childhood, the posture of a noblewoman, the bearing of a lady, the carefully cultivated elegance that marked you as someone of consequence even when you had no consequence at all. The thin linen of your shift whispered against your skin as you walked, a constant reminder of your vulnerability, your exposure, your complete and utter dependence on his mercy. You could feel his eyes on you with every step, could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical caress, sliding over your breasts, your hips, the shadowed juncture of your thighs.
You stopped before his chair, close enough to feel the heat of the fire on your skin, close enough to smell him, that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and smoke and warm male skin that you had come to associate with long nights and tangled sheets and the slow, inexorable erosion of your will. He looked up at you, his head tilted slightly to one side, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight.
His hand rose. You braced yourself for his touch, on your face, your throat, your breast. But instead, he caught a strand of your silver gold hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if testing the quality of fine silk. His touch was light, almost reverent, and his eyes softened with something that might have been mistaken for genuine admiration by someone who did not know him.
But you knew him now. You had spent a moon learning him, studying him, cataloging his every expression and gesture and word. And you knew that the softness in his eyes was not admiration. It was hunger. It was envy. It was a desperate, consuming need that he hated himself for feeling.
"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was rough, almost pained. "Gods, do you have any idea what you do to me? What you've done to me since the moment I first saw you?"
He drew the strand of hair to his face and pressed it to his lips. His eyes closed for a moment, and you watched his throat work as he inhaled the scent of you, the faint perfume of the lavender soap you were permitted to use, the clean, sweet smell of your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark with something that looked almost like anguish.
"You know," he said, still stroking your hair, still holding it against his lips as if he could not bear to let it go, "I used to dream of hair like this. When I was a boy, I would pray to the Seven every night, every single night, to make mine silver. To make me look like my grandfather. Like my uncles. Like a true Targaryen."
His voice was soft, musing, but there was an edge to it now. A bitterness that he could not quite hide.
"I would kneel before the altar in the royal sept," he continued, "and I would promise the gods anything, anything at all, if they would just change the color of my hair. I promised to be brave, like my father. I promised to be wise, like my grandfather the King. I promised to be pious and just and merciful and all the things a prince is supposed to be. And every morning, I would wake up and run to the mirror, hoping that this time⌠this time, they had listened."
He released your hair, letting it fall back against your shoulder. His hand moved to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone with a touch so light it was almost not there at all. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and you felt your lips part involuntarily, a small, betraying response that you could not control.
"They never did," he said. "The gods have a cruel sense of humor, don't they? They gave the Valyrian beauty to the Blackfyre, the daughter of traitors and rebels, the spawn of a usurper's bloodline. And they gave the dornish coloring to the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne."
His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing slightly, feeling the soft, full curve of it. His eyes were fixed on your mouth now, and you could see the conflict in them, the desire warring with resentment, the hunger battling with something that looked almost like hatred. Not hatred of you, you realized with a start. Hatred of himself. Hatred of his own weakness, his own need, his own desperate, consuming want for something he believed should be beneath him.
"You should have been mine by right of blood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should have been born a Targaryen. You should have been my sister, my cousin, my equal. Instead, you are my enemy's daughter, and I have to pretend that I married you for politics. For duty. For the realm."
His hand slid from your face to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the slender column with a gentle but unmistakable pressure. He could feel your pulse beneath his palm, quick, fluttering, like a trapped bird. His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat, feeling the warmth of your skin, the life that beat just beneath the surface.
"But that's not why I married you," he said, and his voice cracked slightly, revealing a rawness that you had never heard before. "I married you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because from the moment I saw you, standing there with your family, defeated, kneeling, surrounded by guards, your head held high even in defeat, I knew I had to have you. I had to possess you. I had to make you mine."
He hated you because you made him feel weak, made him feel wanting, made him feel like a mongrel scrabbling at the gates of a palace he would never be worthy to enter.
And beneath all of that, beneath the hunger and the envy and the resentment and the hate, there was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love. But it was a twisted, possessive, consuming love, the love of a dragon for its hoard, the love of a collector for his most precious acquisition.
His hand tightened on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware of his strength, his power, his absolute control over you. His mismatched eyes blazed with an intensity that was almost frightening, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working as he struggled to contain whatever was raging inside him.
"You are mine," he said, and it was not a statement. It was a vow. A curse.
His hand released your throat and moved to the back of your neck, tangling in your silver gold hair. He pulled you down, and you went willingly, or perhaps not willingly, but without resistance, which amounted to the same thing. His mouth found yours, and he kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger that stole your breath and set your blood on fire.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the careful, controlled kiss of a husband performing his marital duty. It was raw and hungry and full of all the twisted, complicated emotions that churned inside him, the desire, the envy, the resentment, the need. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, devouring you. His hand in your hair held you in place, not allowing you to pull away, not allowing you to escape the intensity of his kiss.
And gods help you, you kissed him back. You did not mean to. You did not want to. But your body betrayed you, as it always did. Your lips parted beneath his, and your tongue met his, and your hands came up to grip his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you could not have said. The taste of him filled your mouth, wine and smoke and something dark and addictive that you could not name. The heat of him surrounded you, enveloped you, consumed you.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His hand was still tangled in your hair, and his other hand had found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of your hip with a possessive grip.
"You are cold," he observed, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "The walk from your chambers is too long. I have told the servants to keep your fire burning through the night, but they seem to forget. Careless of them. I shall have to speak to the steward."
You will do no such thing, you thought. You want me cold. You want me to arrive here shivering and desperate for the warmth of your fire, the warmth of your bed, the warmth of you. This is by your design, as everything is by your design.
But you said nothing. You simply stood there, letting him touch you, letting him pretend to care about your comfort. What else was there for a traitor's daughter to do?
"The hour is late," he said, withdrawing his hand. He rose from his chair with the easy grace of a man who had never known a moment's true hardship, who had never had to fight for anything in his life. He was not tall, shorter than his father had been at his age, you had heard, and shorter than most of the knights who served in the Kingsguard, but he still loomed over you, close enough that you could count the flecks of lilac in his blue eye, the flecks of amber in his brown one. "I trust your chambers are comfortable?"
Cold. Empty. A prison with silk curtains and a bed that feels like stone. "Yes, my prince."
"Good." He smiled, and for a moment, he almost looked kind. "I would hate to think you were suffering. You have suffered enough, I think. Your family's choices⌠well. We need not speak of that. The past is the past, and you are my wife now. The future is what matters."
He reached down and took your hand. His fingers were long and elegant, a musician's fingers, a scholar's fingers. They wrapped around yours with a gentle but unmistakable firmness, a claim of ownership that needed no words to express.
"Come to bed," he said, his voice rough and low.
He rose from the chair, pulling you with him, and began to walk toward the great canopied bed. You followed, because you had no choice. Because your body was already responding to him, already softening and warming and preparing itself for his touch. Because some traitorous part of you wanted this, wanted his hands on your skin, his mouth on your throat, his body moving against yours.
He did not release your hand as you walked. His fingers were warm and strong around yours, and you found yourself gripping back, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water and smoke.
The act itself was never violent. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream, to weep, to claw at your own skin until you could feel something other than this terrible, suffocating gentleness.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had hurt you, truly hurt you, if he had taken you with the brutal entitlement of a conqueror claiming his spoils, you could have built walls of rage and disgust to shield yourself from his touch. You could have retreated into the cold, clean fortress of your hatred and watched him from behind its battlements, untouched and untouchable.
But Valarr Targaryen was not cruel. He was gentle. And his gentleness was more devastating than any cruelty could ever be.
He laid you down on the bed with the care of a man handling something precious and fragile. The furs were soft beneath your back, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. He loomed over you for a moment, his mismatched eyes traveling over your body with that hungry, reverent gaze, drinking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. The firelight played across your skin, gilding your silver gold hair, casting shadows in the hollows of your throat and the valley between your breasts.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed. His voice was thick with emotion, almost pained.
He lowered himself beside you, propped on one elbow, and his free hand began to explore your body. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if he were mapping the contours of a holy relic. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft swell of your breast. They circled your nipple through the thin linen of your shift, feeling it tighten and peak beneath his touch, and he made a low sound in his throat, a sound of satisfaction, of possession, of hunger barely restrained.
"I want to see you," he said. "All of you."
He did not tear your shift away. He did not rip the fabric from your body. Instead, he gathered the hem in his hands and slowly, slowly drew it upward, revealing you inch by torturous inch. The mound of your sex. The skin of your stomach. The curve of your waist. The undersides of your breasts. And then, finally, your breasts themselves, full and round and perfect, the nipples a color that darkened as he watched, tightening in the cool air of the chamber.
He made that sound again, that low, almost pained sound, and lowered his head. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, hot and wet and devastatingly skilled. His hand found your other breast, his fingers rolling and teasing the sensitive peak until you were arching beneath him, your body betraying you with every shudder and moan. His tongue swirled around the bud, sucking gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him. A gasp tore from your throat, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging at the silver streak as pleasure warred with the haze in your mind. Was this what you wanted? His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your wetness.
He took his time. Gods, he always took his time. He explored every inch of you with his hands and his mouth, learning you, memorizing you, claiming you. He kissed the hollow of your throat and the inside of your elbow and the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He traced the curve of your hip with his tongue and pressed open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your inner thigh. He touched you everywhere, tasted you everywhere, until you were trembling and desperate and utterly, completely his.
And through it all, he watched you. His eyes never left your face, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, every involuntary arch of your body. He wanted to see your pleasure. He needed to see it. Because your pleasure was proof, proof that you were his, proof that your body recognized his claim even if your mind resisted, proof that the Valyrian beauty he coveted responded to the mongrel prince who should have been beneath you.
"Feel how wet you are for me," he growled, slipping a finger to stroke your slick folds. You bucked against his touch, a moan betraying your body's eagerness even as you bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut. He circled your clit with pressure, dipping lower to push one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth returned to yours, swallowing your cries as he pumped his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, your whispered 'wait' lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, but your hips rose to meet him, chasing the building tension.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me."
You tried to look away. You tried to close your eyes, to retreat into the darkness behind your lids where he could not follow. But his hand caught your chin and turned your face back to his, and you had no choice but to meet his gaze as his fingers found the slick, aching center of you and began to move with devastating precision.
"Look at me," he repeated, and there was something in his voice, a desperate, almost pleading quality that made you obey. "I need to see you. I need to know that you feel this too. That I'm not the only one burning."
Your climax crashed over you like a wave, and you cried out, a sound you could not contain, a sound that was torn from you against your will. Your back arched, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his as the pleasure consumed you. And through it all, he watched. His mismatched eyes blazed with triumph and hunger and something that looked almost like worship.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's my girl. My beautiful, perfect girl."
He moved over you then, settling between your thighs, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your entrance. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say my name."
You did not want to give him that. It felt like too much, like a surrender too complete to be borne. But his hips shifted, the head of him pressing against you but not entering, and you knew, you knew, that he would wait all night if he had to. He would wait until you broke, until you gave him what he wanted, until you acknowledged that he was the one giving you this pleasure, that he was the one you needed.
"Valarr," you whispered. The name tasted like defeat. Like surrender. Like the death of everything you had been before.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty, triumphant and hungry and impossibly tender all at once. "Again."
"Valarr."
He thrust into you in one smooth, devastating motion, and you cried out his name a third time, not because he asked, but because you could not stop yourself. He filled you completely, stretched you perfectly, and for one endless moment, you simply stared at each other, joined in the most intimate way possible, your breath mingling, your hearts pounding in tandem.
"Mine," he breathed, and began to move.
He made love to you slowly, reverently, as if you were something holy and he were a pilgrim who had traveled a thousand miles to worship at your altar. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one designed to draw out your pleasure, to make you feel every inch of him, to imprint himself on your body and your soul. He watched your face the entire time, his eyes dark with intensity, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp and moan that escaped you.
"So perfect, so mine," he whispered, voice thick with emotion, slow thrusts that built like a gathering storm, pulling out almost fully before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with each hilt. His hands worshipped your body, one tangling in your silver hair to tilt your head back for his kisses, the other pinning your hip to the bed, controlling the pace. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper despite the lingering fog of consent's shadow.
The intensity mounted, his reverent touches turning possessive, gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sucking marks into your neck that would linger like claims. Sweat slicked your skin, bodies sliding together in a symphony of gasps and moans.
He shifted, angling to hit deeper, faster now, the bed creaking under the force. Your walls clenched around his cock, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. "Come for me," he urged, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you.
The climax crashed over you like a wave, your pussy spasming around him, milking his length as you cried out, silver hair sticking to your damp forehead, purple eyes glazing with release. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded you with hot cum, ropes spilling into your core, burying his face in your breasts as his body shuddered against yours. You felt the hot pulse of his release inside you, felt his arms tighten around you as if he were afraid you might disappear, felt his lips press reverent kisses to your throat and shoulder and the corner of your jaw.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal, your bodies still joined, your skin slick with sweat. His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and despite everything, despite the hatred and the resentment and the bitter knowledge of what he had taken from you, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. But in that moment, in the warm, firelit darkness of his chambers, with his body pressed against yours and his breath soft on your neck, you could almost believe it.
He stirred finally, rolling off you but not letting go. His arm remained wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his side, and his hand came up to stroke your hair with a gentle, almost absentminded tenderness.
He pressed a kiss to your temple and settled back against the pillows, his arm still wrapped around your waist.
"You may return to your chambers now," he said, his voice already growing distant, dismissive. "Ser Alan will escort you."
The words were the same as they always were. The dismissal was the same as it always was. And yet tonight, something was different. Tonight, the thought of leaving, of rising from this warm bed and walking back through those cold corridors to your cold, empty chamber, filled you with a despair so profound that it threatened to swallow you whole.
You did not move.
The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three. You could feel his attention shift, could sense him turning his head on the pillow to look at you. You kept your eyes fixed on the canopy above, counting the dragons. Five. Six. Seven.
"You are still here," he observed. There was no surprise in his voice, only a kind of clinical curiosity. "I gave you leave to go."
You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "I know."
"Then why do you linger?" He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with those mismatched eyes. In the dim light, they seemed to gleam with an inner fire of their own, the blue one cold as ice, the brown one warm as embers. "Have I not been a considerate husband? Have I not given you your own chambers, your own space, your privacy? I would never force you to remain where you are not wanted."
Where you are not wanted.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with double meaning. You were not wanted in his heart, you knew that, had always known it. He did not love you; he possessed you. He coveted you. He resented you and worshipped you in equal measure. But he did not love you, not in any way that you recognized as love. And you were not wanted in his chambers either, except when he summoned you, except when he wanted to use your body and watch you respond to his touch.
But here you were. Tangled in his silk sheets, breathing his air, warmed by his fire. And the thought of leaving, of rising from this bed and walking back through those cold, dark corridors to your empty room, made you want to weep.
"You summon me," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You summon me every night."
His brow furrowed with perfect, practiced confusion. It was a mask you had seen him wear a hundred times, the face of a man who could not understand why anyone would question his actions, who genuinely believed himself to be acting only with the purest of intentions.
"I summon you because you are my wife," he said, as if explaining something simple to a child. "It is my duty to attend to you. To ensure the continuation of our line. The realm needs heirs, sweet wife. Our union must bear fruit."
He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his touch feather light, almost tender. His fingers lingered on your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear.
"But I would never keep you here against your will," he continued. "That would be⌠unseemly. You are not a prisoner. You are my wife. If you wish to return to your chambers, you have only to say so. I will summon Ser Alan myself."
You are not a prisoner.
The words were a lie, and you both knew it. You were a prisoner in all but name. Your every movement was watched, your every word reported, your every attempt to reach out to the world beyond the Red Keep carefully and quietly thwarted. You were not permitted to write to your brothers at the Wall, not permitted to see your sisters, not permitted to send word to your mother in Tyrosh, not permitted to leave your chambers without an escort of guards who claimed to be protecting you but who served only to remind you of your captivity.
You had tried, once, to walk in the gardens alone. It had been a small thing, a tiny act of rebellion. You had simply slipped away from your ladies in waiting and wandered down a path you had not been shown before. Within minutes, two guards had appeared at your side, their faces carefully neutral, their voices politely insistent. "For your safety, my lady. The Red Keep can be dangerous for those who do not know its ways."
You had not tried again.
And your ladies in waiting, they were not companions. They were watchers. Spies in silk and velvet, assigned to report your every word and deed to the Prince. They whispered behind their hands when they thought you could not hear, their voices dripping with contempt. "Traitor's daughter." "Blackfyre whore." "She thinks herself a dragon, but she's nothing but a pretender in borrowed scales."
They pulled your laces too tight when they dressed you, leaving bruises on your ribs. They brought you cold food and colder stares, and when you asked for something, a book, a warm bath, a moment of peace, they smiled sweetly and promised to see to it, and nothing ever came of it.
The world had been carefully, methodically stripped away from you. Your family, your name, your freedom, your dignity. Everything that had made you who you were had been taken, piece by piece, until only he remained. The only person who touched you without care. The only person who looked at you without disgust. The only person who spoke to you as if you were a person, not a symbol of a defeated rebellion.
You were tired. Gods, you were so tired. Tired of the cold walks. Tired of the cold bed. Tired of the cold stares. Tired of being alone with your thoughts and your grief and your rage until you felt like you might shatter into a thousand pieces.
And he was warm.
He was here, solid and real, his body radiating heat beside you in the vast bed. He was the only person in the Red Keep who touched you without making you feel like something unclean. His hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, his presence filling the empty spaces inside you, it was a poison, you knew, sweet and slow and deadly. But it was the only warmth you had.
You hated him for it. Hated him with a fierce, burning intensity that sometimes took your breath away. Hated him for what he had taken from you, for what he continued to take, for the way he made you need him even as you loathed him.
And you needed him. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream. You needed his warmth, his touch, his voice. You needed the only human connection that was offered to you, even knowing that it was offered with chains attached.
"Valarr."
His name felt strange on your tongue. You usually called him "my prince" or nothing at all, maintaining that last, fragile barrier of formality between you. But in this moment, in the dying firelight, with your body still humming from his touch and your walls crumbling around you, you could not bring yourself to maintain that final pretense.
"Yes?"
His voice was soft. Encouraging. The voice of a man who already knew what you were going to say and was savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment like a cat playing with a mouse.
You closed your eyes. You could not look at him while you said it. You could not watch his face as you surrendered this last, precious piece of yourself.
"Let me stay."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard.
You could feel him smiling in the darkness. You did not need to see his face to know that the satisfaction was radiating from him like heat from the dying embers, that his mismatched eyes were gleaming with quiet triumph. You had given him exactly what he wanted, exactly what he had been working toward since the night of your wedding.
"I'm sorry," he said, and there was nothing but gentle confusion in his tone. "I don't understand. Stay where?"
You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.
You knew what he wanted. You had always known. He wanted you to say it clearly, to spell it out, to beg for the privilege of sleeping in his bed like a dog begging for scraps at the master's table. He wanted you to acknowledge that you needed him, that you wanted him, that all his careful manipulation had worked exactly as intended. He wanted you to hand him this victory on a silver platter, to kneel before him and offer up your last shred of pride as a gift.
And you were going to give it to him.
Because you were too tired to fight anymore. Because the thought of that cold walk back to your empty chambers, of lying alone in that cold bed with nothing but your thoughts for company, made you want to weep. Because whatever this was, this twisted, poisonous thing between you, it was better than the alternative.
"The corridors are cold."
"The corridors are always cold." His tone was mild, pleasant. "I have offered to have braziers placed along your route. You declined."
Because accepting would mean admitting I notice the cold. Because accepting would mean I owe you gratitude for every scrap of warmth you deign to give me.
"I did not wish to trouble the servants."
"Ah." He said it as if you had revealed something profound.
"You are too considerate, wife. Most ladies would demand a dozen braziers and complain of the smoke. But not you. You bear your discomforts in silence." His hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm. "I admire that about you. Truly."
You wanted to pull your hand away. You did not.
"Please," you said instead.
The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like defeat, like the death of something precious and irreplaceable. It was the word of a supplicant, a beggar, a woman who had been stripped of everything and was grateful for whatever scraps were thrown her way.
"I am asking. I want to share your chambers. I wantâŚ"
You faltered. What did you want? You wanted your family back. You wanted your freedom. You wanted to wake up and discover that the last moon had been nothing but a nightmare, that you were still in Tyrosh with your mother and your siblings, that the war had never happened and Daemon Blackfyre still lived and the world still made sense.
But those things were gone. They were ashes and dust, scattered on the wind of history. All that remained was this room, this bed, this man.
"I want to stay," you finished, your voice barely audible.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty.
It transformed his sharp, mismatched features into something almost angelic, the face of a savior, a protector, a man who had rescued a fallen woman from the consequences of her family's treason and lifted her up to stand beside him. His blue eye sparkled with warmth. His brown eye gleamed with satisfaction. He looked like a painting of some ancient hero, a knight of legend who had slain the dragon and claimed the maiden as his reward.
"Oh, my sweet wife," he murmured.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, tender, achingly gentle. It was the kind of kiss a devoted husband might give his beloved wife after a long separation, a gesture of pure and selfless affection. And it made you want to scream.
"Of course you may stay. I would never deny you anything you truly wanted. I told you, did I not? I am the only one in this world who will care for you. The only one who sees your worth."
He pulled the furs up over your body, tucking them around your shoulders with careful, almost paternal attention. His hands smoothed the fabric, ensuring that you were completely covered, completely warm, completely enveloped in his care. Then he lay back against the pillows and drew you against his side, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close.
His body was warm. Solid. Real. And for one terrible, shameful moment, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. This safety was an illusion, a gilded cage dressed up as a sanctuary. He was not your protector. He was your captor, your jailer, the architect of your slow and methodical destruction. The warmth of his body was the warmth of the dragon's breath, and you were the lamb curled in its jaws.
But it was warm. And you were so tired. And for just this moment, just this one moment, you could pretend.
"Sleep now," he murmured against your hair. His breath was warm on your scalp, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You are where you belong. With me. Where no one can hurt you. Where no one can whisper their poison in your ear. Just us, sweet wife. Just us."
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rise and fall of his chest, the solid reality of his presence. He was everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, claiming you.
And then his lips found your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper so soft you almost didn't hear it.
"I will make you love me," he breathed. "I will make you need me so completely that you won't remember how to breathe without me. And when that day comes, when you finally see that I am the only one who will ever truly want you, I will be there. Waiting. As I have always been waiting."
He pressed a kiss to the curve of your ear, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of it, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the dark promise in his words.
"Sleep," he said again, his voice returning to that gentle, soothing tone. "Dream of me. Dream of us. Dream of the life we will build together."
You closed your eyes.
The tears came then. Silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the silk pillowcase. You did not make a sound. You had learned not to cry where anyone could hear, learned to swallow your grief and your rage and your despair until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, an endless river of sorrow that you had been holding back for too long.
His arm tightened around your waist. You felt his lips curve into a smile against the crown of your head.
He knew.
He always knew.
And tomorrow, when the sun rose and the world went on as it always did, you would wake in his bed. You would open your eyes to the sight of his chambers, surrounded by his scent and his warmth and his quiet, suffocating care. You would look at yourself in the polished bronze mirror that hung on his wall and see a stranger, a woman who had begged her captor to keep her close, who had traded her last scrap of independence for a few hours of warmth.
The servants would know. They always knew everything that happened in the Red Keep. By midday, the whispers would have spread through every corridor and every kitchen and every stable. The Blackfyre whore has moved into the Prince's chambers. She begged him to let her stay. She crawled into his bed like a dog seeking warmth.
Your ladies in waiting would smile their cold, knowing smiles. Lady Jeyne would make some cutting remark disguised as concern. "How wonderful that you and the Prince have grown so close. I'm sure your mother would be so pleased to know that you have found⌠comfort⌠in your new home."
And Valarr would watch it all with those mismatched eyes, that gentle, reasonable smile playing at his lips. He would see the whispers and the stares and the quiet cruelties, and he would do nothing to stop them. Why would he? They served his purpose. They reminded you that he was the only one who treated you with anything resembling kindness, the only one who touched you without making you feel like something unclean.
He was the disease and the cure. The poison and the antidote. The dragon and the knight who slew it.
And you were his.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, in the dying firelight, wrapped in his furs and his possession, you lay still, your body pressed back against his in the spoon of his embrace.
His cock, still half hard from your earlier joining, nestled against the curve of your ass, warm and heavy. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your breathing, to let the exhaustion pull you under, but the tears kept coming, silent tracks carving paths down your face.
Then you felt it, a subtle twitch, a thickening against your skin. His length stirred, growing firm once more, pressing insistently into the cleft of your cheeks. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through you.
Not again. Not when your heart felt so raw, so fractured. But your body, traitorous as ever, responded with a faint clench low in your belly, the lingering slickness between your thighs a reminder of how he'd already claimed you.
Valarr shifted behind you, his hand sliding from your waist to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the still sensitive nipple. He hardened fully now, his cock rigid and hot, the veined shaft sliding along your ass as he rocked his hips forward in a slow, deliberate grind.
"Shh," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your back. "Let me hold you closer. Let me make it better."
You didn't protest, words caught in your throat, choked by the sobs you refused to voice. His free hand trailed down your side, over the flare of your hip, fingers dipping between your legs to part your folds. He found you wet, despite everything, his touch gentle as he stroked your clit in lazy circles, coaxing more arousal from your unwilling core.
A whimper escaped you, muffled into the pillow, as his cock nudged at your entrance from behind, the broad head parting your lips.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you again with that stretching burn that blurred the line between ache and need. Your walls fluttered around him, gripping his thickness as he sank deep, his hips flush against your ass. The position pinned you in place, his body a solid weight over yours, one arm banded across your chest to hold you tight while the other worked your clit with unerring precision. He didn't thrust yet, just held himself buried inside, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb against your inner walls.
Tears streamed faster now, soaking the silk beneath your cheek, your purple eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming flood.
Why did it feel good? Why did his possession twist the knife of your despair into something almost like solace? He began to move then, shallow rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your depths, grinding against that spot that made stars burst behind your lids.
His breath was hot on your neck, lips pressing soft kisses there even as his pace quickened, thrusts turning firmer, the slap of skin on skin echoing softly in the chamber.
"That's it," he whispered, his mismatched eyes no doubt fixed on the back of your head, imagining your surrender. "Take me. You're mine to comfort, mine to fuck, mine to keep." His fingers pinched your nipple lightly, rolling it as he drove deeper, his cock pistoning in and out with controlled power.
You cried silently, body rocking with each impact, ass pressing back against him involuntarily as pleasure coiled tight despite the grief tearing at your chest.
He fucked you like that, possessive, unyielding, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip, pulling you onto him harder.
The angle let him hit deeper, his balls slapping against your thighs with every plunge. Your sobs broke free in quiet gasps, tears blurring your vision, but your pussy clenched around him, soaking his length with fresh wetness. He groaned, low and reverent, burying his face in your silver hair, inhaling your scent as if it were his lifeline.
The build was relentless, his thrusts erratic now, chasing release while forcing yours. "Cry if you must," he said softly, voice laced with that dark tenderness. "But come for me again. Show me you need this as much as I need you." His hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing fast and firm, and the dam broke. Your orgasm ripped through you, walls spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you shuddered, tears flowing unchecked.
Valarr followed with a muffled curse, slamming deep one last time, his release flooding you hot and thick, ropes of cum painting your insides. He held you through it, cock twitching as he emptied himself, his arms wrapping tighter, as if to absorb your sorrow into his own body.
In the quiet aftermath, he stayed inside you, softening slowly, his lips trailing kisses along your shoulder. The fire had died to embers, casting faint shadows over the furs tangled around you both. Your tears slowed, exhaustion finally claiming you, and as sleep pulled you under, the dreams came, of dragons, but also of mismatched eyes watching over you, a cage that felt, in the haze, almost like home.
And Valarr held you through the night, his possession complete, your cries a secret shared only in the dark.
A/N: I had like 5 different requests for this, I made it HELLA long and I hope I did you all justice!! also ive been editing a bunch of stuff so a Nate and sid spam is either happening tonight or tomorrow idk yet
The first thing people assumed about your job was that it was easy.
They saw the finished posts, the polished thirty-second clips, the chirpy captions with orange and black emojis, the little behind-the-scenes moments that made players seem more human and fans feel like they were in on something special. They saw the smiling headshots, the goofy locker room trivia videos, the pregame tunnel fits, the rapid-fire questions on the bench during morning skate, and they thought your work mostly consisted of pointing a camera at attractive hockey players and hitting upload.
What they never saw was you sprinting through the Wells Fargo Center with two cameras hanging off one shoulder, a backup battery clenched between your teeth, and your phone buzzing so violently in your back pocket you were half convinced it was about to catch fire.
What they never saw was the planning.
The color-coded spreadsheets, the weekly content calendars, the caption drafts, the sponsor approvals, the last-minute changes from PR, the constant balancing act between what was fun, what was safe, what the players would actually agree to do, and what would make the internet collectively lose its mind in the most useful way possible. Your job was creativity, yes, but it was also speed and instinct and relationship-building. It was knowing which rookie would happily do a dumb little âwhoâs most likely toâ video five minutes before warmups and which veteran would stare at you like you had personally offended his bloodline for even asking.
You loved it anyway.
Maybe because you were good at it. Maybe because you liked chaos more than you had any business admitting. Maybe because there was something addictive about catching tiny, unscripted moments before they disappearedâa laugh in the hallway, a teasing shove at practice, a muttered one-liner that ended up becoming the clip fans quoted for weeks.
By your late twenties, you had already worked for two smaller sports media teams, one college athletics department, and a brief, soul-withering stint at a lifestyle marketing agency where someone in a blazer had once asked you to âmake the brand voice more aesthetic.â Youâd escaped that disaster on purpose. When the Philadelphia Flyers hired you to help lead social content, youâd thrown yourself into the role with enough energy to make up for every terrible office job youâd hated before it.
Now, a little over two seasons in, you were one of the people the players actually liked seeing coming.
That had taken time.
The first few months, most of them had treated you with the polite suspicion reserved for cameras, dentists, and reporters asking stupid questions after losses. But youâd learned them. Learned who liked to joke, who needed warming up, who pretended to hate attention but secretly loved it when fans ate up a clip, who only agreed to interviews if you kept it short and painless. You figured out how to make content feel less like an obligation and more like a bit. Once the guys realized you werenât there to embarrass themâunless it was lightly, lovingly, and with their approvalâthey started relaxing.
That was how you ended up standing outside the Flyersâ locker room on a cold January afternoon with a handheld mic, a tiny camera rig, and three players arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.
âItâs in a bowl,â Travis insisted, already grinning because he knew he sounded ridiculous. âLiquid base. Spoon. Thatâs soup.â
âIt is literally breakfast,â Noah said flatly, tugging one glove tighter under his arm as he headed toward the tunnel. âThatâs the dumbest thing Iâve ever heard.â
You walked backward in front of them, camera trained on their faces, laughing. âSo your final answer is yes? Cereal is soup?â
Travis leaned toward the lens like he was making a formal announcement to the nation. âMy final answer is that some of you are too closed-minded for culinary innovation.â
Noah made a face. âThat sentence alone should get you scratched.â
You snorted, nearly clipping your shoulder against the concrete wall before regaining your balance. âPerfect. Thatâs the clip.â
âAbsolutely not,â Noah said, but he was smiling now.
âYes, absolutely,â you shot back. âThe people deserve to know where you stand on major societal issues.â
The social intern trailing behind you nearly ran into the back of Travis because she was trying so hard not to laugh. You gave her a quick look over your shoulder, silently checking that she was still with you, still getting behind-the-scenes footage on her phone for stories. She nodded, breathless, and you turned back just in time to avoid walking straight into a cart stacked with towels.
Game days were a blur built from instinct. You could have navigated them in your sleep by now. Pregame skate content. Tunnel arrivals. Quick sponsor spot. Warmup footage. Bench-side reaction clip if you were lucky. A little trivia video if someone had enough energy. Then into the media room, then back out, then scrambling for second intermission edits while your laptop fan whined in protest.
There was rhythm to it. A weird kind of music. You were good at hearing where the beat changed.
âHey.â
You turned at the voice and saw Olivia from PR leaning against the wall, holding a laminated credential and a coffee like both were keeping her alive through sheer force of habit.
âYou get the pregame fit walk?â she asked.
âYep.â
âDid Cam finally stop trying to speed-walk through frame like heâs avoiding taxes?â
You looked at her blankly for half a second. âNo. In fact, he somehow got worse.â
Olivia sighed toward the ceiling. âTragic.â
You grinned. âIâll send you the clip later.â
âPlease do. Alsoââshe tipped her coffee in the direction of the locker room doorsââDanny wants to talk to you when you have a second.â
Your brows lifted. âAbout?â
She shrugged. âNo idea. He had the face on.â
You immediately frowned. âWhat face?â
âThe operations face.â
âThat means literally nothing.â
âIt means he looked annoying and managerial.â
âThat narrows it down even less.â
Olivia laughed and pushed off the wall. âGood luck.â
You watched her go, suspicion already crawling up your spine. Danny, the teamâs director of digital content, only ever wanted to âtalk for a secondâ when something complicated was about to be added to your workload. He was perfectly nice. You even liked him. But he had an almost supernatural ability to appear right before your busiest stretch of the week and say things like, âQuick question,â which were never quick and never questions.
You finished the segment with the players, handed the camera card off to your editor for ingestion, and found Danny near the media workroom ten minutes later.
He was standing at one of the high tables with his laptop open, scrolling through what looked like next weekâs schedule. He glanced up when you approached, then gave you the kind of smile bosses used when they were trying to make extra work seem flattering.
Immediately suspicious.
âNo,â you said before he could speak.
Danny blinked. âI havenât even said anything yet.â
âYouâve got the face.â
âThe face?â
âThe one people make when theyâre about to ruin my life professionally.â
He laughed under his breath. âDramatic.â
âEfficient. Saves time.â
He tipped his head toward the hallway. âWalk with me.â
That was never a good sign either. You fell into step beside him, weaving around arena staff and equipment managers moving with practiced urgency. âSo?â
âSo,â he said, in the carefully casual tone of someone absolutely not being casual, âyou know weâve been trying to push more personality-driven road content.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThat sounds suspiciously like a setup.â
âItâs not a setup.â
âItâs always a setup when a sentence starts with âyou know.ââ
Danny ignored that. âNumbers are good at home. Strong engagement, especially on the short interview stuff you do. But road content still isnât where we want it to be.â
You crossed your arms around the camera tucked to your chest. âOkay.â
âAnd,â he continued, âour travel content has been pretty bare lately because weâve been stretched thin.â
There it was.
You let out a long breath. âDanny.â
âHear me out.â
âNo.â
âYou havenât heard it.â
âI can feel it.â
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was already preparing for resistance. âWe want to send you on the next trip.â
You stared at him.
He kept talking like you hadnât. âNot the whole swing. Just the Pittsburgh game to start. Maybe more later if it goes well. But definitely Pittsburgh.â
For a second, the hallway noise seemed to dull around the edges. It wasnât that the request itself was shocking. You had done road content before, just not much with the Flyers at the NHL level. Short travel assignments, prospect camp coverage, one development tournament in the offseason. But NHL regular season road coverage was a different beast. More logistics. Tighter timelines. Less room for mistakes.
Still, underneath the immediate panic, something bright sparked.
Pittsburgh.
Flyers versus Penguins.
One of the rivalry matchups that always drew extra eyes, extra engagement, extra heat.
You shifted the camera against your hip. âYou want me to go to Pittsburgh?â
Danny nodded. âYou, one shooter, and probably Mason for editing support remotely unless I can get budget approval to send him too.â
âThatâs in, like, a week.â
âSix days.â
âThatâs basically a week.â
He smiled despite himself. âIâm aware.â
You looked away, thinking fast. Travel. Content capture on the road. Access limitations. Opposing arena rules. A rivalry game meant fans would devour anything even remotely interesting. The potential for numbers was huge. So was the pressure.
âYouâre serious,â you said.
âVery.â
You huffed out a laugh that was half nerves. âThatâs a terrible idea.â
âWhy?â
âBecause road content is a logistical nightmare, the game will be chaos, and if anyone asks me to get one more âday in the lifeâ clip at baggage claim, I might simply walk into traffic.â
Danny gave you a long look. âSo thatâs a yes?â
You pressed your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to break loose. He knew you too well.
âItâs not a yes,â you said. âItâs an extremely reluctant, professionally burdened, heavily conditional maybe.â
âThatâs basically the same thing.â
âIt absolutely is not.â
But it kind of was.
The rest of the day moved around you in fragments. The game. The content queue. A quick postgame locker room clip. A last-minute graphics swap. By the time you finally sat at your desk upstairs with your laptop open and your hair half-falling out of the clip that had been pretending to hold it together since noon, the building had shifted into that postgame exhale you always liked best. The loudest part was over. What remained was the humâwheels rolling over concrete, muted voices, a vending machine clunking somewhere down the hall, the scratch of your own fingertips against keys.
You should have been finishing the recap package. Instead, you were staring at the team schedule.
Philadelphia at Pittsburgh. A Saturday game.
National eyes, rivalry traffic, a whole audience beyond your usual followers waiting for anything remotely compelling to latch onto. Good road content there could hit hard. Especially if you handled it right. Especially if you found the balance between funny and polished and just candid enough to feel intimate.
Your phone buzzed on the desk.
Olivia: Heard you might be going to pittsburgh
You smiled and typed back.
Y/N: rumors are dangerous
Olivia: omg you ARE
Y/N: i said rumors are dangerous
Olivia: bring me back something from the gift shop
Y/N: absolutely not
Olivia: fake friend
You tossed the phone aside and tried to focus.
Once you got home to your apartment and kicked your shoes off by the door, you found yourself opening notes on your phone and drafting ideas before you had even changed out of your work clothes.
Travel day fit check. Plane card game content if players were willing.
âWho on this team would survive a zombie apocalypse?â
âMost likely to forget their passport?â
A rivalry edition of quick-fire questions. Maybe a âdescribe Pittsburgh in one wordâ bit. Maybe something with playlists.
Maybe something a little more cinematic tooâcity shots, loading into the arena, skates on concrete, gloves being tightened, the kind of moody footage people ate up before big divisional games.
You sank onto your couch and stared at the ceiling, phone balanced on your stomach. You reached for your laptop again and started building a rough Pittsburgh shot list before common sense could stop you.
By the next morning, you had three separate content concepts, a proposed travel schedule, and a color-coded document titled PIT ROAD GAME POSSIBILITIES, which was probably either deeply impressive or slightly unwell.
Danny responded to the email in six minutes.
âThis is exactly why Iâm sending you.â
â
By Thursday, your travel had been confirmed.
You would leave with the team the day before the game, shoot arrival content, get a small window after the team meal if players were available, then film morning skate and pregame pieces in Pittsburgh. Youâd have limited access in the visiting arena compared to home, but enough to make something good if you moved fast. You spent half the day charging batteries, labeling equipment, checking storage space, and making sure your portable hard drives werenât about to betray you at the worst possible moment.
At some point in the middle of all that, you caught your reflection in the black computer screen at your desk and laughed quietly to yourself.
You looked exactly like what you were: tired, busy, slightly over-caffeinated, and deeply in your element.
â
Friday came fast.
Travel day always made the whole organization feel looser around the edges. More duffel bags. More movement. More scattered conversations in hallways. You arrived before sunrise, coffee in one hand and gear slung over both shoulders, and found the loading area already alive with staff and players filtering in.
The air outside bit at your cheeks. Philadelphia in winter had a way of feeling gray all the way down to the bones.
The team bus to the airport was exactly the kind of controlled disorder you expectedâplayers half awake, headphones already on, staff juggling bags and coffee, somebody in the back loudly insisting they were not playing cards on the plane this time because last time someone cheated and âeveryone knows it.â
You boarded with the social shooter assigned to travel with you, a quiet but incredibly competent freelancer named Sam, and slid into one of the front seats reserved for staff. Your camera case went by your feet. Your phone was already open to notes.
You watched players in reflections more than directly. The familiar shapes of them. Hoodies, ball caps, long legs wedged awkwardly into seats clearly not built for hockey players. A few nodded hello to you. One immediately asked whether you were filming anything yet, with the air of a man hoping the answer was no.
The airport transfer, the private terminal, the boardingâit all happened in the quick, well-practiced blur of team travel. You caught what you could without being annoying. Bags getting loaded. Players stepping off the bus into the brittle morning air. A few clean shots of travel fits. Nothing intrusive. Just atmosphere.
On the plane, things settled.
This was where you had to read the room better than ever. Travel content could be great, but only if it didnât feel invasive. Some guys wanted to disappear into sleep or music or whatever ritual got them ready for the weekend. Others got restless and started chirping each other fifteen minutes into the flight.
You got lucky.
About halfway through, a loose cluster of players toward the back started a card game. Someone else was already recording little clips on a phone. The mood had tipped toward playful. You looked at Sam, tipped your head toward the aisle, and the two of you moved quietly.
â
Pittsburgh greeted you with cold air, low clouds, and the sharp, practical rhythm of road arrival. From the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to check-in, from check-in to quick room drop and back downstairs again. The city outside the bus window looked steel-gray and river-cut, winter light catching on glass and bridges in a way that felt a little cinematic if you were in the right mood.
You were in the right mood.
Not because it was Pittsburgh, specifically. Though even you had to admit the rivalry of it all gave the trip extra charge. More because this was new enough to feel exciting and familiar enough not to be terrifying. You could do something with that combination.
The hotel content went smoothly. Arrival footage. A few lobby shots. One player who tried to duck the camera and got caught smiling anyway. Another who fully posed despite claiming thirty seconds earlier that he hated being filmed. You collected moments the way some people collected receiptsâevidence that the day had happened, evidence that the mood was real.
By evening, after the team meal, you had a small window to grab optional content from the lounge space the players were filtering through. Nothing intense. Just quick stuff if anyone felt up for it.
Tomorrow would be the game day.
Tomorrow, youâd be in the visiting arena, working in tighter spaces, moving faster, trying to get content good enough to justify why theyâd sent you at all. You should have felt overwhelmed. Maybe you did, a little. But stronger than that was the hum you always got before good work. The anticipation.
â
You were up before your alarm.
Not by much, but enough to make it annoying.
For one disorienting second, you didnât know where you were. The hotel curtains were still mostly drawn, leaving the room dim and gray-blue, the kind of early morning light that made everything feel a little unreal. Then the shape of the unfamiliar armchair by the window registered. The hard-shell camera case near the desk. The laminated credential hanging from the lamp. Pittsburgh.
Right.
Game day.
You let out a long breath and rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment while the day arranged itself in your head. Morning skate content. Arrival shots if the bus timing worked. A few interviews, maybe. Practice-day atmosphere, even though âpractice dayâ was never really what morning skates wereâit was lighter, sharper, more controlled, the kind of routine that looked casual if you didnât know enough hockey to see all the tension underneath it.
By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you had your hair pulled back, your credential clipped on, and enough energy to pass for a functional adult. Olivia was already there, somehow looking more awake than anyone had a right to at that hour, one hand around her coffee and the other scrolling through emails on her phone like she was personally at war with them.
âYou look tired,â she said.
âYou look judgmental.â
âI am judgmental.â
âI know.â
She handed you the second coffee without argument, and the warmth of it seeped into your fingers in a way that felt briefly life-saving. Around you, the hotel lobby had that strange, muted hum team hotels always seemed to have on travel mornings. Staff moving with purpose. Players filtering in with headphones on and hoods up, looking half asleep and six feet taller than the furniture around them. Equipment personnel wheeling cases through the polished floor space like they owned the building. Everything quiet, but not relaxed. There was always a pulse under game day.
You and Olivia took seats near the windows while you waited for bus call.
âDid you sleep?â she asked.
âEnough.â
âThat answer means no.â
âIt means I had content ideas at one in the morning and had to write them down or risk becoming unbearable.â
She took a sip of coffee. âYou were already unbearable.â
âYouâre so supportive.â
âIâm consistent.â
You smiled into your cup and looked down at your phone again, skimming the dayâs rough plan. Nothing too ambitious. Capture the guys arriving at the rink. Some clean morning skate visuals. Maybe a few quick questions if the mood was right and the team staff didnât need everyone moving too fast. A little atmosphere, a little personality. Enough to feed the game-day machine without getting in the way.
It should have felt routine.
Instead, your nerves were just a little louder than usual.
Not in a bad way. Not panicked. Just alert. Like your brain knew this day mattered a little more than most. Rivalry game. Bigger audience. Road environment. More eyeballs on every post. Even the smallest clip could overperform if it caught the right energy. You were already thinking in edits, already hearing caption ideas in the back of your mind, already sorting through what might look good in vertical and what might need to be held for later.
Across the lobby, one of the players noticed your camera bag and grimaced theatrically.
âNo weird questions today,â he said as he approached.
You looked up at him. âGood morning to you too.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â
He pointed a finger at you like that would strengthen his case. âNo âwhoâs most likely to cry during a movieâ or any of that.â
âThat one is actually excellent, thank you.â
He made a betrayed sound and kept walking toward the elevators, and Olivia leaned closer to you, lowering her voice.
âYou know youâve won when they start pre-complaining before youâve even asked anything.â
âI prefer to think of it as trust.â
âThat is not what that is.â
But it kind of was.
The bus ride to the arena was quieter than the day before. More inward. Less chirping. Guys looked at their phones or out the window or nowhere at all, wrapped in their own routines. You took a couple of skyline clips through the glass, though the morning was overcast enough that the city looked all steel and river and pale winter haze. Still good, though. Especially for moody transitional footage.
Pittsburgh had a way of looking cinematic even when it wasnât trying. Maybe it was the bridges. Maybe the water. Maybe the fact that hockey cities always seemed a little sharper around the edges in the cold.
When the bus pulled into the arena, everyoneâs energy shifted without anyone saying anything. That was one of those details you only noticed after years around teams. The invisible click. Public space to work space. Hotel mode to rink mode. Whatever looseness had existed ten minutes earlier tightened into something more focused.
You and Sam got off with the rest of the traveling staff, the air outside crisp enough to sting the inside of your nose. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and fell into your usual rhythm almost immediately. Arrival shots first. Players stepping off the bus. A couple of clean walking clips. Gloves tucked under arms, headphones still around necks, coffee cups, garment bags, the endless repetition of duffels. You moved fast, careful not to clog any pathways, stepping sideways around rolling equipment trunks and arena staff with the practiced awareness of someone who had spent years learning how to be present without being in the way.
Once inside, visiting access was exactly what you expected: tighter than at home, more controlled, more narrow in its freedom. Still workable. You got a few warmup-room atmosphere shots, some skates being laced, sticks lined along a wall, a trainer adjusting gear on a table. Nothing too intrusive. Mostly details. It would cut together beautifully later if you had enough coverage.
âLooks good,â Sam murmured, checking playback on one clip as the two of you stepped back into the hallway.
âKeep grabbing texture stuff if you see it,â you said. âTape, gloves, hallway skates, anything that feels like road routine.â
He nodded. âGot it.â
You checked your phone and frowned at the battery percentage.
Fifty-one.
That wasnât terrible, but it wasnât great either considering how early it still was and how much you relied on the social phone throughout the day. The team-issued phone was where quick vertical clips lived before they got sent off, where stories got posted in real time, where you could review what you had and keep track of platform needs without juggling too many devices at once. It also had the unfortunate tendency to drain like it had a personal grievance against electricity.
You tucked that concern away for later and headed toward the rink entrance for morning skate.
Practice-day shooting was always a balancing act between rhythm and patience. Morning skate didnât have the dramatic frenzy of game warmups, but it had its own kind of clean energy. Less noise. More glide. Coaches in conversation near the boards. Players taking one-timers with sleepy precision, stretching against the glass, leaning on sticks in small clusters between drills. The ice still looked fresh in a way it never did later in the day, bright and untouched beneath the lights.
You loved filming on ice days like this.
There was room to breathe in the footage. Room for the little things. The scrape of edges. The casual toss of a puck from glove to glove. A goalie rolling his shoulders before dropping into the net. You and Sam split the workload without even needing to talk much about it by that point. He covered a wider angle from one corner while you worked your way along the permitted area, switching between the main camera and the social phone depending on what the moment called for.
A player tapped the glass in front of your lens in mock offense after you caught him missing a shot.
âOh, thatâs going up,â you called back.
He shook his head immediately. âNo chance.â
âYou canât stop me.â
âWatch me.â
âYouâd have to catch me first.â
He laughed and pushed off toward the faceoff dot again.
That was the nice thing about practice-day content. Lower stakes. Enough time to get human moments without anyone feeling too scrutinized. A few of the players leaned into it more than usual, maybe because the rivalry game had everyone a little keyed up and this was the last easy breath before it all tightened. You got one fantastic clip of two teammates mock-arguing over who had the better tape job. Another of someone tryingâand failingâto chirp a coach who shut him down so efficiently that even you almost laughed out loud behind the phone.
Perfect social stuff. Easy, real, useful. By the time the skate wrapped and players started filing off the ice, your social phone battery had dropped to eighteen percent. You stared at the screen for a beat, offended.
âNo, actually, thatâs insane,â you muttered under your breath.
Sam looked up from packing one of the lenses. âWhat?â
âThis stupid phone is dying.â
He checked the time. âAlready?â
âYes. Itâs acting like Iâve committed some personal offense.â
âYou have a charger?â
âIn my bag. I think.â
That was the problem. You had multiple bags, multiple cases, and at least three places the charger could be depending on which version of yourself had packed the night before. Wonderful.
You glanced toward the hallway leading back toward the visitorsâ room. Media flow had loosened a little now that morning skate was done and there was a short window before the next scheduled obligation. If you moved fast, you could run back, find the charger, plug the phone in for a bit, maybe dump a couple clips, and get back before anyone needed you elsewhere.
âIâm gonna go grab the charger,â you told Sam. âCan you stay here for like five?â
âYeah.â
âIf anyone asks where I am, tell them Iâm being held hostage by battery percentage.â
He snorted. âWill do.â
You slung the social phone into your jacket pocket, adjusted your credential, and headed down the corridor at a brisk pace.
The visiting route through unfamiliar arenas always felt vaguely like navigating a dream someone else had designed. Too many similar hallways. Too many gray doors. Too many turns that looked like they should lead somewhere obvious and instead dumped you out beside a storage alcove or a security checkpoint or a staircase you definitely werenât supposed to be near.
At first, you thought you were fine.
You retraced what you were pretty sure had been your route in. Past the equipment carts. Left at the corner with the framed arena signage. Straight down a narrower hallway. Then another turn. Thenâyou slowed.
This didnât look right.
There was a long concrete corridor ahead with darker flooring than the one you remembered, and the wall signage here was for home locker facilities, not visiting. You stopped walking entirely and stared for a second, willing the arena to reorganize itself into something more familiar.
âOkay,â you whispered to yourself. âCool. Love that.â
You turned back the way you came, only to realize the last two turns had blurred together in your head. Great. Amazing. Perfect even. You had been in the building less than three hours and were already lost in enemy territory because a phone battery had personally betrayed you.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it. There were worse problems. Plenty worse. But there was something uniquely irritating about being a grown adult with multiple credentials clipped to your jacket and still somehow wandering around a professional sports arena like a confused substitute teacher on a field trip.
You started walking again, this time slower, checking each sign as you passed.
Hallway. Training room. Staff access. Another hallway. A corner. A staircase. None of it looked familiar.
You dug the phone out of your pocket to maybe text Olivia or Sam for help, only to see the battery flash red at eleven percent.
âUnbelievable,â you muttered.
You were too busy looking down at it while turning the next corner to notice someone coming from the opposite direction until it was too late.
One second you were stepping around the bend with your attention split between the dying phone and your rapidly diminishing patience, and the next you nearly walked straight into a broad chest in a dark team-issued quarter zip.
You startled hard enough that your sneaker skidded against the floor.
Everything happened fast after that. A clipped breath. A flash of instinctive panic. The sick little drop in your stomach as your balance tilted the wrong way. The phone slipping in your hand.
And then a hand caught your arm. Another at your elbow, steady and firm and immediate.
You didnât hit the ground. Didnât even come particularly close once the hold settled you. But the surprise of it still sent your pulse jumping.
âWhoa,â a low voice said. âEasy.â
You blinked up and for one profoundly humiliating second, your brain supplied absolutely nothing useful, because standing in front of you, one hand still loosely braced at your arm like he was making sure you were actually steady, was Sidney Crosby.
Not on a screen.
Not in a media scrum.
Not from a distance while you were working a game and trying to stay neutral because that was your job.
Here. Right here. In a concrete arena hallway in Pittsburgh while you were lost, annoyed, and probably making the dumbest expression of your life. His brows lifted slightly, somewhere between checking that you were okay and maybe suppressing a laugh.
âYou good?â
You became aware of several things all at once.
One: you were still half-leaning into the recovery of your balance.
Two: your phone was somehow still in your hand, miracle of miracles.
Three: you needed to speak immediately before your silence turned this into the single most embarrassing moment of your career.
âYep,â you said, much too quickly. âYes. Iâm good. Totally good.â
His mouth twitched. Cool. Great. He thought you were an idiot. Understandable.
You straightened fully, smoothing one hand against your jacket like that could restore dignity. âSorry. I wasnât looking where I was going.â
âThat much I figured.â
The delivery was dry enough that it took you half a beat to realize he was teasing.
You looked at him again properly then, which maybe was a mistake because now your brain had time to register details. Taller up close than people always swore he was, even though everyone knew his listed height and apparently still liked making it a whole conversation. Broad shoulders. Practice hair still slightly damp around the temples. That familiar face that hockey fans had spent nearly two decades reading like weather. Calm, watchful, a little amused now.
You swallowed back the first eight weirdly fangirl things that tried to rise up.
Because no.
Absolutely not.
You worked for the Flyers.
You were currently wearing team gear.
You had professional self-respect, at least in theory.
âSorry,â you said again, more normally this time. âIâm just trying to find my way back to the visitorsâ room and apparently your arena is built like a maze.â
That earned you a small, immediate smile.
âOur arena?â
You folded your arms, clutching the dying phone against your side. âYes. Yours.â
âSo youâve already decided itâs not user error.â
âOh, it is definitely user error,â you said. âBut Iâm choosing to blame the building.â
He glanced down the corridor youâd just come from, then back at you. âVisitorsâ roomâs the other way.â
âSee?â you said. âMaze.â
He made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. âYou took, like, three wrong turns.â
âThat feels excessive to point out in my time of need.â
âYou seem okay.â
âPhysically, sure. Emotionally, Iâm being humbled.â
That got a real laugh out of him, brief but unmistakable, and something in your chest gave an irritating little flip in response.
Unhelpful.
Very unhelpful.
You cleared your throat. âThanks for catching me, though. That wouldâve been a really tragic way to go.â
His expression went lightly skeptical. âTragic?â
âYes. Imagine the paperwork. âLocal social media employee taken out by poor directional instincts in rival arena.â Horrible look for everyone.â
He folded his arms now too, posture easy. âI think we couldâve spun that.â
âYou think the Penguins PR team couldâve spun me eating it in the hallway?â
âOh, for sure.â
You narrowed your eyes. âThatâs evil.â
He shrugged one shoulder, still looking amused. âOccupational hazard.â
There was something unfairly disarming about how casual he seemed. Not guarded exactly, but measured in that way some athletes were after years of being observed. Still, there was warmth there too, and curiosity, and just enough playfulness to keep the whole moment from tipping awkward. It helped you relax by degrees.
A little.
Not much.
Your phone buzzed weakly in your hand and flashed the red battery indicator again, like it wanted attention.
You looked down at it in betrayal.
âLet me guess,â he said, following your glance. âDead phone?â
âDying phone,â you corrected. âWhich is somehow more irritating.â
âThatâs why youâre lost?â
âI was going to grab my charger.â
âAnd got sidetracked.â
âI got aggressively sidetracked.â
He tipped his head. âWho do you work for?â
You held up the credential clipped to your jacket instead of answering, because if he hadnât seen the Flyers logo by now that wouldâve been impressive.
His eyes dropped to it, then lifted again with clearer recognition.
âSocial?â
âYeah.â
âFor Philly.â
You gave him a look. âI feel like the logoâs doing a lot of the heavy lifting there.â
He smiled again, slower this time. âJust making sure.â
âWell, yes. Flyers social.â
That seemed to amuse him for reasons you couldnât entirely read. Maybe just the situation. Maybe the irony of running into the opposing teamâs social media admin while she was lost in his hallway. Fair enough, honestly.
âYouâre the one always doing those pregame questions?â he asked.
That caught you off guard enough that your brows lifted. âYouâve seen those?â
Now it was his turn to look faintly caught.
âSome of them,â he said.
You stared at him for a beat. âThat feels a little traitorous, actually.â
The back-and-forth was coming easier now, helped by the fact that he seemed perfectly willing to keep it going. There was something surreal about it, enough that a small part of you felt like youâd blacked out and wandered into a fanfiction prompt written by a particularly unhinged version of yourself. But mostly, standing there in the hallway, you just felt alert in that bright, sharpened way that happened when someone unexpected met you at your own level.
You shifted the phone in your hand. âWell, for the record, Iâm only here in a deeply professional capacity. Any alleged admiration for your teamâs facilities is false.â
âOur facilities?â
âDonât make it weird.â
âYouâre the one insulting the building.â
âBecause it deserves it.â
âIt doesnât.â
âIt absolutely does. This place has the directional logic of an escape room.â
He chuckled under his breath, then nodded down the hall. âYou need to go left at the next corner, then through the double doors. Visitorsâ side is back there.â
You looked where he indicated, trying to map it mentally. âLeft. Double doors. And if I somehow end up in, like, the Zamboni garage?â
âThen you took more than one wrong turn.â
âThatâs not helpful.â
âItâs accurate.â
You huffed a laugh.
There was a beat after thatâsmall, not awkward exactly, but noticeable. The sort of pause where either one of you could have ended the conversation cleanly and moved on. You probably should have. You had a charger to find, a phone on its deathbed, a job to do, and just enough self-awareness to know lingering in a hallway with Sidney Crosby while wearing Flyers gear was maybe not the most professionally neutral thing in the world.
Instead, because apparently your survival instinct had left the building long before your sense of direction, you said, âSo what exactly does your research on Flyers social involve?â
His eyes flicked back to yours, amusement returning instantly. âLooking for weaknesses.â
âThrough rapid-fire snack preference videos?â
âYouâd be surprised what people reveal.â
âThatâs a terrifying thing to say.â
âItâs true.â
âYou sound like a spy.â
âMaybe I am.â
You angled your head. âThat would honestly explain a lot.â
âLike what?â
âThe mystery. The overly calm energy. The fact that half the hockey world talks about you like you materialize out of fog whenever Team Canada needs saving.â
That one made him laugh properly, shoulders shifting with it, and the sound of it cracked something lighter through the whole strange situation.
âOut of fog?â he repeated.
âYou heard me.â
âThatâs dramatic.â
âI work in media. Itâs an occupational risk.â
He glanced down at your credential again, then back at your face. âSo are you actually a Flyers fan, or are you just paid to be one?â
It was a good question. Better than most people realized, actually. Working for a team changed the shape of fandom. You couldnât engage with it the same way anymoreânot fully, not without blurring lines you needed to keep clean. But there was still pride there. Investment. Protection, maybe. The sort of loyalty that came less from childhood posters and more from proximity, from labor, from knowing the people behind the logo.
You smiled a little. âI work for them. That kind of answers itself.â
âThatâs not exactly what I asked.â
You narrowed your eyes at him. âAre you trying to get me to defect in the hallway?â
âDepends how convincing you are.â
He nodded like he was considering it. âFair.â
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, mostly to do something with your hands. âFor the record, Iâm not saying anything nice about the Penguins.â
âYou already blamed the building. I think I can live with that.â
âGood.â
Another beat.
It was ridiculous, the ease of it. Not because he was Sidney Crosby, though that part of it remained surreal enough to sit in the back of your skull like a blinking sign. More because the conversation itself felt natural. Quick. Dry. That clean little verbal tennis match where each return came easy. You hadnât expected that. If youâd expected anything at all, it wouldâve been polite distance. A nod, maybe. Directions. End scene.
Not this.
Your phone buzzed again and this time the screen dimmed so aggressively that you sighed aloud.
âOkay, wow,â you said to it. âYouâre being a diva.â
He looked at the screen. âYou should probably rescue that.â
âI know.â
âYou need the charger that badly?â
âItâs the social phone. So yes. If this thing dies, I basically lose the ability to post half my day in real time, and then my boss starts using phrases like âworkflow disruptionâ and I have to pretend not to find that threatening.â
He smiled. âSounds serious.â
âIt is serious. This tiny rectangle owns my life.â
âBrutal.â
âThe worst part is I probably packed the charger in the dumbest possible pocket and now I have to dig through three bags like Iâm on some kind of scavenger hunt.â
âI can walk you back.â
The offer was simple, easy, like it hadnât occurred to him it might land with the weight it did.
You blinked. âYou absolutely do not need to do that.â
He shrugged. âIâm going that way.â
âYou are not.â
âEventually.â
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. âThatâs not a real argument.â
âItâs enough of one.â
âIt really isnât.â
He tipped his head, patient in a way that somehow made the whole thing worse. âYou said it yourself. Maze.â
You looked down the hall, then back at him, suspicious mostly because accepting help from Sidney Crosby in the middle of a rivalry-game morning felt like exactly the sort of thing that would one day sound fake when retold.
And yet.
Your phone was at six percent.
You were absolutely capable of getting lost again.
And he was already turning slightly, as if this had been decided.
âFine,â you said. âBut if I end up on Penguins propaganda by accident, Iâm blaming you.â
âI think we can avoid that.â
âThat sounds like something propaganda would say.â
He gave you a dry look and started walking, and because apparently this was your life now, you fell into step beside him.
The hallway felt even more surreal in motion. Your sneakers on concrete. His stride easy, unhurried beside you. The two of you passing arena doors and equipment cases and bits of signage while your brain screamed intermittently about the sheer absurdity of the moment.
You kept your face composed anyway.
Professional. More or less.
âSo,â he said after a few steps, âwhat kind of stuff are you getting today?â
You glanced at him. âFor socials?â
He nodded.
âMostly morning skate atmosphere. A couple funny clips if I can get them. Road-routine stuff. Probably some game-day content later. Depends what the guys give me.â
âWhat they give you?â
âYeah.â You lifted one shoulder. âSome days theyâre chatty. Some days they look at the camera like Iâve ruined their lives.â
âThat sounds familiar.â
âYou get that too?â
He gave you a look. âMediaâs media.â
âFair.â
You passed a staff entrance, turned left at a junction you definitely would have missed on your own, and continued down a corridor lined with framed photos from various eras of Penguins history. You caught sight of one from early in his career and looked away before it seemed too obvious youâd noticed.
âYouâre pretty good at it,â he said after a second.
You looked back at him. âAt getting lost?â
âAt the content.â
That stopped you for half a step.
The compliment was delivered easily, casually, but not thoughtlessly. There was no joking edge to it this time. Just straightforward observation.
You recovered quickly enough, but still. âThanks.â
He shrugged. âYou get guys to answer stuff without making it look forced.â
âThat is maybe the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said about my work.â
âItâs true.â
A weird warmth spread through your chest, deeply inconvenient and entirely out of proportion to the situation. You swallowed it down.
âWell,â you said, aiming for lighter, âI appreciate the cross-divisional validation.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â
That pulled another smile from him.
By the time he led you through the double doors and into a more familiar stretch of visiting-side hallway, relief washed through you so fast it was almost embarrassing.
âOh, thank God,â you said. âI know where I am.â
âSo youâre safe now.â
âDebatable, but closer.â
He slowed to a stop near the point where your routes would obviously split, one way toward the visitorsâ room and another back toward whatever part of the building heâd actually meant to be in before your near-collision rerouted his morning.
You looked at the door, then back at him.
âWell,â you said, tightening your grip on the dying phone, âthanks. For the directions. And the catching.â
âNo problem.â
âIâm serious. That couldâve been deeply humiliating.â
âI think you wouldâve recovered.â
âThatâs generous.â
He seemed like he might say something else, then only nodded once. âGood luck today.â
The words were simple enough. Generic, almost. Something anyone might say.
Still, the way he said them landed a little differently.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. âYou too. I meanââ You caught yourself and narrowed your eyes. âNot, like, too much luck.â
His expression shifted instantly. âThere it is.â
âThere what is?â
âThe Flyers fan.â
You lifted your chin. âObviously.â
He laughed softly. âRight.â
âRight.â
For half a second neither of you moved. Then your phone screen went black. You stared at it in horror. Pressed the side button. Nothing.
âOh, you have got to be kidding me.â
He looked at the dead screen and then at your face, openly amused now. âThat seems bad.â
âIt is bad.â
âYou should probably find that charger.â
You pointed at him with the dead phone. âThis is partially your fault.â
âHow?â
âYou distracted me.â
His brows lifted. âI gave you directions.â
âYou also participated in banter.â
âThat sounds voluntary on your end.â
You opened your mouth, then closed it again because annoyingly, he was right.
âThatâs not the point,â you said.
âIt kind of is.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âIâm not the one who got lost.â
You laughed despite yourself, full and helpless and a little disbelieving, because reallyâwhat else were you supposed to do with this? With him? With the fact that ten minutes ago youâd been cursing a hallway and now you were standing there trying not to smile too obviously at Sidney Crosby while your work phone lay dead in your hand like a tiny casualty of circumstance.
âOkay,â you said, backing a step toward the visitorsâ room. âI have to go save my career.â
âThat seems wise.â
âAnd just so weâre clear,â you added, âif the Flyers win tonight, Iâm blaming this whole interaction for throwing off your routine.â
His smile sharpened at the edges. âThat how that works?â
âYes.â
âConvenient.â
âI believe in accountability.â
He nodded once, like he was accepting the terms of a deal. âThen if we win, Iâm blaming the building for confusing you.â
You pointed at him again. âSee? You do admit the buildingâs confusing.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âIt basically is.â
âIt really isnât.â
You were already grinning when you turned away.
âBye,â you called over your shoulder.
âSee you.â
The words followed you down the short stretch toward the visitorsâ room, and the stupidest, warmest little thrill went through you at the sound of them.
Absolutely not, you told yourself.
Nope.
Hard no.
You pushed through the door and immediately got hit by the familiar bustle of your own teamâs space againâstaff talking, gear shifting, someone asking where an extra roll of tape had gone, another player halfway through changing out of practice gear. The normalcy of it was almost jarring after the surreal quiet of the hallway.
Sam looked up from near the equipment table. âThere you are. Did you find it?â
You held up the dead phone. âTechnically no.â
He frowned. âWhat happened?â
âI got lost.â
âFor that long?â
âI was very committed to getting lost.â
He stared at you for a second. âAre you okay?â
âYep.â
â
By the time game time rolled around, the whole arena felt alive in a way that had almost nothing to do with sound alone.
It was in the air first.
In the tightness of it.
The current running under every hallway and stairwell and concrete corridor. The way even regular movement seemed sharper somehow. Faster. More deliberate. Rivalry games always had a different kind of charge to them, but the Battle of Pennsylvania carried its own particular electricity. It was old, deeply felt, and impossible to fake. Orange and black scattered like sparks through pockets of the crowd, drowned out but never erased by the black and gold surrounding them. Every Flyers jersey in the lower bowl looked defiant just by existing. Every Penguins fan seemed half a second away from either starting a chant or a fight.
From your spot near the glass, camera in hand and credential swinging lightly against your jacket, you could feel all of it pressing in from every angle. This was why sports content hit differently on rivalry nights.
Even through a screen, people could sense it. The tension. The noise. The immediacy. The way every check landed harder in the building than it ever could in a replay clip. The way a routine save drew a reaction that felt almost disproportionate, because in games like this nothing was routine, not really. Every shift meant a little more. Every goal meant a lot more.
You were already working before warmups had even properly settled in.
Quick vertical clips of the Flyers coming onto the ice. A pan of the crowd as boos rained down at the first hint of orange and black. A close-up of skates carving through fresh shavings near the boards. The way the lights caught helmets, visors, breath. You kept moving, adjusting angles, crouching lower by the glass to get cleaner shots, then rising again to catch a wider sweep of the rink.
Your replacement social phoneâfreshly resurrected after the morning disasterâwas finally fully charged and clipped to your side with a portable battery attached like a life support system. You were not taking chances today.
A few rows up, the fans were already loud enough to rattle the glass every time a Flyer drifted too close. Someone behind you yelled, âCrosby sucks,â with enough passion that you almost admired the commitment. Another voice shouted back something about the Flyers that you definitely werenât repeating in a work environment.
You stayed focused on the ice.
That was easier during warmups.
Warmups had structure. Purpose. Players moved through familiar arcs and patterns, taking shots, stretching, joking lightly when they could. It gave you something to work with. Game time itself was harder because you were always balancing. Capture enough to feel present without becoming a distraction. Keep your angles clean. Stay aware of pucks, players, officials, staff, and the hundred small variables that could turn one second of inattention into a disaster.
Still, your mind kept drifting.
Not too far.
Not dangerously.
Just enough that when the Penguins took the ice and the crowd volume swelled again, your eyes found Sidney without meaning to.
It happened instantly and involuntarily, like your brain had marked him as a point of recognition now whether you liked it or not. He glided through warmups with that same contained energy he always seemed to carry, not showy, not overstated, but impossible not to notice once you were looking. He exchanged a few words with a teammate near the blue line, then turned toward center and joined a passing drill, movements crisp and economical in a way that somehow made everything else on the ice look slightly louder by comparison.
You should not have been aware of him this much.
It was deeply inconvenient.
The worse part was that you couldnât even fully blame yourself, because he had, in fact, walked you back from getting lost that morning, and then somehow managed to be funny and disarming and entirely too easy to talk to in the process. Since then, every time you remembered the conversation, some embarrassing little warmth lit under your ribs all over again.
Unhelpful.
Wildly unhelpful.
You crouched lower at the glass and focused your lens on the Flyers instead. That was your team.
Your job.
Your side of the content feed, literally and metaphorically, everything else was noise and for a while, once the game actually started, it was easy to let the action take over.
The first period was chaos in exactly the way good rivalry hockey should be. Fast, ugly, sharp-edged, loud. Every hit got a rise. Every whistle got opinions. The crowd swelled and dipped like a living thing, and the benches looked keyed up enough that even line changes carried a little extra bite. You bounced between camera angles and social clips, filming where you could from your designated space near the glass, catching quick reaction shots after scrums, the Flyers bench leaning forward after a near chance, the raw rhythm of the game in fragments.
You didnât have time to think too much.
That was good.
The Flyers struck first midway through the opening period, and the tiny islands of orange in the arena erupted like someone had set off flares. You caught the celebration from the far side as cleanly as you could, then whipped toward the bench to get the players slamming gloves and yelling. Your phone buzzed immediately with internal messagesâclip that, send that, story that now, great angle, need replay if you have it. Normal game-day chaos. You moved with it, fingers flying, adrenaline already steady in your bloodstream.
Pittsburgh answered before the end of the first.
Of course they did.
The building detonated around you, black and gold suddenly in motion everywhere at once, and you instinctively kept filming even as the noise punched through your chest. That was your job too. Not cheering. Not reacting. Capturing. Documenting. It didnât matter that it was the wrong celebration for your feed. You still needed the atmosphere. The scale. The emotional contrast. Rivalry content only worked if it felt real.
By intermission, your notes app looked like a battlefield.
Post later: crowd shots
Use bench reaction after Flyers goal
Need moody b-roll from end boards
Possible caption: hostile environment etc etc
Olivia leaned over your shoulder while you were sending a few quick selects to Mason. âYou look like youâre fighting for your life.â
âI am.â
âGreat. That means itâs going well.â
You shot her a flat look. âI hate the way you phrase things.â
She smiled. âYou love it.â
The second period somehow came out even hotter than the first.
That happened sometimes in rivalry games. Everyone spent the opening frame pretending it was still just hockey, and then by the second the game remembered what it actually was. Checks got heavier. Whistles got meaner. Every net-front battle turned into a negotiation with violence hovering just beneath the surface.
You moved lower along the glass during a stoppage, re-centering yourself for a better angle on the Penguinsâ zone if the play came your way. The arena was so loud now that individual sounds were harder to isolate. Everything blendedâmusic, chanting, glass rattling, skates cutting, the raw roar that rose every time the puck got near either crease.
The score was tied 2â2 when it happened.
The Penguins broke through neutral ice fast off a turnover, the kind of sudden transition that made everyone around you rise half out of their seats before the play had even fully formed. You were already tracking the rush with your camera, instinct taking over. Pass up the wing. Quick give-and-go. A lane opening just long enough to matter.
Sidney took the return feed near the circle and snapped the puck past the goalie before anyone in orange could close the gap.
The goal light flashed.
The building exploded.
Your camera kept rolling.
He curved away from the net in celebration as the arena came apart, teammates converging, gloves lifting, the glass around you vibrating beneath the force of thousands of people losing their minds all at once. You got the shotâclean enough, steady enough, electric in that live-wire way only raw game footage ever was. He peeled past your side of the ice during the celebration route, close enough to the boards that for one disorienting second it felt less like watching and more like being caught in the same current.
And then he turned his head slightly.
Toward you.
Just enough.
His mouthguard shifted at the edge of a grin, and over the roarâfaint but clear enough that you knew you hadnât imagined itâhe threw out, âYou get that for social media?â
You stared. It was absurd. Ridiculous. So specific you nearly laughed on instinct.
But before you could even process the fact that Sidney Crosby had just chirpedâor maybe teased, or maybe whatever the hell that had beenâyour social media job in the middle of a live rivalry game, two Flyers on the ice clearly noticed.
One of them snapped his head in Sidneyâs direction immediately. The other skated over with the kind of offended energy that suggested whatever he thought heâd seen or heard, he had interpreted it in the most aggressively loyal way possible.
âOh my God,â you muttered under your breath.
The next shift was ugly.
Not out-of-control ugly, not yet, but the tone had changed. The Flyers were already physical when they got angry; now there was something personal layered into it. A harder finish on checks. More shoving after whistles. One of the defensemen jawing visibly every time he passed the Penguinsâ captain near the boards. You didnât need to hear it to guess the general message.
Your stomach sank.
No.
No, absolutely not.
There was no way they thoughtâBut then during the next stoppage, one of the Flyers skated near enough to the glass to throw you a quick, heated look that all but confirmed it.
Message received.
They thought Sidney had chirped you. Not in the ordinary rivalry sense, either. Not generic nonsense. Specifically you. Their social media admin. One of theirs.
Your grip tightened on the camera. âGuys,â you muttered uselessly to the glass. âNo. That is not what happened.â
The glass, shockingly, did not respond.
The period went on, and with every shift your discomfort grew teeth.
Because now you were trapped in the worst possible positionâaware of something maybe no one else had caught correctly, unable to do anything about it, and watching the consequences play out in real time on the ice while thousands of people screamed around you. Every heavy hit involving Sidney made your pulse tick up. Every scrum near the boards made your shoulders tense. Once, during a commercial timeout, two Flyers near the bench said something to each other and then glanced your way, and the guilt hit so hard and fast it made your throat feel tight.
This is stupid, you told yourself.
You did not cause this.
These are professional hockey players in a rivalry game. They do not need a personal excuse to go after each other.
And logically, you knew that was true.
Emotionally, though, every time one of your guys took a run at him after that hallway memory of his laugh and his easy, âGood luck today,â your chest squeezed in a way that felt awful.
Late in the second, it got worse.
The puck got rimmed deep into the Penguinsâ zone, and Sidney went back to play it near the boards on your side. One of the Flyers forwardsâthe same one who had looked ready to commit emotional arson on your behalf earlierâcame charging in on the forecheck.
You saw it before it happened. That was the horrible part. The angle. The speed. The line of contact. Enough time to know it was going to be hard and absolutely no time to stop it.
The hit slammed Sidney into the boards with a crack that echoed even through the arena noise. The crowd sound warped instantlyâpart outrage, part excitement, part that sick jolt every building gets when something tips from aggressive to dangerous. Players converged at once. Gloves in faces. Officials rushing in. The Flyers bench up and yelling. The Penguins bench exploding right back.
And SidneyâSidney stayed down for one beat too long.
Then two.
Your breath caught.
He pushed up eventually, but not cleanly. One hand braced awkwardly against the boards, the other tucked in too close to his body, and even from where you stood you could see it in the line of him immediatelyâsomething was wrong. Not dramatic enough to collapse the whole game, but wrong enough that your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
The officials were still sorting bodies when he turned, escorted by staff toward the tunnel.
And as he passed your side of the glass, he looked at you.
Not for long.
Just a second.
But long enough for it to register. Long enough that the guilt already clawing through you sharpened into something meaner.
Then he went down the tunnel.
You forgot to breathe again.
The Flyers bench was still loud behind you, players leaning over the boards in the aftermath, adrenaline high and tempers higher. You shifted automatically toward them to grab some post-sequence atmosphere because that was still your job, but before you even lifted the phone properly, you heard one of them say, âServes him right for chirping our social media admin.â
Another voice answered, âYeah, keep her name outta your mouth.â
Your whole body went cold.
For half a second the arena seemed to tilt. They really had thought that.
Not abstractly. Not as a joke.
Actually thought Sidney had been taking a shot at you and now he was hurt. Your skin flushed hot and cold all at once, shame and panic tangling so tightly you almost couldnât separate them. You lowered the camera immediately, the sounds of the game around you suddenly muffled and wrong.
It wasnât your fault.
You knew that.
You knew that in the rational, objective, adult way.
But it felt like your fault anyway.
If you hadnât talked to him that morning. If he hadnât skated by. If he hadnât said anything. If the players hadnât seen. If, if, ifâ
âHey,â Olivia said, appearing at your side with a hand lightly against your elbow. âYou okay?â
You swallowed hard and nodded too fast. âYeah.â
She looked unconvinced. âYou look pale.â
âIâm fine.â
That was a lie so obvious it barely qualified as language.
The rest of the second period passed in a blur you only half inhabited. You still filmed when you had to. Still moved when needed. Still sent off a couple clips because muscle memory and duty overrode whatever was happening in your head. But inside, all you could think about was the tunnel. The line of his shoulders as heâd left. The look heâd given you. The bench comments. The sinking, impossible feeling that somehow a stupid, playful line about social media had turned into a body check hard enough to send him out of the game.
By the time the horn sounded to end the period, your nerves were shredded.
The Flyers headed off in a cluster of agitation and momentum, still talking, still keyed up. The Penguins disappeared more quickly on the other side. Staff moved. Arena music crashed in over the break. Fans surged toward concourses. The usual intermission chaos.
You stood still for maybe three seconds, then made a decision. It was probably a terrible decision. Possibly insane, and definitely not in your job description.
But once it landed in your brain, it became impossible to ignore.
You turned to Olivia. âI need, like, five minutes.â
She stared. âFor what?â
âI just need five.â
âThat is not an answer.â
âI know.â
She studied your face once, saw enough there to stop pushing, and only said, âBe smart.â
You gave her a look that probably did not inspire confidence and hurried off anyway.
The back hallways were even busier during intermission, but you moved through them on pure nervous momentum. You ducked into a quieter side corridor first and looked around until you spotted a discarded Penguins warmup jacket hanging on a rolling rack near a laundry cartâprobably left by some support staff in the rush of the period break. You hesitated for exactly one second.
Then grabbed it. âThis is insane,â you whispered to yourself as you shoved your arms into it over your own clothes.
The black and gold swallowed your Flyers gear just enough to pass at a glance, especially with your credential flipped inward against your chest. It wasnât perfect. It wasnât remotely official. But it was better than walking toward the Penguinsâ medical area in orange and black like some kind of cartoon villain.
You moved fast before you could talk yourself out of it.
The training and medical area outside the home room was guarded loosely by staff who were too busy and too accustomed to people moving in and out during intermission to scrutinize every face with equal intensity. You kept your head down, your pace purposeful, and clutched the phone and small camera to your chest like you belonged there for work.
One of the staffers near the door glanced at you. âNeed something?â
Your mouth went dry.
Think.
âI was asked to check if mediaâs getting any update,â you said, pitching your voice into that bland, competent tone that made people ask fewer questions. âJust for internal.â
He looked tired enough not to care. âTrainerâs with him. Make it quick.â
Relief hit so hard you nearly swayed.
âYep. Quick.â
You slipped inside before anyone could reconsider.
The room beyond was quieter than the arena, quieter than intermission, quieter than your heartbeat deserved. Not silentâthere were low voices, a cabinet door closing somewhere, the rustle of medical tapeâbut contained in a way that felt almost intimate after the violence of the game outside.
You spotted him near the far side, seated on the edge of a training table while one of the medical staff finished checking something at his shoulder. No pads now. No gloves. Just black baselayer gear half peeled down and a towel draped nearby. He looked up at the movement of the door opening.
And saw you.
For one impossible second, neither of you said anything.
Then the trainer stepped back. âTry not to move it too much. Weâll re-check between periods if youâre staying out.â
He nodded once. âYeah.â
The trainer turned, noticed you lingering, and frowned faintly. âYou needed something?â
Your courage nearly failed on the spot.
But Sidney answered before you could.
âSheâs with me.â
You blinked.
The trainer, apparently deciding that was enough explanation for now, gave a distracted nod and moved off toward a supply cabinet.
That left you standing there in a stolen Penguins jacket, looking at the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins like you had not lost your mind but had in fact come here for a totally normal reason.
He glanced once at the jacket, then back at your face.
A smile touched the corner of his mouth despite the situation.
âWell,â he said. âThatâs a look.â
Your throat tightened with something painfully close to embarrassment and relief all at once. âI panicked.â
âI can see that.â
âI didnât want anyone to stop me.â
âSo you stole a jacket?â
âI borrowed a jacket.â
âThatâs generous.â
You took two steps closer, then stopped, suddenly aware of how absurd and vulnerable and real this all was. Up close, he looked a little paler than before, jaw tighter around the edges. Not wrecked. Not catastrophic. But sore. Pulled somewhere between adrenaline and pain. Your guilt surged all over again.
âIâm sorry,â you said immediately.
His brows knit. âFor what?â
âForââ You broke off and gestured helplessly. âFor all of this. They thought you were chirping me. I heard them on the bench. They thought you were being a dick to the social media admin and now youâre hurt and I know itâs not exactly rational but it feels like this is somehow my fault and I justâIâm sorry.â
The whole thing came out too fast, tangled and breathless and humiliatingly sincere.
He stared at you for a second.
Then, very gently, âHey.â
You stopped.
âItâs not your fault.â
âButââ
âItâs not,â he repeated, firmer now.
You looked at him, trying to argue, and found absolutely no room in his expression for the idea.
âThey didnât hit me because of you,â he said. âItâs a rivalry game. Guys get worked up. Stuff happens.â
âThey literally saidââ
âI know what youâre saying.â His voice softened again. âStill not your fault.â
You let out a shaky breath, folding your arms like you could hold the anxiety in place physically. âI feel insane.â
âYou look a little insane.â
That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
He smiled, quieter this time. âThere you go.â
You shook your head. âYouâre injured and youâre still making fun of me.â
âIâm not making fun of you.â
âYou are a little.â
âMaybe a little.â
Your eyes dropped involuntarily to the shoulder heâd been favoring. âHow bad is it?â
âNot too bad.â
âThat sounds suspicious.â
âItâs hockey.â
âThat is somehow even more suspicious.â
He gave a small shrug with the uninjured side. âBanged up.â
You pressed your lips together. âIâm still sorry.â
He leaned back slightly against the table, studying you with that same steady, unreadable-open look heâd had in the hallway. âYou really came back here just to apologize?â
When he said it like that, it sounded far more unhinged than it had in your own head.
You glanced down at the black and gold jacket around your shoulders and winced. âIn my defense, I did realize halfway here that this was a terrible idea.â
âAnd you kept going.â
âObviously.â
âWhy?â
Because I felt awful. Because you looked at me when you left. Because this stupid little thing between us stopped feeling little about ten minutes after you caught me in the hallway.
You did not say any of that.
Instead, you said, âBecause I wanted to make sure you knew that wasnât what happened. This morning. At the glass. Any of it.â
Something shifted in his face thenâsmall, but unmistakable. A warmth maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the confirmation of something heâd already suspected.
âI knew,â he said.
âYou did?â
âYeah.â
âHow?â
He looked faintly amused by the question. âYou donât exactly seem subtle when youâre panicking.â
You stared at him. âThatâs rude.â
âItâs observant.â
âThat is the same thing said by a meaner person.â
He laughed softly, then tipped his head toward your borrowed disguise. âStill, I gotta sayâŚâ
You narrowed your eyes preemptively. âWhat?â
âI like you in black and gold.â
Your breath caught so stupidly hard that you were grateful no one else in the room was close enough to hear it.
He had said it lightly.
Maybe even teasingly.
But not empty. Not casual in the way casual comments usually were. There was something in his expression when he said it that made the whole line land low and warm and dangerous.
You recovered just enough to say, âThatâs actually a deeply offensive thing to say to someone in Flyers employment.â
His mouth curved. âAnd yet.â
âAnd yet nothing.â
âThe jacket looks good.â
You folded your arms tighter, painfully aware of the heat in your face. âI am literally stealing from your organization.â
âBorrowing.â
âDonât use my words against me.â
âI think I will.â
You laughed again, quieter this time, the tension finally starting to leak out of your shoulders in pieces. The room still felt strange and hidden and too close somehow, like time had narrowed just around the two of you while the rest of the game continued somewhere else entirely.
Outside, the period break would be ticking down. You knew that. You should probably go. Should probably hand back the jacket, slip out, get your head back in the game, pretend none of this had happened until you had the privacy of your hotel room to lose your mind properly.
Instead you stayed.
And he let you.
âYou really watch the Flyersâ socials?â you asked after a moment.
He looked unbothered by being caught on that again. âSome.â
âWhy?â
âI told you. Research.â
âThat answer gets less convincing every time.â
He smiled but didnât argue.
You shifted your weight. âSo what, you score and decide to chirp me personally from the ice?â
âI wasnât chirping you.â
âYou absolutely were.â
âI was asking a legitimate media question.â
You stared. âA legitimate media question.â
âYeah.â
âYou want me to believe that in the middle of scoring a goal in a rivalry game, you were concerned with my content strategy?â
He looked you dead in the eye. âMaybe.â
You laughed helplessly. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âSays the one who broke into the medical room in disguise.â
âOkay, first of all, that is a wildly dramatic way to describe what happened.â
âYou stole a jacket.â
âBorrowed.â
âAnd came back here during intermission.â
âWhen you say it like that, it sounds weird.â
âIt is weird.â
You exhaled through a smile, then shook your head at yourself. âI cannot believe Iâm in here.â
âI can.â
âWhy?â
He looked at you for one steady beat too long.
âBecause you wanted to see me.â
The words landed softly. Not smug. Not joking. Just clear.
And because there was no easy way around that kind of honesty, all you could do for a second was look back at him and feel your pulse leap right into your throat.
âMaybe,â you said, which was not a denial at all.
His expression warmed into something that made the whole room feel smaller.
âMaybe?â he repeated.
You lifted one shoulder. âYou did save me from eating it in the hallway.â
âSo this is gratitude.â
âPartially.â
âOnly partially?â
âDonât push it.â
He smiled again, then glanced toward the closed doorway before looking back at you. âYou know, most people wait longer than a day before sneaking into the back hallways to flirt.â
You blinked. âI was not sneaking in here to flirt.â
His brows lifted.
You held his gaze for a second and then sighed. âOkay, maybe a little.â
âThatâs honest.â
âThatâs humiliating.â
âNot really.â
âIt is from where Iâm standing.â
âFrom where Iâm standing,â he said, voice lower now, âIâm glad you came back.â
The warmth that moved through you then was so immediate it was almost dizzying.
You looked down, just for a second, collecting yourself. When you looked back up, he was still watching you with that maddeningly calm focus, like none of this felt strange to him at all. Or maybe it did feel strange and he just wasnât running from it.
Either way, it made it very hard to think.
âYou should probably be focusing on not being injured,â you said weakly.
âI can do both.â
âThat sounds arrogant.â
âItâs efficient.â
You laughed under your breath. âThat was my line.â
âI know.â
Of course he knew.
You were in trouble.
The realization arrived fully formed and weirdly peaceful. Not dramatic, not catastrophic. Just true. Whatever this was, whatever had sparked in one hallway and somehow carried itself all the way here, it was real enough that neither of you was pretending otherwise now.
A noise outside the room shiftedâfootsteps, a voice, the beginning of movement that meant intermission was thinning. Reality, returning.
You straightened slightly. âI should go.â
âProbably.â
Neither of you moved right away.
Then he tipped his head toward the jacket again. âYou can keep that, you know.â
You looked down at it. âAbsolutely not. I think this is already ethically murky.â
âItâd suit you.â
âThere you go again.â
âIâm just saying.â
You slid one arm out of the sleeve. âYou are impossible.â
He watched you shrug off the jacket, amusement still sitting easy at the edge of his mouth. When you stepped forward to hand it back, he took it with his good arm, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they needed to.
It was such a small thing.
It still sent a spark straight up your spine.
You cleared your throat. âWell. Glad youâre okay.â
âIâm okay.â
âAnd for the recordââyou tilted your head, fighting a smileââI still hate your arena.â
He laughed softly. âI figured.â
You started to step back.
Then he said, âWait.â
You stopped.
His expression changed, just enough to tell you this next part mattered.
âWhen this tripâs over,â he said, âlet me take you out.â
Your heart kicked hard.
The room went very still around the words.
Not as a joke. Not hidden in banter. Not softened into something you could politely dodge if you wanted to. Just there. Honest and direct and impossible to misunderstand.
You stared at him for maybe a second too long.
âA real date?â you asked, because apparently your brain had decided clarification was the best it could do under pressure.
His smile came back, slower this time. âYeah. A real date.â
âWith a Flyers employee.â
âWith a Flyers employee.â
âThat seems dangerous for your reputation.â
âI think I can handle it.â
You felt your own smile break loose before you could stop it, bright and helpless and probably giving away far too much.
âOkay,â you said.
His eyes stayed on yours.
âOkay?â he repeated.
âYes,â you said, laughing lightly now because the happiness of it was suddenly too big to hold quietly. âYes. Iâll go out with you.â
Something in his face softened then in a way you knew you would remember later. After the game. After the trip. After all of this. The kind of look that settled into memory before the moment had even ended.
âGood,â he said.
âGood?â
âGood.â
You shook your head, still smiling. âVery smooth.â
âIâm injured. Give me some credit.â
âYou know what, fair.â
A voice called from outside the room, something about timing, something about updates. The spell of the moment loosened just enough to let the rest of the world back in.
You took one more step backward toward the door.
âI should really go now,â you said.
He nodded once. âIâll text you.â
You blinked. âYou donât have my number.â
His mouth curved. âIâll get it.â
âVery confident.â
âUsually works out.â
You laughed under your breath and reached for the door. âBye, Crosby.â
âBye.â
You slipped back into the hallway with your pulse still racing and your face warm and your whole body humming with the kind of adrenaline that had absolutely nothing to do with hockey anymore.
The sounds of intermission flooded back in all at onceâstaff voices, skate blades clicking somewhere nearby, the deeper thud of arena life resetting for the third period. You leaned briefly against the wall just outside the door and covered your face with one hand.
This was insane.
Actually insane.
You had started the day filming rivalry content at the glass and ended the second period accepting a date from Sidney Crosby in the Penguinsâ medical area while disguised in stolen team gear.
No one on earth could know.
No one.
You pushed off the wall, fixed your credential, and headed back toward your side before anyone started asking where youâd gone. By the time you reappeared near the Flyers media lane, Olivia took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes.
âWhat happened?â
You forced your expression into something that you hoped read as normal and not like your entire internal life had just been rearranged. âNothing.â
âThat is the least believable thing youâve ever said.â
âPlease,â you said, lifting your camera back into position as the teams prepared to return, âout of respect for our friendship, donât ask me anything right now.â
Her stare sharpened with immediate interest. âOh my God.â
You looked determinedly toward the ice. âOlivia.â
She made a tiny, delighted noise of horror. âOh my God.â
The third period was about to begin, the arena roaring back to life, the rivalry still burning hot all around you.
And somehow, against all reason and all timing and all professional logic, all you could think as you lifted your camera toward the ice again was this:
Later.
After the game.
There was a real date waiting for you on the other side of all this.
And for the first time all night, the electric feeling in the building no longer belonged only to the rivalry.
Afraid to Feel (Sex Therapist!Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
A/N: Virgin Island is actually good for inspiration whaaaaaâŚ
(Goes without saying but pls do not take any sex therapy/intimacy counselling advice from this. All my knowledge is from Virgin Island and even then itâs probably all unethical so just⌠yeah. Also, I googled it, and usually surrogate partner therapy requires three people but weâre going to pretend that itâs ok that the therapist IS the surrogate partnerâŚ)Â
Summary: After your therapist recommends that you seek intimacy counselling, you find yourself in Baelorâs office, pouring your heart out about your fears and inexperience. Youâve just started dating someone new and you want to be comfortable getting intimate. Baelor is committed to getting you comfortable experiencing intimacy, even as the lines begin to blurâŚÂ
Word count: 22.1k (ummm⌠sorry)Â
Tags: 18+/MDNI, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (of legal age), virgin!reader, very inexperienced!reader, probably unethical practices, discussions on fear of intimacy, personal insecurity (particularly around body image and oneâs self perception - while it is not specified that it is a curvy/chubby/plus-size reader, there is mentions of worry of being too heavy), discussion of mental health (i.e. having bad mental health but no details), SMUT: oral (f!receiving), fingering, PinV sex, kind of cheating in a way (reader has a boyfriend but is getting down with Baelor in the name of therapy), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any)Â
Disclaimer: I do not own any âA Knight of the Seven Kingdomsâ characters. I do not claim to own any of the âA Knight of the Seven Kingdomsâ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.Â
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
The waiting room was⌠normal. You werenât sure what you had been expecting. Of course it was normal. Why would this office be any different to the other waiting rooms and offices you had been in? Just because it was a⌠yeah, ok. You still couldnât quite admit it, couldnât quite get yourself to say it, to even believe that you were doing this. How had you been convinced into doing this? No, no, this was a good thing, Vivian had said so, and you trusted Vivian.Â
The chairs were soft and comfortable, which was the most surprising thing about the waiting room, you supposed. The lighting was low and comfortable, warm yellow lamps on the little corner tables. The receptionist had checked you in, but this space was after her desk so you felt quite alone. The walls were painted a dark colour, and the wood accents were all dark as well. You felt rather cozy now that you thought about it, snug and protected. There was something to be said about the dark actually being good for comfort and vulnerability.Â
You were dressed comfortably, soft trousers and a full sleeve top, trainers on, light jacket for the cooler weather (despite it being springtime), and your usual bag on your arm. You resisted the urge to keep checking your phone, to use it as your safety net as you usually did. You and Vivian had been working on that too, a sort of side bit of homework to help you become more comfortable being in your own skin, of being on your own.Â
There was art on the walls, and you turned your eyes to it. It was all beautiful, the kind of paintings you yourself enjoyed, a mix of impressionist and renaissance style, either blurred or hyperrealistic, glossy and shadowed in the lamplight. There was one of a dragon, black and sharp, tall and imposing, looking down at a singular man standing on a beach. It was stormy around them, and the man was a miniscule thing next to the beast. But there was a connection between them, something soft and unspoken, mutual respect perhaps, or even care. It was a rather simple picture on the face of it, but you fell in love with it at that moment.Â
There was only one door going off from the waiting room, and it had been shut since the moment you had arrived, but now it opened, a little swiftly, and a man stepped out just enough so that his feet were over the threshold but he was still holding onto the doorknob with one hand. In the other was a clipboard, held up a little so he could read from it, then he turned up to look at you and smiled gently.Â
âHello, Y/n, is it?â You nodded quickly, eyes a little wide, lips parted. âAm I pronouncing that right?â He asked kindly, frowning a little and mouthing it again.Â
âYes! Yes, perfectly, thank you,â you jumped in, nodding and clutching tightly onto your bag strap.Â
He paused for a moment, looked you over, then with that same soft smile he stepped back a little into the doorway and nudged his head into the room.Â
âWould you like to come in?â He asked, and you nodded quickly, eyes still a little wide as you jumped up and hurried into the room, like a little mouse scurrying around when the cat has finally found them.Â
You could not quite absorb what he looked like. It felt⌠too good. That was an odd thing to say. You shouldnât be describing an intimacy therapist like that⌠But it was also true.Â
He wore a dark turtleneck, black and rolled up at the sleeves to display strong tanned forearms. He had little freckles on the skin there, dark but fine hairs, and big hands, long fingers and veins. He had a beard, a little scruffy but well-looked after, and wavy hair that had gone grey and was now scattered with white. It was a bit messy too, rather like the beard. He seemed to run his hand through it in thought, ruining whatever combing he might have done in the morning, but you liked it that way. It made him more human. He had a soft set to his face when he smiled, deep lines creasing between his cheeks and his mouth, and he had one blue eye and one brown eye.Â
That was a little jarring at first, the stark difference, and you sort of wanted to compliment him on them, but he probably heard it a million times over, and you didnât have the confidence to say anything like that to him just yet. Perhaps after working with him for a while you might do, but not yet.Â
His office was similar to the waiting room in the sense that everything was dark in here as well. There was a desk in the back corner, with framed degrees and certificates and awards on the wall behind it. A cork noticeboard was on the adjacent wall, the one that the side of the desk touched, and it was pinned with lots of things, calendars and reminders and pictures and cards. The desk itself was fancy, dark wood and carved with designs, and the computer on it was all sleek lines and high-tech. There were papers and folders on the desk, pens and post-it notes, but it was all neatly organised and he even had picture frames facing toward him. That warmed your heart a little.Â
The main bit was right in front of you though, a black leather couch with end tables on either side facing an armchair with its own end tables. There were already pens and paper and notebooks on the end table by the armchair, and there were lamps on each of them too, low yellow light with coloured and patterned lampshades. There were cushions on the sofa which made you happy, something to grab, something to hide with. All of this on top of a dark rug that looked lovely and plush. The sofa faced a wall of windows, lovely and big but covered by blinds right now to keep the room all cool and dim.Â
He gestured you toward the sofa, waiting for you to sit down before taking his own seat, fiddling with his clipboard and all the pens and papers on the table beside him. As he did that, you took your bag off and put it to the side of the sofa, rocking back and forth a little in your seat, looking around, frankly anywhere but right at him. You felt far too awkward. You took one of the sofa cushions and brought it to sit on your lap, feeling a little more settled with it covering you, but then you felt rude for taking it without asking. Finally, he settled a little into his chair, slouching slightly and looking far more comfortable than you, and smiled directly in your direction.Â
âDid Marion have you sign all the paperwork when you came in?â He asked kindly, just getting the ball rolling, you supposed, and you nodded, pursing your lips a little. âJust to go over it again, I prefer being as transparent and open as possible, even if itâs a little tedious. Everything you say to me, whether that be in this room or over correspondence is private and completely confidential unless I perceive that you intend to cause real harm to yourself or another person. While I will not record anything, I do take notes during the session and of course there will be a record of any communication via phone, message, or email, but again, this is all protected under confidentiality. Is that alright?âÂ
He had no judgement on his face, just a serene look, this spiel practiced by now. You nodded again, and then felt stupid for not having said anything yet.Â
âYes, uh yes, of course, uh⌠Mr Martell? Is that what I call you? Sorry, thatâs a stupid question,â you wanted to hide your face in your hands, to physically shut your mouth by pinching it with your fingers, but you just clenched them in the cushion and darted your eyes away from his face, feeling hot all over from embarrassment. But he was smiling, nodding, twisting his pen around in his hands.Â
âYou can call me what you like. If you prefer Mr Martell, thatâs alright, and if youâd prefer Baelor, thatâs alright too,â his smile was far too kind, it made you more conscious somehow. You nodded and attempted a smile of your own, but you could bet it came out strained and stupid.Â
Baelor had been careful since the start of his career to use his motherâs last name. He did not need his familyâs reputation following him into this office, not in the career he had truly curated for himself. He had become used to being Mr Martell in one room, and Mr Targaryen in another.Â
You couldnât look at him for too long, it was too intimidating, which meant your eyes travelled a lot, especially to the covered windows behind him. He noticed, because of course he did, that was his job wasnât it, and turned to glance at them as well.Â
âWould you like me to open the curtains?â He asked kindly, half-twisted in his seat and looking back at you. You felt hot with mortification again, for whatever reason, and instantly shook your head.Â
âOh, no, itâs ok.â You waved it off, chewing on your lip and glancing down, clutching the cushion a little tighter.Â
âAre you sure? Itâs rather a lovely view,â he added, smiling still and you smiled at that, this one a little more relaxed than before, and a quiet huff of a chuckle left you.Â
âYeah, no, itâs alright, donât worry. Maybe next time,â you answered, rubbing at your cheek a little to attempt hiding your smile. It went quiet again, that heavy silence that came with expectation.Â
âItâs alright if youâre nervous,â he said then, something softer coming into his eyes, as if he was keenly aware of how you were feeling, as if he had seen it a million times before and wanted to comfort you. âItâs natural to feel that way.âÂ
You let out a breath, closing your eyes for a moment and nodding, smoothing your hands over the cushion then looking at it instead of him.Â
âIâm really nervous. I donât even know why, I agreed to this, but⌠I donât know, I just am.â You felt a bit pathetic, your lips drooping a little naturally, and you heard his pen being placed down on the notebook. When you glanced up, he had laced his fingers together and was nodding at you, the smallest frown creasing his brow, concern it seemed like.Â
âWell, why donât we start with why youâve come to see me?â He asked gently.Â
You settled into your seat, leaning back a little into the softness of the sofa, allowing yourself to get comfortable. You liked his voice. It was silky, soft but intentional in your ears, and you had the sneaking suspicion that he only spoke words he deemed necessary. You liked that, it made you feel comfortable trusting him. You had been preparing for this question too, but now you felt a bit blank in the head.Â
âUm, well, my therapist, Vivian, recommended I try this, coming to see you, I mean. Iâve been working with her for a while, on a lot of stuff, but recently⌠Hm, I feel really awkward saying this,â then you did actually put your head in your hands, shaking it a little as you felt overcome with nervousness again, but he didnât say anything, just shifted in his seat a little and gave you the space to say it. You cleared your throat, brought your hands down, and spoke facing the cushion on your lap. âIâve never really been with anyone in a relationship before. No one asked me out at school, no one asked me out at university, nothingâs ever really happened. Itâs not even for a lack of trying, which sounds so pathetic. Like, I tried getting on a dating app but I just couldnât take it seriously, and the guys I talked to were either weirdos or it just didnât amount to anything. Which leads me here, never even having kissed someone, and terrified of ever doing anything with anyone. And it gets worse, because finally, finally, a guy has asked me out, and heâs⌠amazing. Heâs literally everything I could want, kind, patient, handsome, and I just canât get over myself. Heâs happy to take things slow, to work at my speed, but⌠I just feel wrong. I feel like I canât get over this fear, and until I get over that, I canât be a good partner for him.âÂ
You pressed a hand to your face as you felt the overwhelming rush of tears to your eyes. You didnât want to cry in your first session with him, didnât want to cry over just explaining this, but you had felt so bogged down by it recently, overwhelmed by your own inability, that it was constantly on your mind and constantly tiring you.Â
You heard some shuffling, and without saying a word, Baelor had stood, taken a box of tissues and brought it over to the sofa. He placed it down near you, then went back to his seat, crossing one leg over the other and twisting his pen around in his hands again. He nodded wordlessly at your quiet thank you, waited for you to dab at your eyes and take a few deep breaths in, to look at him again, before speaking.Â
âLetâs unpack some of what you said there. Youâve met someone recently, and youâd like to be able to be intimate with him?âÂ
âYeah,â you nodded, smiling a little at the thought of him. âItâs still quite new, but I think heâs the kind of guy I could see myself marrying. But I feel like I canât even imagine a future with him without addressing⌠this.â Baelor hummed and nodded, writing something down.Â
âAnd you spoke about your lack of experience. You mentioned that you havenât really been in a relationship before?âÂ
âYeah,â you swallowed, grimacing a little. âI⌠All throughout school I watched my friends get boyfriends, or I watched people get partners and start having all these experiences that I just⌠never got. No oneâs ever asked me out, no oneâs ever seen me in that way. Itâs embarrassing. Iâve confessed to my crush like three times and every single time I was rejected. I know it shouldnât be, but itâs so demeaning and confidence killing. And then Iâve just never had the confidence to ever confess again. I got busy in the middle too, life and stuff, and my mental health was so bad for a while and just⌠I donât know. I feel⌠I feel ugly, and unlovable.â You closed your eyes, swallowing harshly again, unable to look at him at the confession. You were opening your mouth too much, being too vulnerable too soon, you were sure of it. It was irrational, you knew that. You knew he wouldnât get you up and throw you out and tell you all of this was true, but that irrational bit of your brain was rather annoying even at the best of times.Â
âI know itâs only your first time meeting me, but I can assure you with full confidence that you are neither ugly nor unloveable.â His voice was quiet when he said it, gentle but firm, and you blinked open your eyes, blurred with tears and stared right at him. He was not smiling now but serious, sure, firm in his belief. You licked your lips and nodded, eyes a little wide, and you wiped at them haphazardly, gathering yourself.Â
âWe can take this slow as well, hm?â He asked then, gentle and smiling a little to comfort you. âWeâll start with just some more discussions, what you are comfortable with, what you actually want to achieve, and then I can make some other recommendations. Does that sound alright with you?â He tapped his pen against the notebook, punctuating his sentence with it, and you nodded quickly, smiling with relief.Â
And you felt it too, relieved. When you walked out of the session, there was already less of a weight on your shoulders. Instead it was replaced with the lightness of faith, of trusting that Baelor would help you, of trusting that you might actually be alright in the end.Â
âWhy do you think thereâs something wrong with being a virgin at your age?âÂ
You were back in the office again, the same pillow on your lap. This time you had removed your shoes before stepping onto the plush rug. You had wanted to feel it a little closer, just under your socks, as soft as you had imagined, and you sat with your feet up on the sofa, curled around the cushion, chin on your knees.Â
âI donât know,â was your first answer, automatic, too easy, and you knew by now that he wouldnât let you get away with it. He stayed silent, waiting for you to actually think, to be honest. He always did that, you realised, stayed silent until you gave him something worth responding to. You would appreciate it more if it wasnât so frustrating sometimes when you truly didnât know how to respond.Â
He was wearing a button-up today, blue and white stripes, neat and ironed, unbuttoned at the collar so it was a little more casual. He had his smart trousers on, as he always did, with a dark belt that blended into the fabric, navy blue socks, and leather dress shoes. He was always smartly dressed, and though sometimes it made you feel a little insecure, underdressed, you also really liked it. It made him look lovely and clean, trustworthy.Â
âI feel left behind I guess. Like thereâs something wrong with me because so many other people my age have already done this big milestone.â You picked at a corner of the pillow, almost mumbling as you spoke. âItâs not even just that Iâm a virgin, itâs that I havenât done anything. I havenât even held hands with a boy let alone had sex with a guy.âÂ
Baelor sighed and nodded, wrote something down then placed his pen flat on the paper, folding his hands on top of it. He looked you right in the eye, that serious and determined expression in them that always came with him saying something important that you should remember and pay particular attention to.Â
âI know it may feel odd, or wrong, but before anything else, you should know that there is nothing wrong with being experienced, whatever age you reach. It may not sound comforting, but unfortunately, sometimes that is the way life happens, with different experiences defining people differently. But again, there is nothing wrong with being inexperienced at your age.âÂ
You nodded, but then stayed silent, chewing on your lip and glaring at the floor. Usually you would say something in response, would agree with him or repeat what he said to affirm it to yourself, but this time you remained lost in your own head.Â
âWhat is it?â Baelor asked, not allowing you to stew alone.Â
âItâs just⌠of course you would say that. Like⌠look at you. You probably never had to worry about this. Youâre all⌠handsome and charming and older, like of course you would say that.â You said it with such confidence all of a sudden, like you believed it wholeheartedly, but when you finally absorbed the words that had slipped out of your own mouth, you instantly felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You could not believe you had actually said that. How could you have said that to him?? Just because it was true didnât mean you should have said it! Oh gods, now he knew you thought he was handsome and charming. Oh gods, he would terminate this. He would say itâs inappropriate, that you had crossed a line, that you didnât deserve to get help and that this stupidity was the obvious reason why you were still a virg-
He was chuckling. You looked up to find him smiling brightly, eyes squinted, shoulders moving up and down a little as he giggled at your words. You smiled too, couldnât help it because his own was so contagious, and all the tension that had begun to build inside you slowly melted out of your bones.Â
âWhile I appreciate the sentiment,â he finally said, still smiling as if you had charmed him with your little moment of unfiltered yammering, âmy words are still true. I know it doesnât feel like it, but itâs the truth.â You harrumphed a little, but nodded just the same, repeating it to yourself that you were normal, that this was normal.Â
You discussed a little more, spoke about how you should not feel shame, or should not take your lack of experience as a judgement of your worth and beauty, and you felt sufficiently exhausted by the end of the session. When there were about ten minutes remaining, Baelor paused and looked at you with that serious expression again.Â
âIâd like to propose something. I do not need your answer now, or even during the next session. Take as much time as you would like to deliberate, ask as many as you would wish, but please do consider it thoroughly. I think you may benefit from a more intimate approach to this. Your worries about your lack of experience seem to overshadow much of your other thoughts and I think it prevents you from moving on from some of your other insecurities. I would seriously advise you to consider surrogate partner therapy. I think it would allow you to gain some experience in a safe environment where you can ask questions and learn without feeling any possible judgement for your lack of experience.â He said it all with such a calm face, hands folded in his lap, and you nodded in response, chewing on your lip as you stared right at him, focused. Â
âDo some research of your own of course, to gain a better understanding of the concept, but essentially, you would have guided experiences with another person the same way you would with a romantic partner, and you would learn how to conduct it in a real-world scenario. Do you understand?âÂ
âUm, I think so,â you answered quietly, nodding and chewing on your lip with a small frown as you flicked your eyes back up to meet his. âSo⌠I would like⌠practice kissing with this person?â He hummed and nodded.Â
âYou could. You would only do what you are comfortable doing, would go only as far as you wish to go. You could stop at hugging or hand-holding if you wished. Itâs meant to be a comfortable environment to help you push past the physical elements holding you back.â You nodded again, glancing up at him with wary eyes.Â
âWho⌠would you be⌠who would⌠would it be with you?â You finally got out, heart clenching in your chest. He hummed and nodded, then moved his head side to side a little.Â
âIt could be. While I am trained, I do not conduct it myself often. I havenât in many years, and you should be aware of that. There are professionals we could find for you if you would prefer to do it with someone else, but I would be comfortable providing that experience for you if you are comfortable to have me do it.â He nodded again and placed his palms on his thighs, moving to stand up as he looked at the clock and realised the time.Â
âOk,â you sighed quietly, standing up as well and moving to put your shoes back on, slinging your bag over your arm and heading for the door. âIâll⌠Iâll think about it.âÂ
âOf course,â he replied kindly, smiling at you as he waited for you to head for the door before reaching out and opening it for you. âI would hope you do. Take all the time you need. Iâll ask again during our next session but do not worry if you have not come to a decision.âÂ
You nodded once more, smiled kindly at him, then bid him a quick goodbye before hurrying out of the office, popping your headphones into your ears and trying to sort through the million thoughts running through your head.Â
Baelor closed the door behind you, gathered up his notebooks and went to sit at his desk. He began typing up the notes he had taken during the session, adding anything he hadnât thought of before. He paused for a moment, staring off into space. He hoped this would help you. He hoped you would say yes.Â
The weather had gotten a bit warmer, so you ditched the jacket for only a t-shirt during the session. You wore one of those pretty white cotton skirts, the tiered ones that everyone had nowadays and you thought sort of looked like a wedding cake, but again, you wanted to take advantage of the warm weather while it lasted.Â
You took your shoes off again before walking on his carpet, this time feeling the plushness between your bare toes, and you sat with your legs folded up and tucked beside you, making sure to keep the skirt appropriately covering you. You wrung your hands in your lap, fiddling with the fabric of your skirt, and only looked up at Baelor in short glances.Â
Baelor was a little dressed down too, a plain white undershirt peeking out at his chest under a vibrant electric blue button-down, his usual smart trousers in navy and his shiny dress shoes still making an appearance. He sat down with a quiet huff, bringing his notebook to his lap and tapping his pen on it as he smiled at you.Â
âYou look rather more nervous than usual. Is everything alright?â He watched you carefully but without expectation and without judgement. You nodded quickly, an innate reaction, then paused, chewing on your lip before looking up and meeting his eyes.Â
âI- yeah, Iâm fine, but itâs just⌠I think Iâve come to a decision about⌠what we talked about last time,â you finally broke out, smiling nervously and letting out a pathetic little chuckle.Â
âOh? Thatâs good to hear. What is it?â He asked, settling a little more comfortably in his seat.Â
âI⌠think Iâd like to give it a go. I trust you, and if you think it could help me then Iâll do it. ButâŚâÂ
âBut?â He asked, raising one eyebrow as he watched you look down to the pillow you clutched in your lap again, picking at a thread by the zipper.Â
âI want it to be with you,â you mumbled, looking like a shy, scolded, child. You couldnât meet his eye as you said it, couldnât face your own decision despite making it. You knew he had said he would, that he felt comfortable doing it, but you didnât want it to be that he had suddenly decided that he actually wouldnât do it, and you would be embarrassed for asking. You didnât want to see any sympathy in his eyes as he decided to let you down gently.Â
âOf course,â he answered gently, and when you looked up, he had that small serene smile on again. âLike I said last week, I havenât done it myself in many years but I would be willing as long as you were comfortable.â You let out a long breath, sighing and smiling again, nodding quickly in response.Â
âYes, yes, I am. Thank you,â you breathed out, smoothing your hands over the pillow in your lap and finally looking at him properly once more.Â
âRight, we donât have to start right away if that was a worry for you. I wonât force you to jump into anything yet. We can just talk some more today, continue with what we discussed before,â he explained, gesturing with his hands and pen. You smiled again, nodding as you breathed deeply to calm any last jitters you had been feeling before. âBut I would like to make one change if you are comfortable with that.â You looked at him with wide eyes, blinking slowly as you waited for him to expand, suddenly feeling tense all over again. âWould it be alright if I came and sat on the sofa with you? Just on the other end.âÂ
âOh,â you let out, blinking quickly before shifting so you were right on one end of the sofa then glancing at the other end, the spot he wanted to take up. âYeah, yes, of course, if you want.âÂ
He smiled kindly at that then stood up. He was tall. You had noticed it before of course, but now you were sitting down, sunken in a little into the plush cushions, and it made him seem even more imposing. He walked over and sat down on the other end of the sofa, relaxed and without worry. You felt it move under you, shift a little with his weight, and you curled up just a tad more, making sure your feet were tucked under your skirt and wouldnât go near him. He sighed, slumping comfortably into the pillows, and crossed one leg over the other, ensuring he was at an angle so he could still speak facing you. His legs were quite close to you, and if you reached out with your hand you could place it on his knee. It was odd that you wanted to.Â
âIs this alright?â He finally asked, eyes flicking all over your face as you swallowed and nodded, your heart pounding a little.Â
âMhm,â you assented, but your voice was a little higher pitched than usual and he could see you clutching the cushion on your lap a little tighter, but he decided not to comment.Â
âDoes this make you nervous?âÂ
âA little, yeah,â you whispered, fluttering your eyelashes at him. Baelor felt a pang of something in his chest but chose not to focus on it, looking instead at the way you settled further back into the cushions and watched him in return.Â
âWhat about this makes you nervous?â He asked quietly.Â
âI donât know. Youâre just⌠very close, and Iâm worried that Iâll do something wrong.âÂ
âWhat could you do wrong if weâre just sitting together?â He asked without an ounce of judgement. It pointed you toward the absurdity of your thoughts without making you feel bad for it.Â
âI donât know. I guess thatâs a good point. I donât know, I guess I feel like I would sit weird or touch you accidentally when you donât want me to and you would just instantly be repulsed by me.â You spoke quickly, as if suddenly desperate to tell him everything you were thinking, and he hummed and nodded. âLike, if you were the guy I have a crush on, and you came and sat like this, I would be freaking out. I am freaking out.âÂ
âWhat would sitting weird do? Or accidentally touching me? What do you think would happen?â He asked gently, tapping his pen against the notebook in his lap.Â
âRealistically, nothing. In my crazy head? You would be repulsed by me and never want to come near me ever again and you would tell everyone that and I would die alone.â Baelor raised an eyebrow at you and you pursed your lips, nodding for a moment before sighing and giggling a little, hot with bashfulness. âI know. I know thatâs unrealistic.âÂ
âGood,â was his simple answer. Then he reached down and patted the side of his thigh. âStretch out your leg, and imagine youâve accidentally kicked me.â You looked at him, both eyebrows raising.Â
âReally?âÂ
âYes. Letâs play out the scenario. Reach out and tap my leg as if it was an accident,â he patted the side of his thigh again, face all seriousness, and waited for you to comply. He looked away to give the illusion of this being anywhere outside of a therapistâs office, and waited.Â
You reached out, gentle and hesitant, and lightly tapped the side of his thigh with your big toe. It was barely a touch, just enough to be felt, and he reached down and lightly tickled the sole of your foot. You squealed, jumped a little, and instantly curled your foot back into yourself, staring at him with wide eyes as he attempted to hide a smirk behind his hand.Â
âBaelor!â You squealed, mouth dropping open as a shocked laugh punched out of you.Â
âIs that not something you would have expected to happen?â He asked teasingly, and you giggled freely, perhaps for the first time since he had met you. He watched the way your face lit up, the way you rocked back and forth a little as you laughed. His chest felt warm at the sight. He was happy to see you happy.Â
When you finally caught your breath again, you leaned your elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested your cheek in your hand, looking at him from under slightly hooded eyes. âWeirdly effective strategy Mister,â you responded teasingly, and he hummed and nodded, smiling brightly.Â
You spoke for a little while. He asked how you were feeling over the past week, if you had seen your guy again, and you told him how you had been a bit busy with work, how you and him had been texting back and forth but you had been hesitant to accept any invitation to meet up. You still felt too nervous.Â
âWhy donât we try something else until the end of the session?â Baelor prompted after a moment, putting his pen down and shifting to sit up a little. You nodded, clutching the pillow to you. âWould you like to hold my hand?â He asked, leaning forward to rest his hand palm up on the seat between you. You glanced down to it, swallowing harshly, then nodded. You reached out, hesitant, and placed your palm on top of his.Â
His hand was warm, the comforting sort, like the kind of heat that emanated from a hot water bottle. His palm was soft, but he had callouses here and there, like he used his hands for more than just writing. Did he play sports over the weekends? Did he have a manual labour job at some point? Did he do a lot of DIY at home? You wanted to know all of these things all of a sudden, wanted to know how his hands became the way they were the moment you first held them.Â
He didnât say anything, just watched you carefully place your hand in his. Yours was smaller than his, soft in the way that hands became when one was diligent about moisturising them. Gently, he threaded his fingers through yours, turning your joined hands over so his was atop yours, then turning them back over. He caressed the back of your hand with his thumb, slow strokes, and dragged his eyes up your arm then to your face.Â
âHow does this feel?â He asked quietly, voice hushed to match the new heaviness in the air.Â
âLovely,â you sighed, holding his hand a little tighter. You had gotten used to it far too quickly. You did not want to let go now. It felt safe, right. âI like this. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel⌠chosen.âÂ
The two of you sat there together in silence just like that. You held his hand, and he held yours right back. He softly caressed the back of your hand with his fingertips, watching you shiver occasionally at the silky touches, at the teasing little drags. You could not say anything, and he chose not to. You were hit with the sudden urge to lift your hands and kiss his. You wanted it so much you were blindsided by it. The embarrassment at your own feelings burned in your cheeks and you tightened your grip on him as if he could read your mind and would throw you off in an instant.Â
The two of you sat like that until the end of the session, absorbed in your own thoughts, softly feeling each otherâs palms. When the clock struck the final possible minute, you quickly pulled your hand back, breathing in deeply and looking anywhere but at him. Baelor smiled, soft and kind, and reached over to gently pat you on the back of the shoulder.Â
âIâm very proud of you for taking these first steps,â he said simply, fully sincere. He stood and waited for you to pull your sandals on before opening the door for you. You were still hearing his words in your ears, still feeling all warm and mushy inside because he was proud of you. You had made progress, done something scary and made him proud in the process.Â
âThank you,â you mumbled quietly, but your face couldnât help breaking into a smile. âSee you next time.âÂ
âSee you next time,â Baelor waved once then shut the door when you had disappeared around the corner. He was smiling too.Â
âMight I hold your hand again?â Baelor asked, slumped comfortably on the other side of the sofa. He had sat there at the start of the session rather than taking up his seat in the armchair, and you were all tucked up on the other side, watching him.Â
âMhm,â you answered softly, reaching out without hesitance this time and threading your fingers through his. This was the third session where he had asked this, and you were beginning to expect it now. You sat a little closer to him than before, bringing his hand to your lap so you could hold it there, fiddle with his fingers and his rings as you spoke. You hadnât realised how comforting it actually was to be holding his hand during the session, to have that warm presence just there that somehow made it easier to delve into the darkest and saddest parts of your mind.Â
It was a couple sessions later when you initiated for the first time. The two of you sat down, and before he could ask, you gently reached out and said, âwould you⌠would you hold my hand?â Baelor smiled, the kind that shined in his eyes too, and he nodded, reaching out and gripping your hand firmly.Â
He wore a dark brown, almost maroon, shirt today, with white buttons. It looked soft, thick like a jumper, but you didnât think it was wool. You wanted to feel it. Another thought you batted away quickly.Â
âHave you become more comfortable with this action, do you think?â He asked, caressing your hand gently with his thumb as he readied his pen to write on his notebook atop his leg.Â
âYeah, I think so. It doesnât feel so daunting now that Iâve done it,â you answered honestly, smiling shyly at him.Â
âThatâs good to hear,â he responded, âIâm proud of you for taking initiative.â You beamed again, body alight with the praise, then he slowly unthreaded his fingers from yours and put his notebook and pen onto the table beside the sofa on his side. âWhy donât we move it along again? Why donât you come and sit right here?â He patted the spot directly beside him, âRight by me.âÂ
You gulped and nodded, swift and shaky, then slowly began shuffling over the sofa seats. He was smiling softly, encouragingly, and you moved until the side of your thigh pressed to his and you could feel the warmth of his body gently emanating against your side. Your breaths were shallow, too light in your chest, and you attempted to focus on anything but how nervous you felt.Â
You could smell his cologne, something cool scented that you enjoyed, that inadvertently soothed you. You kept your arms tucked close to you, your hands clasped tightly together and pressed to your stomach. He was looking down at you, watching you situate yourself back against the sofa, and then he carefully raised up his arm and lay it along the back of the sofa behind you.Â
âWould you be alright with me wrapping my arm over you?â He asked then, his voice almost a whisper, and you turned to look up at him. You could see the peppering of white in his beard closer here, could see the occasional little freckle on his skin and the flecks in his eyes that added so much dimension and beauty to them. You nodded because your throat was too thick for words. He nodded in return before moving his arm to come rest along your shoulders, his hand curling around your upper arm lightly.Â
His arm was a little heavy, but it was the comforting sort, the kind of weight that made everything feel real and secure. He tucked you up close to him, bringing you in even further so your shoulder pressed into his ribs under his arm and you were practically leaning your entire body into his side.Â
You were hesitant to allow it, worried you would somehow make him uncomfortable or put him off, but he seemed determined to tuck you against him, to wrap his arm tight and snuggle you into his side. You brought your legs up, bending them and tucking them against you on the other side to where he sat, and it leaned you even further into him. He hummed a little and you felt the rumble in his chest, the transfer of it into you.Â
You breathed slowly, sucking in lungfuls of his cologne, shivering into his warmth. You wondered if he ran hot. He must do with how warm he was. You brought up the hand not tucked against him and carefully splayed it onto his chest, a bold move but one that felt right despite the tremble in your arm. You tipped your head back a little so you could look up at him, and he pressed his chin down to ensure your gazes met.Â
âIs this alright?â You whispered, allowing your hand to spread over the soft material of his shirt just above his heart. He nodded, the smallest motion.Â
âOf course,â he answered kindly, voice as low as yours, then his free hand came up and began caressing your hair. You hummed softly with pleasure, your eyes fluttering a little. His hand was big and his fingers were careful, threading through your hair and caressing along your scalp. You shivered, full body, and he felt it, smiling a little to himself at the way you began snuggling a little further into him, your limbs beginning to fully relax. You allowed your head to rest against the place where his shoulder joined his chest, your cheek pressing into the material of his shirt and the thick muscle there. Your eyes had closed now and you just rested there in his arms. Eventually he rested his cheek on top of your head, taking soft breaths that ruffled your hair a little. He smelt your shampoo, the lovely scent of it, and allowed his own eyes to be closed.Â
âHow does this feel?â He asked, the smallest whisper, and you only hummed in response at first, far too busy enjoying the closeness, the softness and the warmth of being in his arms.Â
âReally good,â you finally breathed out. âI could fall asleep right here.â He chuckled, low and soft and the motion of it in his body moved through you too, like a baby being gently rocked.Â
Then Baelor lifted his head a little before leaning down so he was a bit closer to your face and said, âwould you like to sit on my lap?âÂ
He felt you tense against him, threaded through with steel all over again. He felt you shift back, sit up a little so you werenât as cradled against him, and your hair brushed against his chin as you tipped your head back, muttering a quiet, âwhatâŚâ.Â
âYou can refuse if you do not wish to. I donât want to push you farther than you are ready for. But if you would like, then why donât you try sitting in my lap for a little while.â He had that soft patient look in his eyes again, the one that showed gentleness, care, trust, and not one ounce of expectation or judgement. You sometimes wish you could take that look from his eyes and wrap it around yourself like a safety blanket, carrying it with you everywhere you go.Â
You chewed on your lip a little, instinctively fiddling with the fingers on his hand, twisting his rings around as you mumbled, âare you sure? I⌠I might be too heavy.â Baelorâs face softened even further at that, and he gently caressed the back of your shoulder, a warm and comforting pet.Â
âWell, why donât you sit on my lap and weâll find out? If you are, Iâll tell you.â He paused then, stopping his comforting caress, and he gently brought his hand around to nudge the underside of your chin until you were looking up into his eyes. âEven if you are, that is not a judgement on anything. It does not somehow take away from you, nor signify anything about you. You remain a beautiful young woman.â He could see your eyes go glassy, the way you chewed on your lower lip as it naturally began to pout a little more with your tears. You breathed shakily and nodded hesitantly, shifting forward to get on your knees.Â
Baelor placed one hand carefully on your waist, shifting towards where you had sat before to give you a bit more space to bring your knee over. You slotted it into the space between his thigh and the arm of the sofa. When you were straddling him, both his hands spanning on either side of your waist, he looked up at you. You looked concerned, chewing on your lip, a furrow to your brow. Your hands had naturally come to rest on his shoulders, your fingers clutching the strong muscles there a little tightly. You could tell he worked out even through the shirt.Â
âJust sit back on my knees for now, hm?â He prompted quietly, watching you nod quickly then rest yourself down onto his thighs. He resisted the urge to caress up your body, to run his hands over your sides and cup your face the way he would do a lover. You licked your lips and glanced up at his face, the worry clear in your eyes. âIs this alright?âÂ
âYes,â you breathed out quickly, hurriedly, as if to appease him, and he just raised an eyebrow while waiting for your real response. âIt is, I promise. Iâm just nervous. I donât want to do anything wrong.â He nodded, caressing his thumb back and forth over your waist. Your mind honed in on the motion. You prayed he would never stop.Â
âWhat could you do wrong?â He asked, so similar to all those sessions ago, and you almost smiled. Actually, you did, just a little one.Â
âNot sure, knee you in the groin?â He chuckled at that, squeezing your waist a little, and shook his head.Â
âHm, realistic, but as long as you try not to, then I think weâre safe. And even if you do, then Iâll know it was an accident, and it wonât change anything. Right?â He nudged, nodding as if to guide your answer.Â
âYeah, youâre right.âÂ
âGood. Itâs alright to be nervous,â he continued, tilting his head back to look into your eyes. âEven in a real situation, many people are nervous when conducting actions like that. Itâs perfectly normal. But communication and trust are very important, and the more experiences you have with your partner, the more comfortable youâll become.â You nodded, blinking quickly as you met his eyes and the small smile he offered you again.Â
âCan⌠Can I hug you?â You asked hesitantly, feeling hot with bashfulness. Why in the world were you so nervous just to ask for things? You wanted to berate yourself, to swallow the words back, but when his smile brightened, as if he was proud of you for taking the initiative again, your brain instantly quieted.Â
âOf course, come here,â he slid his hands around to your back, waiting for you to lean forward and tuck yourself against his chest. You shuffled your hips down a little then snuggled up against his chest, fluttering your eyes shut as you took long slow breaths. You tucked your face into the side of his neck, wrapping your arms over his shoulders and pressing yourself right against him.Â
You loved everything about this moment. If you were to die now, you could be sure you at least died happy. He was so lovely and warm. Truly, like having the heating on in winter, cozy and soft and⌠perfect. His smell was lovely too, his cologne something cool-scented. You imagined if water had a smell, thatâs what it would be like, clean and smooth. He was strong and muscular, a firm presence under you. His thighs and hips forced your own open wide, and his stomach, chest, shoulders, were all expansive and perfect for you to find refuge in. The place where you tucked your face now, the soft stretch of his neck, was warm and his cologne was stronger there, probably sprayed there just before he left this morning.Â
You could feel his beard brush against your ear when you shifted, and you couldnât help yourself from letting out a little sigh of pleasure. You snuggled a little further into him, eyes fluttering a little but remaining closed as you somehow relaxed even further into his grip. Baelor ran a palm up your back, gently caressing you along your spine, his large hand spanning far. He sighed too, the soft breath rustling through your hair, and allowed himself to rest his cheek against the side of your head comfortably.Â
âMmm, this is nice, isnât it?â He said quietly, and you gave a small nod, humming softly again. âWhile I do not claim to speak for all men, I cannot imagine that many would complain at having the comforting weight of a pretty young woman on their lap.âÂ
You felt your entire body go hot. The flush crept through you, pulsing in your stomach and core, then gently reaching its warmth into your legs and arms, all the way up to your cheeks and ears and down into your toes. You held onto him a little tighter, swallowing down the whimper that wanted to tremble out of you. Hearing him call you pretty might be everything you needed in your life and more.Â
The two of you sat like that for a long while, just enjoying your shared warmth and softness. He would occasionally murmur something in your ear, something to speak about or something to remember if this ever comes up in a relationship. The two of you would shift sometimes, just to get a little more comfortable, but it was relatively still and silent.Â
When the session was nearing its end, he rubbed his hand up and down your back again and murmured, âyouâre a good girl. Iâm proud of you for taking these steps for yourself.â Your hands clenched into his shirt, your entire body feeling ready to tremble. Your legs tightened around him, a strong pulse clenching in your core. You felt it searing your insides, in your chest and right through to your nipples. This time a breathy sound left your lips, like a strong exhale, and you were instantly filled with embarrassment at it, curling in on yourself even further.Â
But Baelor didnât say anything, just paused his rubbing and pressed his palm a little harder into your back. You pulled back a little, suddenly feeling too hot, and you blinked quickly at him, your eyes still a little dazed and lost. Your lips were parted, and his own were open just so, soft but quick breaths falling from him. You looked right into his eyes, trembling properly now. His hand came up, caressing over your shoulder, his fingers grazing your neck before he cupped your cheek. His thumb stroked over the side of your face, along your cheekbone and just grazed the corner of your mouth. His fingers were threaded through your hair, splayed along your scalp, and you felt engulfed by him, totally in his control.Â
You licked your lips, the quickest flick of your tongue. You would have kissed him if you had any confidence. He watched the motion, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes. He would have kissed you if he had any less propriety and control.Â
The ticking of the clock signifying the end of session pulled you both out of whatever trance you had fallen into. He glanced in its direction, head tilting to the side and giving you a lovely view of his jaw, and you quickly slid off his lap, falling back onto the sofa beside him before standing and beginning to smooth out your hair and clothes. You felt like you had been caught doing something wrong. You werenât quite sure why.Â
Baelor cleared his throat a little, smoothed his hands down his thighs then stood as well, gathering up his notebook and pen from the table beside the sofa and holding it close to himself. He smiled at you, attempting a comforting look, though it came out a little strained.Â
âI would usually sit and debrief with you for a bit but Iâm afraid we got a bit distracted. Weâll continue next time, alright?â He asked kindly, watching you nod hurriedly, a bit of a panicked look in your eyes. You had pulled your shoes on again and were clutching the strap of your bag tightly. âY/n,â he called to you, gathering your attention once more. He reached out and gently patted the back of your shoulder, his smile a little softer now. âWell done.âÂ
You smiled in return, taking a deep breath and nodding. You looked into his eyes once more, blue and brown, but both soft and comforting. One look there and you could feel your entire chest become smooth and soft and relaxed. You nodded once more and headed out the door, knowing you would be thinking about that moment for a long time to come.Â
âI didnât feel very good yesterday,â you murmured to Baelor, chewing on your lip as you sat curled up in your corner of the sofa. He sat on the other end again, one leg crossed over the other, slouched down as he usually was, notebook on his lap and pen scrawling away.Â
When you had entered that day, he could tell you needed to speak. He didnât attempt to initiate anything, just smiled and gestured for you to sit then sat down himself and waited. You were wearing jogger bottoms and a hoodie today, grey and black, far more colourless than you would usually be. You had toed off your shoes and curled yourself up into the corner of the sofa, barely even looking at him.Â
âHow are you?â He had asked once you had both settled in, voice quiet and silky in your ear, and you had shrugged at first.Â
âI didnât feel very good yesterday is all,â you murmured, like it was nothing, but he nodded without saying a word. After a moment of silence, you continued. âSome of my friends were going to the beach and I was just feeling like crap about myself. I was so scared of having to wear a swimsuit, of having to be so open with my body that I couldnât⌠I didnât even go.â You shook your head and brought your knees up close to you, chewing lightly at your fingernail and keeping your eyes focused on the floor. You curled your arms around your shins and just kept yourself tucked up, safe, hidden.Â
Baelor watched you carefully, the picture of despair before him made his chest hurt. He wanted to reach out and pet your head again, to grip your chin and force you to meet his eyes, to kiss lightly at your face and- no. No he didnât want to do any of that. He knew that just telling someone they were beautiful didnât necessarily do anything. You need to learn to believe it yourself.Â
âI donât know, it feels worse somehow. I thought I was doing better. That insecurity hasnât been that bad in a while. Iâve been swimming and to the beach, but⌠I donât know. Yesterday I just felt horrible and I couldnât⌠could barely look at myself in the mirror.âÂ
Baelor placed his pen down and moved to put the notebook on the table beside the sofa. His chest felt a little too tight, and he took a moment to breathe before sitting up properly and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked at you for a long while, waiting for your face to smooth out from the pained expression and for you to open your eyes to look at him again.Â
âBefore I tell you anything else, I want you to know I only see a beautiful person in front of me. Inside and out.â His voice was quiet but full of conviction, and you felt it right in your chest. You blinked quickly, the tears overflowing, wet streaks down your cheeks. You nodded quickly, the hot lump in your throat rendering you incapable of speech, and swiped haphazardly at your cheeks and eyes. You opened your mouth as if to say something then shut it again, pursing your lips and licking your tears off them.Â
Baelor took the box of tissues and placed it between you, nudging it gently in your direction. You nodded in thanks and quickly grabbed one to dab at your face and eyes. Baelor cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat once more.Â
âI have some homework for you,â he began quietly once more when you looked a bit more settled and your breaths did not rattle through you.Â
âOk,â you whispered, nodding and looking at him with wide, innocent, eyes.Â
âI want you to think of at least three things you like about yourself. Real things, things that you can see in yourself. And I want you to tell yourself about those things. Say that you like those things about yourself, at least once every morning and evening until our next session. Alright?â His eyes were firm again, his mouth set in a straight line, and he waited to see you nod before going on. You were hesitant, chewing on your lip and tugging on the strings of your hoodie, but you did eventually nod, glancing up at him in quick little flicks.
âRight, good. I have more though,â he continued, and you smiled a little to yourself. Of course he wouldnât let it be that easy. âI want you to take some time in the evening, whether it be tonight or tomorrow, to strip down naked, and look at yourself in the mirror.â
You reared back a little, snapping your head to the side to stare at him with wide eyes. His expression did not change save for the slightest raise of his eyebrows. You spluttered a little, curling your hands close to your chest.Â
âI donât think I can do that,â you told him quickly, shaking your head and chewing on your lip again.Â
âYou can, and you will,â he affirmed, and his tone left no room for argument. You opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you truly couldnât, but he shot you one look, hard and steely, and you snapped your lips closed once more. You were sure that with that look he could make the entire world listen to what he had to say. So you bit your lip and nodded, and he nodded in return. âGood.âÂ
You wore a pretty dress this time. Baelor felt⌠bowled over by it. He had not seen you in a dress yet. Though it did not show on his face, at least he hoped it didnât, he felt his breath catch in his throat a little. Your hair was mostly loose, a cascade over your shoulders, a few strands from the front pulled back to keep it clear of your face. You looked better than last time, healthier, smilier. You wore something of soft cotton or linen, a wonderful pastel butter yellow, soft and beautiful on your skin. It was a simple summer dress, something pretty and easy to run errands in, and you wore matching ankle socks which made him smile.Â
âHow are you today?â He asked, resting his arm casually along the back of the sofa.Â
He wore a plain white shirt under a black cardigan today, simple and soft. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows giving you a wonderful view of his strong forearms. You felt like a demure Victorian maiden getting hot at the sight of them.Â
âGood. Really good. I went out for dinner with him a couple nights ago,â you told Baelor with a bright smile, hiding it a little behind your hand. He smiled too, nodding happily at your pure joy. It was lovely to see again. âAnd, you know what, if you tell yourself something enough times, you start believing it.âÂ
âAh, so youâve been following through on your homework. Thatâs good to hear,â he perked up at that, picking up his pen once more and writing something in his notebook swiftly without even looking down at the paper.Â
âMostly,â you told him hesitantly, looking a little embarrassed once more. You fiddled with a strand of your own hair, curling it around your finger and tugging on it gently.Â
âMostly?â He prompted, raising one eyebrow in question.Â
âIâve been doing what you said, picking out three things that I like about myself and telling myself that I like them every night. Itâs been good. ButâŚâ you cleared your throat then, looking down at your lap as you mumbled, âI couldnât get myself to do the other thing.â He paused, nodded once, wrote something in his notebook then looked at you again.Â
âDid you attempt it?â He asked.Â
âSort of,â you nodded, âI stood in front of the mirror. And I looked at myself. I couldnât⌠I couldnât get naked. And I felt like crying every time I tried to say the words. I did eventually. But I couldnât look at myself for very long.â You kept your head bowed, staring at your own lap rather than at him. You didnât want to see his disappointment. You didnât want to see his brow furrowed, his head shaking, a tut falling from his lips. He of course did none of those things.Â
âThatâs alright,â he finally spoke, his voice quiet and comforting. He offered you a small smile when you glanced up to his face. âItâs a good start, Iâd say.â You nodded in response but found you had nothing else to say.Â
Baelor stood up and walked over to the wall of windows. You followed him with your eyes, frowning a little when you noticed the thing he walked toward. It leaned against the wall but was covered in a brown cloth, and when he whipped it off, you realised it was a full length standing mirror. He brought it over to the open space between the windows and his armchair, standing it securely before turning to you.Â
âCome,â he beckoned, waving you over with one hand as the other sat comfortably in his pocket. You gaped at him, standing only because your body innately followed his orders. You padded over to him, hands sliding into the pockets over your dress and clenching into fists there to stop the trembling in your limbs. Despite your wariness, you still stood close to him, your arm brushing against his. You were careful not to tuck any closer despite how much you wanted to.Â
Baelor walked behind you, carefully placing his hands on your upper arms. His palms were warm and dry against your skin. He looked into your eyes in the mirror, waiting for you to nod to say you were comfortable before continuing. He walked you forward until you were in the centre of the mirror, reaching around to nudge your chin slightly to make sure you kept your head up and your eyes on the reflection. Your face felt too hot. Then he let go of you, not stepping back but not holding on either. The smell of his cologne stayed in your nostrils though, something hot and a little spicy today.Â
âRight, look at yourself,â he guided quietly. He watched on carefully, making sure you followed his instructions. He watched you peruse your eyes up and down yourself, something hesitant and a little pained in them. âGood,â he whispered, before carefully dragging his fingertips down your arms. You felt them touch the curves of your elbows, felt the whisper of them on your forearms, and you shivered. He grasped your wrists and pulled your hands from your pockets, placing them at your sides before removing his grip and putting his own hands into his pockets.Â
âI want you to look yourself in the eye, and I want you to say, âI am beautifulâ. Can you do that?â He was patient, so so patient, you thought, and you wanted to do this for him. He probably would have told you to do it for yourself if you had voiced the thought, but you felt it anyway. You gulped, a harsh movement in your throat, and nodded. You met your own gaze in the mirror and trembling said, âI am beautiful.âÂ
Your voice came out a whisper, hesitant and stilted, but the words were out in the air now. You glanced up in the mirror and he was nodding, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes, and you wanted to bathe in it.Â
âWonderful,â he murmured, âonce more.âÂ
âI am beautiful.â Your voice was more confident now, more firm, and you even nodded a little, standing up straighter. Perhaps if you pretended it was true, it might feel like it. Again he nodded, pacing a little behind you.Â
âIf you feel comfortable, and only if, you could try taking off your dress,â he broached. He stood just behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You couldnât feel him per se, just his presence at your shoulder, and you blinked quickly up at his reflection. You wrung your hands together, looking down as you contemplated it. You could do it. You knew you could. You could.Â
You glanced up again, nodded, then reached back to grasp at your zipper. Your fingers were a little clumsy, slipping off the small thing, but eventually you managed to grasp on with a blush burning in your cheeks and pulled it down. You slid your arms out of the off-the-shoulder straps and then pushed the dress down until it fell at your feet.Â
Your eyes were clenched shut. You couldnât look in the mirror knowing he was looking at you. You didnât want to see anything akin to disappointment, to disgust and repulsion, on his face. You did not want to see pity, to see that look that said, âoh poor thing. No wonder no one wants her.âÂ
You shivered a little at the cool air and crossed your arms tightly over yourself. You were wearing a pair of skin-coloured safety shorts, and your favourite go-to bra. You were not naked, but you felt it. Your breaths shook through you.Â
âWill you open your eyes?â Baelor whispered, and you felt him closer now, this gentle warmth at your back. You wanted to shake your head. You wanted to tell him no, that you could not, that you would put your dress back on and sit on the sofa and cry as much as you wanted. But you didnât. You nodded, and carefully pried your eyes open.Â
You looked at his reflection before your own, and he was⌠he was smiling. His face was open, bright, proud. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his smile was breathtaking. You wanted to hug him. Rather, you wanted him to hug you, to wrap you up in his arms and tell you you were safe and beautiful and everything was going to be alright.Â
You shivered once more then looked at yourself. You ran your eyes down your neck, over the slopes of your shoulders and arms. You looked at your bra straps and the cups holding onto your chest, the expanse of your stomach and thighs, the waistband of your shorts and the crinkles of your knees. You looked over it all, and before he could prompt you, you swallowed and murmured, âI am beautiful.âÂ
He sucked in a breath and nodded, whispering a âgoodâ as you chewed on your lip and nodded too, the tears filling your eyes. Your face crumpled, and you felt a bit stuck. You could not look away, but you wanted to. You could not believe the words you had said, but oh how you wanted to.Â
Baelor stood just behind you, this young woman who could not see what he saw, and he felt this desperate sense of urgency inside of him. He wanted to hold your face in his hands, to curl you close and look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you were. He wanted to whisper it right into your brain, to say it right to the source, to press it into your mind so you were forced to believe him. His breath was too thick in his chest as he looked at the tear tracks begin to shine on your cheeks. He⌠he wanted to kiss you. Yes, he wanted to turn you around, to wrap his arm around your back and hoist you to him, to cup your cheek and kiss you until you were breathless, until he was breathless.Â
Baelor blinked quickly, rubbing a hand over his mouth and looking away. No, he did not want those things. He did not want those things because wanting them was wrong, was unprofessional, was inappropriate, was unethical. You trusted him. You came to him for help and guidance, and he could not want that without betraying everything else. He should⌠he should separate from this. He should tell you that this could no longer continue, that he was too emotionally invested and it was not healthy for either of you. He should refer you to someone, perhaps pass you along to Rowan in the offices near Ashford or that new therapist from Lys. He should⌠he should let you g-Â
You turned away from the mirror, your hands clutched tight to your chest. Your face had well and truly crumpled now, and you were shaking with your sobs. Without a word, you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his torso and pressing your face to his chest. You cried into the warm shirt there, eyes shut as you shook with your tears. He shushed you gently, his own pain at the sight clenching in his chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, bands over your back and shoulders. He tucked you close, his voice whispering softly against the top of your head, his lips pressing gently to your hair.Â
âItâs alright,â he soothed, âitâs alright.â You trembled in his grip. âWell done, darling. Iâm very proud of you. Well done.âÂ
Baelor held you tight and continued murmuring softly to you, rubbing one hand up and down your spine as the other kept you tucked up against him. He rested his head against yours softly, feeling you slowly quiet down, allowing his own heart to settle with yours. But when he glanced back up, when he met his own eyes in the mirror behind you, he only saw himself on the edge of a precipice, teetering far too close to the edge, only the gentlest push away from falling offâŚÂ
You were sitting in his lap again, sideways on this time, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. You wore a white tank top and a pair of flowy black linen trousers, your fingers fiddling with the drawstrings.Â
âIs kissing really that good?â You asked quietly, your shoulders curled in a little. He rested one arm over your knees and caressed the outer side of your leg just so, his thumb running back and forth on your thigh.Â
âWhat do you mean?â He asked, brows furrowing a little as he turned to look at your face.Â
âI mean like⌠is it really that good? People are always making out and stuff⌠is it really that nice?â You chewed on your lip as you looked up at him, truly seeking an honest answer, and he smiled and nodded.Â
âKissing can be wonderful. Done right, it can be extremely pleasurable,â he informed you, not stopping in his caresses. You nodded, still chewing on your lip, and he waited patiently for whatever it was you clearly wanted to say.Â
âThe guy Iâve been seeing⌠he tried to kiss me last night.â You finally blurted it out, looking up at him with wide worried eyes. âWe were on his sofa watching a film, and it was really nice. We even cuddled for a bit, and I felt⌠I felt so good. We were talking about something that happened in the movie, and he was smiling and looking at me, and then he started leaning in, and I just- I panicked, and I turned my head so he kissed my cheek. Then I pretended like I thought that was what he meant to do and just sort of cooed about how sweet he was. I kissed his cheek in return and like ten minutes later I made some pathetic excuse to leave and ran.â You groaned loudly and pressed your face into your hands, shaking your head in despair. âI canât believe I did that. I must look so crazy and pathetic to him. For the first time in my life I have a guy who actually wants to kiss me and I canât even do it.âÂ
âSh, do not say things like that. We do not call ourselves mean things in this office, hm?â He nudged quickly, grasping one of your wrists and tugging your hand down so he could look at your face. You kept the other hand up for a moment before dropping it too and meeting his eyes. You nodded but didnât take back your words and he sighed. âThere is nothing wrong with what you did. It may have been better for you to communicate openly, to tell him that you werenât comfortable, or perhaps you didnât know what you were doing, but there is nothing wrong with avoiding a situation you did not feel ready for. I do not want to hear you berate yourself for it any further.âÂ
You nodded, sighing and allowing your shoulders to slump a little as you relaxed back against the arm of the sofa. You returned to fiddling with your drawstrings, glancing back up to Baelorâs face every now again.Â
âIâm just scared Iâll fuck it up. I have zero clue on what to do. Like, zero.â You looked him right in the eye as you said it, nodding your head as if to emphasise the point. âI know you put your mouths together but after that⌠nothing.â Baelor hummed in acknowledgment and turned back to you. His notebook and pen were on his other side, carefully out of your view, and he put his pen down once more. He looked up at you, smoothing a hand over your knee as he said,Â
âWould you like to practice?â
You blinked quickly, excitement surging in your chest. You bit your lip, hands tightening into fists as your insides began to flutter. Perhaps it was stupid and manipulative, desperate and naive, to have wished for this. You had wanted him to suggest this, had wanted him to want to teach you. You trusted him more than anyone, you had quickly realised, and the evening before had cemented it. You could only tell him these things, could only hope that he would help you with these things.Â
âYes please,â you whispered, the smallest smile on your face as you reached out and softly traced the collar of his shirt. He was wearing another button-up, this one in pale blue, and it was impossibly smooth under your hands.Â
âRight, why donât you straddle me again, like before, hm?â He prompted, shifting a little as you nodded and moved off. You stood just in front of him, your knees brushing his, and you looked down on him. His head tilted back to meet your eyes, and one of his hands automatically came up to rest on your hip. Your breath hitched a little in your throat, that simple touch searing, and you felt everything inside you tighten.Â
Baelorâs eyes drifted down over your body as you moved forward, bringing your knee up and into the space between his thigh and the sofa. His eyes traced down over your breasts, heaving a little with your quick breaths. Your nipples had hardened, and he could see them poking out through your bra and the thin tanktop. His mouth watered. He wanted to lean forward and press his mouth right there, to close his eyes and focus on the sounds that you may let out.Â
He gulped harshly, forcing his eyes away, and ran his hand down the side of your leg as you brought the other up and settled down on his lap. You sighed softly, running your hands along his shoulders, back and forth, before finally settling them on either side of his neck. You looked right at him now, not bashful little glances but an unabashed stare that traced over his salt and pepper beard, over the strong bridge of his nose, the small freckles that decorated his skin like kisses from the sun. You wanted to kiss each one, to press your mouth more places than just his lips.Â
His eyes were bright, colourful, and you looked right into them as you leaned a little closer, moving purely on instinct. His palms traced up your sides, one settling on your hip, the other continuing up and to your neck, then cupping the side of your jaw. You gasped, his grip was firm and tipped your head back just a little. His lips parted as he flicked his eyes down to your mouth. Your fingertips traversed up from his collar and gently touched the warm skin of his neck, the lightest trace, and he shivered a little. You felt it through you, in the places where your thighs touched his ribs, and you sighed breathily, leaning in even closer until your chest touched his and the tip of your nose whispered against his.Â
âWill you kiss me, please?â You asked, your voice barely a breath. You were trembling in his grip, and he let go of your hip to wrap his arm around your waist and hoist you even closer, until your core pressed right into his stomach. A small gasp left you. You felt hot all over, tingles turning to flurries in your stomach and chest. He was firm there, and you tilted your hips a little to press your core even harder there.Â
âClose your eyes,â he murmured, and you felt the barest hint of his lips against yours. You breathed shakily again, a small sound falling from your mouth, and his arm around you tightened, his grip on your face became firmer, and as your eyelids fluttered shut, he fully pressed his mouth to yours.Â
You hadnât expected to be so⌠aware. You could feel everything. The tip of his nose pressed into the crease of your cheek. His face was warm and you could feel it against your own skin. You could feel his lashes brush the high points of your cheeks. His hands were searing on your body, somehow hotter now that his mouth had joined yours. His lips were wet, hot, moving gently against yours, coaxing your mouth in small suctioning motions. His beard was rough against your face, ticklish at your chin and cheeks and upper lip, and you almost felt overstimulated by it, torn between pulling away to make it stop and pressing harder into it. You chose the latter.Â
A small moan left your mouth and Baelor groaned a little, the sound rumbling through you and triggering another little sigh. Your fingers curled at the nap of his neck, clenching a little in his hair. Your body rolled a little against him, your breasts pressing into his chest and your nipples rubbing into the fabric of your bra. Baelorâs hand slid further back and into the hair at the base of your neck, his fingers clenching a little as a high pitched sound left your mouth.Â
He pulled back for a second, not far, just enough for him to be able to push back in again, a little more hurried, a little more fervent. He coaxed your mouth open with his lips, and you gasped, twitching against him at the feeling of his tongue slowly licking into you. Your nails pressed into his scalp, scraping there, and he shivered, groaning harshly into your mouth.Â
You pulled back quickly, huffing and heaving in his lap. Your eyes fluttered but you didnât want to open them fully just yet. You were⌠overwhelmed. Your heart raced and your hands trembled and you so desperately wanted to dive back in again, to taste his mouth until you died from lack of oxygen. He tasted like the green Extra gum, sweet spearmint, and you hoped you tasted half as good to him in return.Â
Baelor looked at you with heavy eyes. You couldnât tell what he was thinking. He felt⌠wild. Yes, that was the word. He felt like a wild animal. He wanted to grasp you by the back of your neck and pull you in again, to devour your mouth, to lick your tongue like a lion with a kill. He wanted to thrust his hands under your shirt and feel along your skin, warm and smooth and simply perfect under his palms. He wanted to know the weight of your breasts, to feel the ripple of your arse against him. He wanted to know how soft the skin of your inner thighs was and how wet your core could get. He wanted to run his fingers there, to press against your clit until you shook. He wanted to taste everything.Â
âThat wasâŚâ you panted, eyes shining and sparkling. He had never seen your eyes like that. They were full of wonder and joy and made him want to kiss you again.Â
âThat was very good,â he finally broke out, licking his lips and nodding, attempting to recapture a professional tone as he looked up at you. You shifted on his lap, not back or forward, just pressing down a little, and his breath hitched. He hoped you couldnât feel the situation brewingâŚÂ
âYeah,â you sighed, blinking slowly but still looking into his eyes. âYeah, it-it felt good.âÂ
âKissing can be quite instinctual sometimes,â he told you softly, allowing himself to relax into the sofa as you softened in his arms and nodded, brushing your nose against his without thinking. He caressed your cheek with his thumb, feeling the soft skin there. âYou follow each other, listen to what seems to pleasure the other person. It is give and take.â You nodded again, glancing between his eyes and his mouth. Now that you had caught your breath, you wanted to kiss him again.
âCan we do it again?â you asked quickly, heat burning under your skin as you bit your lip and curled in on yourself a little.Â
âYes,â Baelor sighed out just as hurriedly, and then he was leaning in once more.Â
Baelor sipped slowly from the crystal glass, his eyes unfocused where he looked out of the windows. He had pulled the curtains back after you left from another session, as if a vampire punishing himself with the sun. But the view was lovely at sunset, and he needed something to look at as he contemplated. He did not usually indulge at the office, but it had seemed necessary and the decanter was calling his name.Â
The clinks were satisfying, the stopper, the pour, the stopper again. It was a lovely amber in the glass, expensive even in its colour, and it slipped down his throat like water, hot and smooth. He drank the first glass quickly, one throw back, but was now savouring the second. He rested his elbows on the desk, slumped forward a little as he thought back to your session.Â
He was getting far too used to you crawling over to him now, to your sweet eyes as you batted your lashes at him and asked if you could sit in his lap again. He should have started saying no to you. He should have started building that separation back up again. You said you felt comfortable in his lap now, that you really liked it, it made you feel safe and honest. He should have stopped it right then when you had carefully admitted that in a whisper against his neck as you snuggled into him. He should not have wrapped his arms around you and hugged you a little tighter. He should not have pressed his mouth to your hair in a silent kiss and allowed his eyes to flutter shut.Â
You were becoming too close, too dependent, and it would not do. It was his duty as a professional to stop this at once and pull away, to refer you to someone else. Not just because you were too dependent, but because his own mind was straying. He looked at you sometimes and found it impossible not to smile. He felt things in his chest that he should not have been feeling as an objective professional. His hands were always tight with the need to reach out and touch you. His lips were always tingling with the need to kiss you.Â
Baelor sighed, clenched his eyes shut, and shook his head. He took another long sip from the glass, rubbing a hand over his face. He was not viewing you as a client anymore, and that was the most dangerous part of it all.Â
He thought back to the session earlier, to your face, the way your eyes lit up as you spoke about this man you were seeing.Â
âItâs been really good, Baelor! Really! We went out for dinner the other night, and he held my hand, and we went for a stroll after and he wrapped his arm around me and I didnât even flinch. And⌠and he even kissed me goodbye. It was small and soft but it was a real kiss!â You giggled then, clenching your hand in the lapel of his blazer as you told him all the news excitedly. How odd that he should be happy and sad hearing this at the same time. Your excitement was beautiful, infectious, and he felt proud that you had come so far since your sessions began. He felt proud at having had even the smallest part in building your confidence. But he also felt shamefully jealous of this man, whoever he was, and how he got to do all these things with you.Â
âThatâs wonderful news,â he had told you, softly caressing a strand of your hair, eyes crinkling at the corners.Â
âYeah⌠yeah it is,â and you smiled so brightly, giggling a little with your giddiness, and it took an otherworldly sort of strength to stop him from leaning in and kissing you. âI think things are getting serious. I canât really believe it but⌠he likes me. Like, he really likes me. I guess I never thought it would happen.â Tears had gathered in your eyes and he had simply held you as you cried, daintily wiping one from your cheek before you pressed your face to his neck again and sighed softly.Â
There were a million things he had wanted to say in that moment. He had wanted to tell you that you deserved all the love there was to be given. He had wanted to say that he believed it, that he believed everyone was in love with you, because how could they not be? He had wanted to tell you that⌠that he loved you.Â
Baelor clenched his eyes shut again and drank what remained of his glass before gulping down another. He picked up his pen and quickly wrote at the bottom of the page, âSEND FOR REFERRALâ. He underlined it three times, then slammed the notebook shut.Â
You were wearing a red dress. Perhaps it was to torture Baelor, a punishment for not following through and referring you on to another therapist. It was another summer dress, vibrantly red, softly flowing around your shins. You seemed to favour off the shoulder straps, this one having lovely puffy and ruched short sleeves, and he could almost imagine the dress sliding down your body, piling on the floor at your feet.Â
You were back to your old positions, you curled up in the corner of the sofa, and him in his armchair, attempting some form of separation lest he get too lost again. But this felt worse somehow, because now he had a clear view of you. He could see your ankles and smooth shins where the dress had ridden up. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the place where your earring was stuck in your hair. And he could see the way you chewed at your lip, looking at him nervously as if there was something on the tip of your tongue that you were attempting to gather the courage to say.Â
âI-â you began, then swiftly stopped. You glanced up at him and then shook your head, bringing your hand up and chewing at the side of your finger. âNothing,â you murmured, waving your other hand in the air and looking back down to the floor.Â
Baelor put his pen down and cleared his throat, waiting until you were looking at him before raising his eyebrows to prompt you into speaking. It was that look, the expectant one, the one that would have even the most disciplined of monks crumbling in their vows of silence.Â
âStop looking at me like that, it makes me want to tell you everything,â you grumbled, scowling a little. Baelor chuckled, shaking his head and sliding his hand over his mouth before resting it there, leaning into it on the arm of his chair as he watched you.Â
âYou should attempt to do so then,â he answered wryly, raising his eyebrow again as he waited for you to finally become forthcoming during this session.Â
âWhy are you sitting over there again?â You asked instead, looking back to the spot he usually took up then back to him. He paused a moment, jaw clenching for the smallest second (though hidden well behind the cover of his beard). Â
âSo I can see you better,â he finally answered, shrugging as if it meant nothing. You nodded, earnest, and he felt a twinge of guilt for the lie. Then you snorted a chuckle.Â
âYou know what? That makes you sound like the wolf from red riding hood,â you giggled, hiding your laugh behind your hand and looking at him with sparkling eyes. He smirked, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly but unable to hold off his smile at your joy. He much preferred seeing you like this, especially compared to the nervous wreck from moments before.Â
You chewed on your lip again when your laughs subsided. You rubbed a hand down your face, shook your head, then looked up at him from under your lashes as you said, âcan you come sit here again? I like it better that way.âÂ
He didnât move instantly. It was a war inside him, the desperate desire to do as you asked, and the weaker, sensible, side of him that told him to stay put, to tell you that it would be better to remain this way. He could see worry begin to descend in your eyes at his inaction, could see the gnawing at your lip become harsher, and that sensible side of him failed once more.Â
Baelor stood and moved over to the sofa, sitting down on the other end and settling his notebook in his lap. Perhaps if he kept his notebook there this time, and didn't allow you to settle on his lap, then everything would end up alright. You smiled a little once he was sat, and he felt it like a kiss on his heart.Â
You pulled your knees up close to your chest and he could see your toes poking out from under your dress. You fiddled with your fingers on your lap and glanced up at him one more time before you blurted,Â
âI think he wants to sleep with me.âÂ
Baelor paused where he had been twisting his ring around, eyebrows raising and eyes widening as he met your eyes.Â
âOh,â he breathed out, nodding, pausing to pick up his pen and twirl it around once.Â
âI⌠I think so. Last night, I went over to his place again. We watched a movie, had a cuddle, it was⌠it was amazing, as usual.â Your eyes were off in the distance, a distracted but warm smile on your mouth. âWe kissed, for a while. Like, properly. Like, his mouth went places other than mine.â You felt heat burn through you as you told him, glancing back to Baelor as you pressed a hand to your hot cheek. âHe⌠he kissed down my neck and his hands started moving around, you know, like-like he started feeling me up and it was really nice. He asked me if I wanted to go to his room to get more comfortable. I panicked and said I had an early morning so I had to leave. Heâs so nice. Heâs like, the absolute sweetest guy ever. I donât know why I keep lying to him about this stuff but I just feel like if I tell him how scared I am, he wonât want me anymore.âÂ
Baelor pursed his lips and nodded, writing in the notebook again before looking at you. Your eyes were hesitant, looking to him for guidance, assurance, anything really.Â
âIs someone who would be angry about their partner being inexperienced the kind of person you would want to be with?â He asked after a while, carefully enunciating each word. Your eyes widened a fraction, lips parting, and you lifted your head to look at him properly. It should not have been such an epiphany but it still felt groundbreaking.Â
âI mean, of course not,â you answered, shaking your head and pursing your lips for a moment. âBut I donât think itâs about that either. In my head, I know he wouldnât dump me. Honestly, I think it would be the opposite. I think he would be really kind about it all. But the anxious irrational side of my head feels like I just canât. Itâs not about him being nice or not, itâs about me not being able to do it. I donât want to have the experience with him like that.âÂ
You glanced up at Baelor with worried eyes. It felt wrong to admit that somehow, that you wanted to be picky and choosy about this when you should just be grateful that someone wanted to be with you in the first place.Â
Baelor hummed and nodded again, brows furrowing a little in thought, and you scooted down in your seat a little to watch him. His hair was a little neater today despite his habit of running his hand through it. His beard had been trimmed recently, you could tell now, and the intense desire to feel it against your own cheek hit you so suddenly you went breathless. His lashes fluttered prettily when he blinked, and those eyes, blue and brown, warm and cold, were the perfect reflections of the balance that seemed to live within him.Â
âHm, that is rather tricky. I suppose you need to decide if you want to eventually push through this, obviously not pressuring yourself but working on it until you feel comfortable, to have the experience with him. Or if you wish to break it off and try with someone else.â Though his tone was careful, not unkind, you felt as if it was so final.Â
You nodded first, pursing your lips and then pressing them tight together as tears began to burn at your eyes. Your face crumpled slowly and you pressed it to the backs of your knees, shaking your head as you sucked in a wet, crackling, breath. Then you lifted your head and shifted, slowly crawling closer to him until you were kneeling right beside him on the sofa.Â
âCan I please have a hug?â You asked, your voice small and watery as the tears continued to pour. You sniffled as you waited and Baelorâs face contorted with pain. He nodded quickly and pushed his notebook to the side, bringing you into his arms. He hushed you quietly, wrapping both arms around you, one hand softly petting the back of your head as you burrowed your face into his neck and shoulder and cried quietly.Â
He kept you there until your sniffling quieted and the hand that had clenched at the collar of his button-up loosened a little. You pulled back to look him in the eye, but your faces were impossibly close. You could feel his breaths brushing lightly against your nose and mouth. You reached up with one trembling hand and wiped at your cheek and undereye. Your nose brushed against his lightly, and you blinked once, slow and long.Â
âWould you⌠would you do it with me?â You asked, voice hushed and small. Baelor stiffened a little under you as he attempted to comprehend what you were truly asking. His eyes flicked up from your lips and to your own. His hand stilled on your back.Â
âY/nâŚâ he said your name as a warning, but it sounded far too lovely from his mouth for you to heed it. You rolled your lips against one another and shifted a little in his lap, pressing impossibly closer, until your face was all he could see.Â
âPlease, Baelor,â you begged, voice soft and breathy. He could feel it almost against his lips, and his eyes fluttered closed at the sound, his adamâs apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. You begged far too prettily for it to be anything other than seductive, anything other than a punishment. âI trust you more than anyone, especially for this.âÂ
Baelorâs eyes clenched a little where they had shut, his breaths harsher now. His throat moved again, and you followed it greedily with your eyes, suddenly desperate for it all. Gods, you were hot with want. It was a fire in your core, pulsing hot at the apex of your thighs and in tingling sparks in your breasts. You shifted your hips again, not thinking, not knowing how it dragged you right over his cock, hard and pulsing under his trousers and underwear, how it made him want to bite down on the naked skin of your shoulder.Â
âIt would not be right,â he finally managed to grit out, his hands coming down to settle on either side of your waist. You worried he would push you away, but his grip on you only tightened, neither pushing nor pulling.Â
âYou would be helping me, please,â you begged again, your breaths shuddering along his mouth and chin. He wanted to open his lips and suck them in, wanted to swallow everything you had to give.Â
âIâŚâ but he could not continue because somehow your mouths were joined together. Somehow his tongue was pressed past your lips, licking strong and wet into the heat there, tasting the fruit flavoured gum you had been chewing on just before the session.Â
You moaned into his mouth, small and quiet, but it made everything from his neck down pulse hot and had him dragging you even closer to him. He tried not to hurry as he kissed you, tried to maintain a steady pace, deep and dragging with each movement of his lips, but it became increasingly difficult.Â
You felt hot all over, like your skin was touched by the sun, and everything inside you was electrified, sensitive to every breath and graze. His arm was strong where it wrapped around your waist to drag you closer. You were straddling him, the dress ridden up to expose your knees, and the motion of him moving you closer dragged your core right over where his cock had hardened along his leg. You were wet under your panties, slick in a way that moved your lips against each other and lightly teased your clit. Your cunt pressed right into the seams over his zipper and you let out a high-pitched keen, your mouth falling open against his. The drag of it, the pressure right there, it was electric.Â
He did it again, grasped your hips in his hands and dragged you back then forward again, pressing down a little more. Again that feeling, that lovely clenching inside you, the wet pulsing and rubbing feeling. He felt your moan against him, your hot damp breath over his lips, and he kissed you again until you were breathless and tingling from the rub of his beard.Â
âIf we are going to do this,â he finally panted out, pulling away from your mouth to reach up and begin pushing your hair out of your face. âWe are going to do it properly, hm?â He nudged your nose with his, making sure you were looking in his eyes when you nodded frantically. âIâm going to teach you, and youâre going to communicate. Youâre going to tell me if something feels good, if something feels bad, if something hurts or you want to do it differently. Understood?â You nodded once more and licked your lips.Â
âYes, yes I will,â you hurried out, sitting up and resting your hands on his shoulders. He groaned softly, hands flexing on you, and nodded once.Â
âRight, stand up,â he ordered, patting you on the side and watching you quickly scramble off him, huffing and puffing as if you had run a mile. The movement of your chest made your breasts push against the dress and it took significant willpower not to reach out and grasp them.Â
Baelor followed after you, standing up to his full height and gazing down at you. Your hair was dishevelled now, your eyes and lips glossy, and your dress had become rumpled and wrinkled. But when you looked up at him with such trusting and expectant eyes, he could not help himself from leaning down and giving you a quick, chaste, kiss on the lips before pulling back and refocusing.Â
âDepending on the situation, you may undress yourself, or your partner may undress you. It happens in the moment, and can depend on how fast or slow you are going, but it does not hurt to communicate here either.â As Baelor spoke, his hands went up to his own shirt, slowly beginning to unbutton and exposing the white vest he wore underneath. You stepped closer to him then, licking your lips and reaching out to caress the backs of his hands.Â
âCan- can I do that?â You asked, hesitant and small, but he smiled appreciatively and nodded, removing his own hands and instead busying them in caressing the skin of your upper arms and shoulders. You shivered at the feeling.Â
Carefully, you undid each button, moving all the way down to his waistband and pulling up to untuck the shirt. You pushed the sides open and carefully touched along his chest and stomach over the vest, feeling the soft material and the firm muscle underneath. He shrugged the shirt off and tossed it onto the sofa, leaving you to gawp at his arms. They were big, thicker than you were expecting and was belied by his shirts. You carefully splayed your palm on one, feeling the soft skin there, and squeezed a little, blushing hot when he chuckled.Â
Baelor reached down and undid his belt, pulling it from the loops and tossing it where his shirt was. You gulped at the motion, eyes dragging down his abdomen and to the place where you could see something pushing against his trousers. You reached out and pulled his vest from his waistband as well, gathering the white material up and up until it was bunched in your hands and you could begin pulling it up his torso. You dragged your knuckles up the lines of his stomach, up to the definition of his chest, and held your arms aloft so he could grip the vest and take it fully off. When that too was tossed on the sofa, you allowed yourself free reign, pressing your palms to his chest, to the scraggly hairs there that were the same mix of dark brown and grey.Â
You could see freckles here and there too, how his skin had gone softer as he had aged, and you carefully dragged your nails along his stomach. He shivered, huffing out a breath as he felt the scratching down over his stomach and toward his waistband. You followed his happy trail. You had finally felt a happy trail, you thought giddily, and you just allowed yourself to rub back and forth along the hair there until he was reaching down to grip your wrists.Â
You glanced up at him then, a new openness and almost-smiling quality to your mouth. You blinked quickly and flipped your hands so you could loosen his grip from your wrists and grab his instead. You brought his hands to your body, gulping as you placed them on your waist.Â
âWill you take off my dress please?â you asked, and he nodded, slowly dragging his palms up your sides, taking a moment to just cup your breasts over the dress. Your nipples rubbed against the inside of your bra as he did it, and you let out a shaky breath.Â
Baelor hooked his fingers into the neckline of your dress, sliding his fingers out to the side and stretching the elastic so you could pull first one arm out then the other. He held onto the neckline and brought it down, stretching it over your breasts then dragging it down your stomach, over the curves of your hips and arse and then down your legs. Each new inch of skin exposed was another he ate with his eyes, absorbing the details of pores or freckles or marks or hairs. When the dress was at your feet, you stepped out of it and he picked it up, gently draping it on the sofa beside his own clothes.Â
He looked back to you, to the white bandeau bra and panties, to the wet spot he could see there that made his mouth salivate. He reached out and placed his palms on your waist again, flat to bare skin, and you shivered at the searing warmth. He dragged his hands up and down your sides, feeling along the skin, heating you up further, and your shaky breaths left from parted lips.Â
Baelor leaned down and kissed you once more, that same soft chaste style, then pulled away to nudge his head in the direction of the floor.Â
âLie down,â he ordered, pulling away from you to grab a cushion from the sofa and drop it on the floor for your head. You nodded, getting down on your knees first. You looked up at him, gulping at the angle. He looked impossibly taller like this. You paused there, watching his hands go to the button of his trousers, flicking it open before pinching the zipper and dragging it down. You were fluttering, in your stomach, in your veins. He paused there to toe off his shoes, nudging them off to the side before gripping the waistband of his trousers and pushing them off.Â
You watched him as he had watched you, greedily. He wore black underwear, the tight shorts kind that had seams around the bulge area. You could see that he was hard under them, could see his cock pressing harshly against the fabric. You licked your lips, trembling, and watched him bend a little to cup your cheek with his hand. You tilted your head back to look at him, but he bent at the waist and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. You preened at it, going warm in the chest, and shuddered with pleasure.Â
He stepped back and held up a finger to you, then moved around the sofa towards his desk. You watched him as much as you could from where you leaned, but you only got a lovely view of the tan skin sprawled along his back and his firm buttocks under the black fabric. He opened a desk drawer, rummaged around, grabbed something, then shut it and walked back over. You traced his legs with your eyes this time, the strong muscles of his thighs, the tight lines that moved up and down from his knees, the black hairs that dusted him all over.Â
Baelor placed the thing down on the edge of the sofa and you realised it was a condom, the foil wrapper crinkling a little. You hadnât even thought about that in your desperation, and you felt a zap of embarrassment through you. Baelor kneeled down in front of you then, cupping your neck on either side and kissing you, licking into your mouth and emptying the thoughts from your head. You ran your hands down his chest, taking comfort from the warm skin. He pulled back, flicking his eyes down to your bra then tracing the band that lay just under your breasts.Â
âDo you want to take this off?â he asked, running his thumb over the curve of it, over where your nipple was firm under the fabric and you let out a breathy sound as you nodded. He hooked his fingers under it and dragged it over your breasts, watching them as he raised it up and over your outstretched arms. You shivered, the cool air brushing places no man had ever seen before, and you raised your hands quickly to hide behind them. Baelor didnât say anything, just reached up and caressed your cheek as you clenched your eyes shut.Â
You felt scared suddenly, scared at him seeing such intimate parts of you, parts that you worried would disappoint him. He leaned forward, a soft kiss to your forehead, to your left cheek, to your right, to the bridge of your nose, and when your eyes fluttered open again, he nudged your nose with his.Â
âYou do not have to do anything. You can put your clothes back on and leave. You can leave the bra on and continue. Tell me how youâre feeling.â You gulped and nodded, slowly moving your hands away and resting them on his shoulders instead.Â
âI want to continue. Please. I just⌠Do you think Iâm ugly?â Your eyes were a little teary as you asked it, your lower lip trembling, and his hands tightened on you. His eyes flashed, his brow creasing with concern, and he traced your bottom lip with his thumb.Â
âI think you are beyond beautiful. I think you are stunning, and sexy. But I want you to think that too.â He traced his thumb down, watching your lip bounce back into place before moving it down your chin, to the underside of it and down the middle of your neck. Down it went, over your chest and to the space between your breasts, the flat of your sternum. Then the thumb followed the curve of your left breast, pressing into the underside before pushing up and simply feeling the soft flesh there. âAnyone would be lucky to see you in this way,â he murmured, and you shivered.Â
Baelor leant down and pressed a feather-light kiss to your jaw. His lips pressed another and another along it until he reached your ear. He kissed under the lobe, a soft spot just behind it that reacted to his hot breath like water on hot coals. He kissed down your neck, big, open-mouthed, kisses that had his tongue pressing out and licking the skin. His teeth gently caught some skin between them, rolling it back and forth before letting it go and kissing down.
You allowed him to push you back until you were slowly being laid down, your head settled comfortably against the cushion. Your eyes fluttered closed as you focused on the sensation of his hot mouth on the plush skin of your breasts and his beard rubbing. You felt his lips close around your nipple, wet, the tightening feeling of the skin there puckering with desire. You felt his teeth tease it, felt his tongue lap against it, felt the air begin to cool the saliva there when he pulled away and did the same to your other nipple.Â
Baelor kissed down your stomach, light presses of his mouth to the fluttering skin, and you cracked your eyes open and pushed your head up to watch him. He rubbed his big hands along the sides of your thighs, groping your behind a little, before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties.Â
âOff?â He asked quietly, looking up at you from between your legs. The sight of it, of his blue and brown eye, of his beard, of his mussed hair, all situated comfortably between your thighs and peering up at you had you gulping and pulsing once more. You could feel the slick pouring out of you, hot and slippery, and you felt the cold air there like a kiss.Â
He dragged your panties down to your ankles then pulled them off, tossing them onto the sofa with everything else. Carefully, he had you bend your knees, then reached between them to splay his hands on the insides of your thighs, thick fingers spanning the sensitive skin before he began pushing them apart. You shivered and licked your lips but allowed it, following the press of his hands until your legs fell naturally open.Â
He gazed down at you, eyes fixating on the flushed and wet skin. You looked soft and damp, dewy and puffy in a way that called to him like nothing else. He could see your clit where your lips pulled apart a little, the swollen little nub begging for his tongue and touch. He could see your hole, fluttering a little where you clenched and unclenched with every pulse inside you, the slick and shiny wetness that coated you. He rubbed your inner thighs once before he looked back up at you.Â
âAs it is your first time, itâs always best to have some preparation. Weâll start with my tongue, maybe a finger or two before we attempt anything, alright?â He watched you lick your lips, eyes lighting up, and nod quickly. âThis goes for the future as well. Foreplay and preparation are essential to having a pleasant time. Some can handle penetration without preparation once they become regularly sexually active, but others need preparation every single time. It all depends on how you feel and what you communicate with your partner.âÂ
You nodded eagerly once more. Your mouth was full of saliva no matter how much you swallowed, and your skin tingled everywhere. You wanted to tell him to hurry, that you were desperate to feel him now, but that would not do. He was trying to teach you something. It was not his fault that he was also the reason you were so riled up you couldnât focus.Â
Baelor nodded once then sighed as he shuffled down and lay his stomach on the carpet in front of you. He caressed a finger up the back of one of your thighs and you shivered, your leg twitching at the ticklish sensation. He smiled a little and began moving you around, taking one of your legs and draping it over his shoulder before doing the same with the other. Once they were secure, he shuffled forward until suddenly you could feel him breathing against your core.Â
You clenched your eyes shut, your thighs tightening around his head, but he just shushed you gently and began blowing softly along your hot skin. You shivered, the cold air caressing your hot slick. He curved one arm around and splayed his hand over your stomach, carefully holding you there. The other hand slithered up and his thumb began touching the soft lips of your cunt. He rubbed the slick into the skin, then separated the lips so he could look properly at your clit.Â
He breathed in your small, warm and dewy, and his eyes fluttered shut. He moaned low in his throat then pressed forward, lightly touching the tip of his tongue to your clit.Â
He mouthed at you there until you couldnât tell your body apart from a series of electric sensations. You felt his tongue licking at you, hot rough drags that pushed and pulled at your clit, that made something that was already on fire burn like an inferno. You felt each touch inside you, felt the sparks and the zaps and the tingles like someone was playing the triangle right inside you, hitting the thing that reverberated within you over and over.Â
He groaned against you, his rough beard overstimulating the skin of your thighs. He pressed his tongue into your core and the feeling of it breaching your hole sent you into your first orgasm, built too quickly and crashing fast. You clenched your hands into the carpet beside you and twitched, legs stretching and pressing into the floor beside his ribs. He licked you until you were whining then brought the tip of his index finger to where he had just pulled his tongue from. He looked up at you then, lifting a little between your legs to meet your eyes.Â
His beard was wet. It shined in the light. The sight of it was orgasmic in itself. His lips were shiny too, and he licked them like he had indulged in a delicacy, like he needed to savour it, and you would have twitched into another orgasm right then.Â
âIâm going to push my finger in now. Tell me if it hurts or you wish to stop at any time,â he ordered, and you nodded, your lips parting as you panted.Â
Baelor touched your clit softly with his index finger and your hips jerked harshly, a strangled sound falling from your mouth. You would have whined at him that it was sensitive if you didnât think he did it for that exact reaction. He pressed the back of his middle finger between your lips and dragged up and down, making sure it was wet with your slick before he brought it down to your hole and began pressing in.Â
You closed your eyes again and allowed yourself just to feel the sensation. It was an intrusion, and you clenched and unclenched around it. You were warm and wet on the inside too, but it was ten times as much, like a perfect furnace. The texture of your walls was soft and fleshy, pushing and pulling and pulsing, and he pushed his finger to the hilt then dragged it back and forth.Â
You felt that hot sparkle inside you again, those waves that increased in frequency until it was a frantic up and down. He held your hips steady with his other hand as you writhed and humped against his hand. In and out, in and out. His thumb moved up and dragged against your clit, taking your wetness and smearing it along the swollen nub until you were whining and moaning from your tight throat, calling his name. He pressed another finger in with the first, watching you writhe a little more at the stretch and burn. He pushed and pulled, panted as he watched you twitch and stretch and cum against his hand.Â
This one had been even more intense. It left you splayed out and trembling, melted into the carpet and spinning in the head. You focused on the shadows behind your eyelids, panting and slowly loosening. Baelor caressed your legs, the outside of your thigh and the expanse of your stomach. He watched you carefully, waited patiently until your eyes fluttered open and you were looking at him with amazement. He tilted his head and kissed the inside of your knee.Â
âWould you like to continue or stop here?â He asked quietly, his voice a murmur against your skin. You gulped and wet your lips.Â
âContinue, please,â you breathed out, and he nodded, bringing your knees from his shoulders and placing your feet on the carpet either side of him.Â
He rose onto his knees and pulled down the waistband of his underwear. He dragged it down his thighs then under one knee and then the other. You blinked at the sight of his cock, flushed red at the tip and ready. Perhaps that was your biggest vote of confidence, that he was already hard. Surely that meant you did something right, that he found you even a little attractive. The sight had you both tensing and melting further into the carpet.Â
His cock was flushed red and thick, just the right size all over you guessed. It was shiny with precum and as he reached over for the condom, his other hand dragged over it, rubbing up and down once or twice as he shivered. With shaking arms, you pushed yourself up, leaning back onto one palm as the other began reaching out for his cock.Â
âCan I touch it?â You asked in a ragged whisper, flicking your eyes up to his. You watched him rip the packet of the condom open with his teeth, and you almost threw yourself at him. Why was such a simple sight so frenzy inducing?Â
âOf course,â he answered, shivering when your fingers gently wrapped around his appendage. He was hot to the touch, damp with cum, and softer than you had expected. You werenât quite sure what you had been expecting, but it was nice. You kept your grip relatively loose, not realising how teasing that felt when you traversed it up and down him. His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving at the light touches you dragged along his cock and down to his balls. You touched the skin there too, fascinated by the tightness there, and he huffed and puffed from his mouth, not wishing to stop you but becoming more and more desperate to be inside you.Â
When you had had your fill, you pulled back and leaned on both hands to watch him roll the condom down onto his cock. He did it with practiced ease, slipping it over the head and rolling it down securely. Once it was done, he was quick to lean over you, pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you, laved his tongue between your lips, rubbed his beard to your chin and cheeks as he pushed forward until you were laying back down and he was hovering over you, his hips encased between your thighs. You could taste yourself on him and his beard, could taste that dewiness as he smashed his mouth to yours until you couldnât breathe.Â
He pressed his weight down on you, your chest to his, your nipples rubbing against his skin and chest hair. Your stomach rubbed his with every heaving breath, and you could feel his cock just touching your cunt. He caressed your cheek with one hand and looked into your eyes.Â
âYou can say no at any point. You can ask me to stop whenever you wish, to end everything without any consequences or questions. Understood?â You nodded hurriedly in response but you were so close now, so desperate despite your fear and hesitance.Â
Baelor nodded once then kissed you as he reached down with his hand and notched his cock at your entrance. He began to push in, groaning into your mouth as your wet heat enveloped him. You felt it press through you, separate places that had always been together. You felt it all the way inside you, heavy and hot and rubbing against those spots that pulsed electricity into the rest of you. He kept a steady pace and kissed you to distract from the discomfort and stinging at your entrance. Your muscles were too spent from the previous orgasms to fight against his cock too much.Â
He paused at the end, panting against your mouth. He felt your hands splay against his back, your nails curling into the skin at his ribs. He felt every shift of your hips, the tightening of your thighs over his waist. The place just above his cock pushed at your cunt and rubbed against your clit, forcing it to pulse frantically and send your brain reeling.Â
He waited for the contortions on your face to loosen a little, for your panting breaths to slow and the way you clenched your cunt around him to become more steady and deliberate. You ran your hand down his back and cupped his waist, just feeling his skin and muscles. He kissed you again, pressed his tongue past your lips, then began to move. You felt it drag through you, as if pulling the pleasure and then pushing it back in.Â
You whined against his lips, head dropping back as your body went weak. One of his hands threaded under your arm and then up to cup the back of your neck, holding you tight to his body as he sped up his thrusts. His other hand held tight to your waist, pulling you up against his thrusts.Â
Every motion your body made felt instinctual, involuntary. Every twitch was wrought from the fiery pleasure that pulsed from the drag of your clit against his skin. Every moan was punched from your throat as he thrust his cock back into you, a little harder than before. You pressed your mouth to his shoulder, biting a little when the drags began to push you higher onto the precipice.Â
âBaelor,â you moaned, turning your head to begin mouthing at the skin of his neck, kissing and sucking at it.Â
He groaned loudly, a low and rough sound in your hair, and his grip on you tightened. His thrusts became quicker, the sound of skin slapping and wet squelching unmistakable now. You whined. The pleasure was a pulse between your thighs. Everything was electric. Your ears were dull thumping rushes. Your fingertips were blunt and twitching. Your nipples taut, rubbing against his chest and zapping your insides with heat. You panted, clenched, pressed into his thrusts. Your fingernails dug into his back, your arms trembling. You trembled entirely.Â
And then the wave washed over, your mouth dropping open on a long moan. It covered you from head to toe, warmth and throbbing and weakness. You were spent, a mass of flesh and skin and pulsing warmth.Â
He bit down on the side of your neck when he came, groaning loudly and huffing and puffing. He held you tightly as his hips twitched, the last drags of his own pleasure swimming out of him. He attempted to roll off of you, but you whined and wrapped your arms around him, whimpering a âstay here pleaseâ at the pleasant weight of him there. He hesitated a fraction, blinked quickly to try and look down at your face, ask if you were sure, but you whined again and pulled him back down and he went with it.Â
He hummed softly as you caressed his back, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder. He murmured little words of praise, how you did so well, how you looked beautiful, how you were utterly perfect. It felt almost like another orgasm, a soft wave of warmth over you, stemming from the whispers that entered your ears.Â
When you had finally caught your breath enough to deem your mind coherent, you caressed a hand through his hair and pressed your lips to his cheek for a chaste kiss before dragging them up to his ear and whispering, âthank you.âÂ
Baelor hummed quietly to himself as he quickly sliced an entire cucumber. âHere Comes The Sunâ by the Beatles played softly in the background just over the boiling of the pasta and the hum of the oven. It would be a late lunch, he thought, as he looked out onto the back garden through the sliding doors, to the lovely sunshine on the green grass and the little table set with plates and cutlery and glasses.Â
He was in a particularly good mood that day. He woke up rather late, slowly and without an alarm blaring to the bright sunshine streaming through the sheer white curtains. He had rolled out of bed, ambled his way to the bathroom and carefully examined the now slowly fading marks of your teeth on his shoulder, the one purplish bruise just above his collarbone. He pressed lightly on them, thought back to how he had been wearing collared shirts and turtlenecks for the past week, and smiled slightly, shaking his head as he hopped in the shower.Â
He was dressed casually, a black polo that Matarys deemed his most âdadâ shirt, and a loose pair of jogger bottoms. He ate a quick breakfast over the counter as he put on the tv in the background, and now here he was, finishing off lunch just in time for his sons to arrive. He had more than one reason to be happy today. He loved Saturdays, because they meant family lunch with Valarr and Matarys, and you had a session booked in for Monday which meant he would get to see you very soon. He was almost scared by how much he longed for itâŚÂ
âDaaaad!â The door opened and then a long call, surely Matarys returning from his hockey practice if the rustling and banging by the door was anything to go by. âValâs here too!âÂ
Baelor smiled brightly, wiping his hands on the dish towel and walking around the counter to head in the direction of the entryway. It was a particularly big day for another reason: Valarr was bringing his girlfriend home for the first time.Â
Baelor rounded the corner, a warm smile already pulling at his lips as he spotted his youngest son, his hair a sweaty mop as he toed off his shoes and turned back to speak quickly to his elder brother. Then Valarr, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, wearing a navy blue button down casually opened at the top and a pair of jeans, smiling softly at the girl beside hi-Â
There you were, standing in a beautiful navy blue dress, lips parted and staring at him like a deer in headlights. Baelor felt his heart stop beating. Your hair was neatly pinned in a half-up half-down style, the dress was respectfully modest, and you clutched a bouquet of flowers and a candle politely in front of you. Baelor couldnât get his body to cooperate. Your hands began to shake, your lips parting as you stared up into his mismatched eyes. Valarr rubbed the small of your back gently looking between you and Baelor, his smile a picture of restrained excitement. He had been telling you non-stop how excited he was for you to meet his father.Â
âDad, Iâd like you to meet my girlfriend, Y/n.â
summary: you thought you could leave baelor targaryen. you had the lawyer, you had the papers, you had every reason in the world. what you didnât have was any idea how far he was willing to go to make sure you didnât. (6k)
pairing: baelor targaryen x fem!reader
contents: modern au, canon divergent, age gap, established marriage, jealousy, toxic!baelor, obsessive!baelor, dark!baelor, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, he loves you badly but he loves you completely cw: toxic relationship dynamics, manipulation, blackmail, threats, dubcon elements, baby trapping, smut 18+ (MDNI): unprotected sex, possessive sex, he will not let you leave and your body is a traitor about it, don't like the tags don't read it.
part II: âwhat staysâ
You had been sitting in the dark long enough to finish two glasses of wine and start a third, long enough for the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows to stop being beautiful and start being just light, long enough to rehearse what you were going to say so many times that the words had stopped feeling like words and started feeling like something final, and you were still sitting there, in the dark, on the couch you had picked out together, wondering where it had gone all wrong.Â
Your family had no name and no money, not the kind that mattered in this city, not the kind that got you into rooms like this one, and Baelor Targaryen had both in quantities that other people spent their lives chasing and never caught, and you had never understood, not when he first looked at you across a room and decided, with quiet certainty of his, that you were the one he wanted, and not in the years since what it was he had seen in you.
You still didnât. You had turned that question over in your mind for years now and still had no answer for it, and maybe that was the problem.Â
Or maybe the problem was something else entirely, something that smelled like Chanel No.5 and worked the front desk on the forty-second floor of Targaryen Group and had absolutely no business being the reason your three year marriage was falling apart.
You had tried for longer than you wanted to admit, not to believe it. Had told yourself it was nothing, that you were merely just being foolish, that Baelor Targaryen was many things but he was not that, he had never been that. You tried telling yourself that he was just busy, that the acquisition was demanding, that the late nights were the industry and not the woman, that the business trips were exactly what he said they were. You had told yourself that story so many times it had almost started to sound true.
And then there was the office party.
He had wanted you there, had said it was expected, had kissed the top of your head and said he didn't want to go alone, and you had gone because you loved him and because saying no to Baelor when he looked at you like that had never been something you were particularly good at.Â
The venue was the kind of place that made you very aware of your own posture, all clean lines and open bars and people who wore their money, and you had been standing beside him, his hand at the small of your back, feeling almost like yourself, until she appeared.Â
She had smiled at you first, which was the thing you remembered most. That smile, bright and deliberate, her red lipstick immaculate, her eyes moving over you with an assessment so quick and so thorough you almost missed it. âYou wouldnât mind if I steal your husband for a few quick minutes,â she had said, and her hand had gone to his upper arm as she said it, her red nails against his sleeve, easy and familiar, the touch of someone who had done it before. âSomething just needs to be checked in the office, urgently.â
Baelor had given nothing away. He had looked at you, said heâd be right back, and followed her, while you stood there with your drink and your smile, and your very well-practiced composure and told yourself it was nothing.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became an hour.
You had found daeron at the bar, Baelorâs nephew, who was good company in the uncomplicated way of someone who wasnât trying to be anything other than he was, and you had drunk more than you intended to and not questioned out loud why an hour was somehow still a few minutes, but when Baelor eventually reappeared you had let him put you in the car, and take you home and you said nothing, because what were you going to say, because you had no proof, because you were his wife and you trusted him.
You told yourself that too. For months.
There were always secretes, you had come to understand, in lives like this one. Wealth like Baelorâs didnât come clean, it never did, and you had known that when you married him, had chosen it anyways, had told yourself that the way he looked at you when it was just the two of you made up for everything else that came with his name.Â
But now you werenât sure you still believed that.
And so you sat in the dark, and you drank, rethinking the choice of getting married to a guy who was a widow for years, and waited for the sound you had gotten very good at waiting for.
His key in the door.Â
It came at two forty-seven am, because you had been watching the clock the way you had started watching everything lately, tracking the evidence, and the lock turned and the door opened, the light from the hallway came in first, a rectangle of it falling across the floor, and then Baelor, still in his suit blazer, his tie loosened, looking down at his phone as he came in, the way he always looked down at his phone.
He reachedd for the light switch without looking up.
The lamp came on.Â
He saw you.
âWhatââ He stopped. Looked at you properly for the first time, at the glass in your hand and the bottle on the coffee table and whatever was on your face, and something shifted in his expression, the phone coming down to his side. âWhatâs going on?â
You looked at him from across the room, this many you had married, this man whose shirts you wore on a regular basis, whose coffee order you could recite in your sleep, whose laugh you had not heard properly in months, and felt the words that you had been repeating sitting in your chest like stones.
âWhere have you been,â you said, and your voice came out softer than you intended, the kind of soft that wasnât calm at all, the kind that came from trying very hard to hold something together.
He heard it. You could tell he heard it by the way something in his face settled into a careful expression, the one he put on when he was deciding how to manage a situation.
âWork,â he said. âI told you I had a late meeting, I sent you aââ
âYou sent me a text at seven saying youâd be home by nine.â You kept your eyes on him, and kept your face as still as you could make it, âItâs nearly three in the morning, Baelor.â
He set his phone down on the console table by the door with quiet deliberateness, and came further into the room, loosening his tie the rest of the way, and you watched him move through your home like a man with nothing to answer for and felt something tighten in your chest.
âHow much have you had,â he said, glancing at the bottle.
âThatâs not what I asked you.â
âIâm asking you something first.â He said it the way you said things to children, patiently, reasonably, and you felt your jaw tighten. âHow much wine have you had tonight?â
âEnough,â you said.
âClearly,â he said, the word landed with a lightness that was worse than if he had shouted it, and he draped his jacket over the back of the chair and turned to look at you with a patient expression, one that made you feel like a problem he was calculating how to solve. âCome to bed.â
You felt something flicker across your face that you couldnât quite stopâ something between disbelief and the exhaustion of a woman who had been having this conversation in her head for months and was only now having it out loud. âI don't want to go to bed.â
"You've been sitting in the dark drinking by yourself," he said, evenly, "which means you've been in your head all evening, which means whatever you've decided to pick a fight about is going to seem considerably less significant in the morning." He said it like he was being reasonable. He said it like he was doing you a favour. "Come to bed."
"The phone calls," you said. Your voice was steady. You were proud of that, how steady your voice was. "The ones where you leave the room."
He looked at you and said nothing, and you looked back at him and kept going.
"Every time," you said. "You look at the screen, you get up, you go to the kitchen or the hallway or wherever it is that you go, then you come back, kissing me like nothing happened and sometimes you say you need to go back into the office and you leave. Every time." You swallowed. "Who are you talking to."
"Work," he said, simply, like the word was self-evident, like you were being slow.
"At ten o'clock at night."
"I'm the CEO of a private equity firm with holdings across three continents," he said, still in that patient voice that was going to make you lose your mind, "yes, sometimes at ten o'clock at night. You know this."
"The business trips." You pressed on because if you stopped you would lose your nerve. "Four in the last two months. You used to go twice a year."
"The Essos acquisitionâ"
"The dinners." Something in your face shifted, something you couldn't help, the particular look of a person trying very hard not to feel what they were feeling. "Date night, three weeks ago, you cancelled an hour before. Our anniversary dinner, you were two hours late and you smelled likeâ" your voice caught on the word and you pushed past it, "you came home and you kissed me and you smelled like her perfume, Baelor, and you said you needed to go back in, there was something you forgot, and you left, and I sat hereâ"
"The wine," he said, "is clearly getting to you."
You stopped.
You looked at him, at the calm of his face, at the patient set of his mouth, and felt something that had been soft in you go very quiet and very cold.
"I'm serious," he said, and his voice had gone gentle in the way that made it worse, the way that said I am the reasonable one and you are not, "you've been sitting here alone for hours working yourself up into something and I understand that you'reâ"
"Don't," you said.
"I understand the last few months haven't been easy, I know I've been distracted, I'm not dismissing thatâ"
"You're doing it right now." Your voice came out harder than you planned. "You're making it about how I'm feeling instead of what I'm asking you. You're making me the problem."
âBecause how youâre feeling is relevant,â he said, and glanced at the bottle, âwhen youâve had most of that by yourself and youâre sitting in the dark waiting toââ
"I'm waiting for my husband," you said, and your voice cracked on the last word, just slightly, just enough, and you saw it land on his face, saw something move through his expression that you could not name, and you looked away from him because you were not going to cry in front of him tonight, you had promised yourself that, "who told me he'd be home hours ago."
The room was quiet.
He crossed to the coffee table and sat down in front of you, close, closer than you wanted, close enough that you could see his eyes clearly in the lamplight, one brown and one blue, both of them on you with attention that had made you fall in love with him and was now making you feel like a witness being cross-examined, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and said, low and even, "I am not cheating on youââ
"I want a divorce," you said suddenly.
Something moved across his face. Raw, just for a moment, before the composure came back down like a shutter.
"No," he said.
âBaelorââ
"No." Flat, absolute, the voice of a man who had made a decision and was not interested in discussing it. "We are not doing this."
You stood up. Your legs were steadier than they had any right to be. "I'm getting a lawyer."
He stood too, and he was broader than you forgot sometimes, his bearded jaw set, something in his face that was no longer the patient composure, no longer the careful evenness, it was something that had dropped its mask, and his hand closed around your arm, not hard but firm, and he said, "Stop. Justâ listen to me for one minuteâ"
"No." You pulled your arm away, sharply, and the sharpness of it surprised you both. "I have listened to this bullshit for months! Every single excuse, every single reasonable explanation, I am so done with listening, I'm getting a goddamn lawyerâ"
âA lawyer.â He let out a short sound that wasnât quite a laugh. âYou think itâs going to be that simple.â His voice had gone low again, and he looked at you with those mismatched eyes and said, âI know every lawyer in this city. Every single one. You think one of them is going to take a case against me because my wie has had too many glasses of wine and decided Iâm cheating on her.â
You went still.
You looked at him, at the cold certainty of his face, and felt something move through you that was not quite fear and not quite fury but lived somewhere between the two.
You let out a short laugh, humourless, and shook your head. "Of course," you said, quietly, more to yourself than to him.
âIâm seriousââ
"So am I." You turned away from him and started toward the bedroom. "I'll find someone. I don't care how long it takes, I'll find someone who will make you sign the papers."
"You're drunk out of your mind." He was following you, his voice behind you, still with that controlled edge that was unravelling at the seams. "You're not thinking straight. I'm telling you it won't go the way you think, I'm asking you to stop and talk to me properly, we are not getting aâ"
You slammed the bedroom door in his face.
The force of it shook the frame, and you turned the lock before the sound had finished echoing, and stood there with your hand still on the handle and your chest heaving and the silence on the other side pressing back against the door like something solid.
"I'm getting a lawyer, Baelor." Your voice came out steady, which was the only thing you had left. "I mean it."
Nothing came from the other side. Then, after a long moment, his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving away down the hall.
You stood there in the dark for a long time after that.Â
Eventually you lay down on the bed, still dressed, and looked at the ceiling, and did not cry, because you had been crying alone in this penthouse for months and you were finished with it. You were so finished with it.
He had started coming home early.
That was the thing you hadn't anticipated, the thing that made the week after considerably harder than it should have been, because you had built your anger on a foundation of absence and he had removed the absence, which left you standing on something that felt less solid than it had.
You avoided him at all costs. You lay in bed and listened for the sound of the front door closing, and only then, only when you were sure he was gone, did you come out. You padded around the flat in one of his shirts, which was too big for you and which you had grabbed in the dark one morning without thinking and then refused to acknowledge the irony of, and you made yourself coffee and ate whatever was in the fridge then moved through the rooms like you were the only person who lived there.
He had tried to talk to you the morning after. You had heard him outside the bedroom door, and when you opened it he had looked at you with something on his face that you didn't want to name and started to say something careful and measured and you had cut him off before he got three words in.
"I want the divorce," you said. "It's not changing."
He had looked at you for a long moment and said nothing, and you had closed the door again, and that was that.
The days that followed had their own particular shape. He came home earlier than he had in months, which you noticed and did not comment on. The late calls stopped, or became shorter, or moved somewhere you couldn't track them. He left coffee for you one morning before he left, made exactly the way you liked it, and you stood in the kitchen in his shirt looking at the cup and felt something complicated move through your chest and then put it away and went back to looking for lawyers.
Because that was what you spent your days doing. Searching, calling, being passed from one firm to the next, each one either conflicted out or quietly unwilling the moment you said the name Targaryen. He had not been exaggerating about that, which made you furious in a way you had not expected, a cold and very specific fury that had nothing to do with the perfume or the late nights and everything to do with the fact that even trying to leave him was something he could make difficult without trying.
You found one on the ninth day. His name was Gerold Hightower, a small firm, old school, the kind that had been around long enough not to be impressed by anyone, and he listened to everything you said without writing anything down and then looked at you over the top of his glasses and said he'd take it.Â
You had explained everythingâ the trips, the calls, the hours, the perfume, the office party, the hour that was supposed to be a few minutesâ and he had listened to all of it and nodded and handed you the papers and told you they needed Baelor's signature, and that if Baelor declined, they were going to court.
You had signed your name on the line and felt, for the first time in weeks, like you could breathe.
You did not go home first. You drove straight to Targaryen Group.
The building sat in the middle of the city the way everything Targaryen satâ like it had always been there and always would be, like the city had been built around it rather than the other way around. You had walked through those lobby doors on Baelor's arm more times than you could count, had smiled at the staff and taken the private elevator and sat across from him at his desk while the city spread out below the floor-to-ceiling windows and thought, more than once, that you would never entirely get used to the scale of it.
Today you walked in alone, in a baggy tracksuit, your hair barely done, the red folder under your arm, and you didn't care even slightly about the way the lobby staff clocked you and looked away. Who were you trying to impress? You were here to end a marriage, not attend a board meeting.
You pressed the button for the lift and waited, and that was when you heard it. The click of heels on marble, and underneath it, the obnoxious rhythmic sound of someone chewing gum, and you turned your head and there she was.
Elizabeth. You had learned her name somewhere along the way, in the particular grim investigative way you had learned a lot of things over the past months. She was dressed the way she always seemed to be dressed, like she had given the morning a great deal of thought, her red lipstick already immaculate, and when she saw you her jaw slowed on the gum and something moved across her face that she recovered from quickly but not quickly enough.
"Mrs Targaryen," she said, and her voice came out bright and smooth, the voice of someone who had done customer-facing work long enough to smile through anything. "What a pleasure, I wasn't expecting youâ"
"Can't say the same," you said pleasantly, and watched the smile flicker.
The silence that followed had an uncomfortable quality that she tried to fill. "How have you been lately?" she asked, and she was clicking the heel of one shoe against the marble now, a small unconscious tap, her eyes moving briefly to the closed lift doors and back.
"Honestly?" You tilted your head, like you were considering it. "Really quite good. Better than I've been in a while, actually. I'm getting a divorce, which I think is going to suit me very well."
Her mouth opened then closed, then the hell stopped clicking. âYouâreââ
The lift doors opened.
You stepped toward them and then stopped, and turned back to look at her, and held out the red folder. "You're going up to his office, aren't you."
"I have some paperwork toâ he didn't say anything about aâ"
"He wouldn't." You pressed the folder to her chest, and she grabbed it before it could fall, both hands closing around it with a startled instinct, and you looked at her very directly and said, "Be an angel. Before you get up to whatever it is you both love getting up to after everyone else goes homeâ tell him to sign those papers. Tonight. Or I'm dragging him to court, and I have a very good lawyer who is very much looking forward to it."
"Mrs Targaryen, I genuinely don't know what you think isâ"
You left her alone as you walked back out from where you came from, and ignored the doubt that settled into your gut, as you recalled her confusion.
You did not look back, you didnât dare to.
You came home later than him.
You knew before you even opened the front door, some animal awareness of the changed quality of the air, the particular stillness of a space that had someone in it waiting, and you turned your key slowly and pushed the door open and reached for the light.
He was sitting on the couch. Just like you had, days ago, except he had already turned the lights on, and his blazer was off, his tie was loosened all the way and he was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, with the red folder that was open on the coffee table in front of him, the papers spread out, looking at them when you walked in.
He looked up at the sound of the door.Â
"You signed them?" The surprise in your voice came out before you could stop it. Maybe Elizabeth had finally gotten what she wanted. Maybe the mistress had made her case in person and he had decided the easiest thing was to just let you go, so that he could finally be with her, without any complications.
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away, and then looked back at the papers.
"No," he said.
Something dropped in your chest. "Baelorâ"
"I'm not signing this." He sat back, unhurried, and looked at you, the corner of his mouth moved into something that was almost a smile, small and certain, and the sight of it made your blood run hot.Â
The absolute audacity of him, sitting there smiling at you like this was amusing, like you were amusing, like three years of marriage and a week of silence and a folder full of divorce papers were something he found faintly entertaining.
"Just sign the damned papers." You let your bag slide off your shoulder and drop to the floor, as you looked at him across the room and felt the desperation of it, how tired you were, how much you just needed this to be over. "Please. Sign them and let us both out of this."
"Let's talk about what happens if I don't." He tilted his head, still with that smile, and there was something in his eyes that was cold in a way you hadn't let yourself see before, or hadn't wanted to.
"You take this to court. These people, in this city, outside of this cityâ they kiss the ground my family walks on, the ground I walk on. You know that. You've seen it. You think a judge is going to look at you, at where you came from, at what you had before me, and side with you?" He paused, letting it land. "You leave me, you leave with nothing. Your family leaves with nothing. Everything you have, everything they have, it all came through this name. You know that's true, beautiful, so stop playing stupid."
"Sign the papers," you said, and your voice had gone flat.
"And then there's the other thing." His voice dropped into something quieter, and he picked up one of the papers and looked at it like it mildly interested him, like he was reading the weather and not dismantling your life. "The video."
You went still.
"Few months back. You came to the office after hours." His eyes came up to yours, slow and certain.Â
"Security cameras in that building are thorough. Very thorough that they got a clear shot of you coming in. Got a clear shot of you going to my office. Got a very clear shot of you on your knees under my desk with your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock." He said it the way he said everything, evenly, without drama, like it was simply a fact he was presenting. "My face isn't in the frame. The angle never catches me. But yours is. Every second of it, your face, perfectly clear." He set the paper back down.Â
"You want to think about what a courtroom makes of that. The Targaryen heir's wife, caught on her own husband's office security footage, on her knees for someone whose face the camera never caught." The smile returned, small and dark. "They won't know it's me. That's the part that's going to be very difficult for you to explain."
"You sickâ" Your voice broke on it and you hated yourself for it, hated the burn behind your eyes, hated that he could still do this to you, that after everything he could still make your hands shake. "You would actually use that. You would stand there and threaten me with that."
"I'm not threatening you." He looked at you patient and cold and entirely focused. "I'm telling you what exists. I'm explaining the situation clearly, the way you've always said you wanted things explained." He stood up slowly, and crossed to the coffee table, and looked down at the papers spread out across it. "You walk into that courtroom and I promise you, you will walk out with nothing. No settlement, no name, no dignity, and that video somewhere it cannot be recalled. And I will be very, very sorry about all of it." The corner of his mouth moved. "Seems like a great deal of trouble for a divorce you don't actually want."
"It's blackmail!" The word tore out of you and your voice cracked on it and your tears fell and you didn't even try to stop them, because you were past that, you were so far past that. "That is blackmail, that is a threat, you are threatening me, and you have the absolute audacity to stand there and do this when you've been the oneâ" your voice broke again and you pressed your hands over your face, your fingers shaking against your cheeks. "When you've been cheating on me. You've been cheating on me this whole time and you're standing there threatening me with a video of me and acting like I'm the problemâ"
"That," he said, and something shifted in his voice, the coldness dropping out of it entirely, replaced by something that sounded almost like frustration, like genuine frustration, like a man who had reached the end of something, "is where you are completely wrong."
You looked at him through your hands.
"I never cheated on you." He said it simply, without the performance of it, without the careful evenness, just the words. "I never did. Not once. Not even close."Â
He stood and walked toward you slowly, and you watched him come and couldn't make yourself move, couldn't make yourself do anything, your hands still pressed to your face and your tears still falling and all of it, the whole terrible weight of the past weeks, sitting on your chest. "I know how it looked. I know what the late nights looked like and the calls and the trips, I know exactly how it looked, and I should haveâ" he stopped. His jaw tightened. "I should have seen what it was doing to you and I didn't, and that's on me. That is entirely on me."
He reached up and took your hands away from your face, gently, and held them, and then his hands moved to your face, cradling it, his thumbs moving across your cheeks and catching your tears, you looked up at him with all of it written on your face, the hatred and the hurt and the desperate exhausted want for any of this to make sense.
"I'm not lying to you," he said, low and close, his eyes on yours. "I have never lied to you. Thisâ" he glanced briefly toward the papers on the coffee table, "this is how far I am willing to go to stop you from throwing away something real because of something that isn't. You made me come to this point. You pushed me here."
"Don't you dare," you said, and your voice came out wet and furious, "make this my faultâ"
"I'm not." His hands tightened slightly on your face. "I'm saying I love you. I'm saying I am not letting you go. Those are not the same thing."
You looked at him, at those mismatched eyes close to yours, at the particular quality of his certainty that had always undone you and was undoing you now in a way you resented completely, you felt something pull in your chest that you did not want to feel, and so you reached up, pushed his hands away from your face and stepped back and shook your head, you turned and walked to the bedroom with fury carrying your feet because if you slowed down you were going to fall apart.
"Do whatever the fuck you want," you said, shoving the bedroom door open hard enough that it swung back against the wall. "I'm leaving."
You went straight to the wardrobe and grabbed the first bag you could reach and started pulling things off hangers, off shelves, underwear, shirts, whatever your hands found first, not folding anything, not thinking, just moving, because moving was the only thing that was holding you together.
"I'm talking to you." His voice from the doorway, and then his footsteps behind you.
"I'm not listening," you said, and grabbed another handful of clothes.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Lookâ"
His hand closed around the bag and yanked it out of your grip and threw it across the room and it hit the floor with a dull thud that landed in the silence like a full stop.
You spun to face him. He was right there, closer than you'd realised, and he looked at you with something that was past cold now, past the boardroom composure, past all of it, something that was just raw and furious and desperate all at once, the face of a man who had run out of patience and hadn't found anything calmer underneath it.
"You're not getting this," he said. "Are you? You genuinely don't understand that I am not letting you walk out of here."
"Just let me go!" Your voice came out ragged, and you meant it, you meant every word of it, and you tried to move past him but his hands found your arms and held you, not hard, just immovable, and he walked you back slowly, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you sat down hard and looked up at him.
"Tell me what you need," he said. "Anything. You name it, it's done. You want me home every night, I'm home every night, no exceptions. You want the trips stopped, they stop. You want Elizabeth out of that building by tomorrow morningâ" something moved across his face, "she's already gone, I'll call it in tonight, I don't care." His hands tightened around yours. "You want me to prove it to you, I will spend however long it takes proving it. Whatever it is. Just tell me."
You looked at him, at his face this close to yours, and felt your chin tremble and hated it.
"You can't just say that," you said. "You can't just say whatever I want and expectâ"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." His voice was low against your skin, as he laid you back against the bed slowly, his hand pressing into the mattress beside your head, and pressed his lips to your jaw, your neck, moving down with unhurried patience, the patience that had always undone you, that you had spent months missing without letting yourself name what you were missing.
"Baelorâ" His name came out unsteady and you hated how unsteady it was, hated what it gave away.
He didn't stop. His mouth moved to your collarbone, your neck, and then lower, to the neckline of the shirt, his shirt, one of the many you had been wearing around the flat for a week without acknowledging why, and he paused there with his lips at the edge of the fabric and looked up at you, and his eyes in the low light of the bedroom had that quality they sometimes had, the one that made you feel like the only thing in the room worth looking at.
You tried getting up, but it was to no avail as he pushed you further into the bed, his weight shifted and you werenât going anywhere, and some part of you that you werenât proud of didnât entirely want to.
"Have I not given you everything," he said, his voice dropping against the slope of your neck, his lips finding the skin there, slow and deliberate. "Have I not given you all of it."
You had no answer for that. Because the honest answer was yes, and you both knew it was yes, and the yes of it didn't make any of the other things less trueâ the manipulation, the threats, the cold certainty of a man who had decided you belonged to him and acted accordinglyâ but it sat in your chest anyway, heavy and real and deeply inconvenient.
"You didâ and I know that," you said, and your voice came out shaky in a way you couldn't help, and your eyes were burning again, and you were so tired of your own tears at this point, so tired of how easily he could bring them out of you.
His hand found your throat.
Not hard. Not hurting. Just the weight of it, warm and certain, fingers curving lightly at your jaw, and your hand came up without thinking and rested over his, and his eyes moved to yours and stayed there. His breathing had changed. Something in his face had dropped every last layer of the composure, every last bit of the boardroom and the cold and the careful patience, and what was underneath it was something rawer and considerably more dangerous.
"You say that, my love," he said, very quietly, "and then you spend a week locking doors and walking around in my shirt like I'm supposed to pretend I don't notice." His thumb moved once along your jaw. "I think it's time I reminded you what you keep trying so hard to forget."
"Baelorâ" His name came out wrong again, too soft, not enough warning in it.
His lips came down on yours and it wasn't gentle. It was hungry and certain and relentless, the kiss of a man who had been patient for a week and was completely finished with patience, and you felt it move all the way through you, your hands coming up to his chest without quite managing to push.
 He followed when you turned your face, his mouth finding your jaw, your neck, and then back again, and his hands were warm and certain on your skin, pulling the shirt over your head before you had entirely decided not to stop him.
The cold air hit you and you pressed into him without meaning to, and he was already there, arms pulling you in, and his lips were at your throat and his hands were everywhere and you felt your thoughts go quiet one by one, the lawyer and the papers and the week of locked doors and all of it dissolving under his hands until there was nothing left but the warmth of him and the dark of the room and the specific, devastating patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing and had all night to do it.
"Baelor," you said, against his shoulder, and it didn't sound like stop anymore.
"I know," he said, low against your skin. "I've got you."
You hadnât even realised when your pants had been pushed down and discarded somewhere on the floor. The only thing that made it register was the sudden pressure of Baelorâs knee sliding between your thighs, forcing them apart with a quiet insistence that made your breath catch.
He didnât rush.
That was the worst part of it.
Baelor moved slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world. His mouth trailed down your body in unhurried kisses, each one lingering just long enough to make you tense, waiting to see where heâd go next. There was something restless in the way he touched you, an impatience buried beneath control, like he was holding himself back by sheer force.
You watched him through a haze as he straightened briefly, unbuttoning his top and letting it fall somewhere beside the bed. The movement was quick, careless, his attention never really leaving you.
When he leaned over you again, his gaze was darker.
âLook at you,â he murmured, voice low and rougher than usual. His hand slid up your side, slow enough to make you shiver.Â
The shift of his weight stole the breath from your lungs. Your vision blurred again as you clutched at his shoulders, tears slipping past your temples from the intensity of it.
Baelor let out a strained groan under his breath, the sound deep in his chest. For a moment he pressed his forehead to yours, jaw tight like he was trying to keep himself composed.
âGod,â he muttered quietly, almost to himself. His hand tightened slightly where it held your hip. âYouâve no idea what you do to me.â
The restraint didnât last.
His grip grew firmer, movements more certain, like the control he normally carried so carefully was beginning to slip. Each breath he took sounded heavier than the last, his composure unraveling piece by piece.
âYou want to leave?â he said quietly, his voice rough now, but still controlled enough to cut. âYou think you can just walk out and untangle yourself from me like Iâm a bad investment?â
His hand slid down your side, slow, deliberate, possessive.Â
âYou donât understand,â he continued moving inside of you, eyes locked on yours. âThere is no version of this where you and I end separately.â
Your heart was beating too fast. Too loud. You hated that your body still reacted to him, hated that even now he could make your thoughts blur.
His forehead pressed to yours again, but this time there was no softness in it.
âIâll never let you go.âÂ
âI promise Iâm going to be good to you,â he said softly, like he was offering you something generous. âItâs going to be us⌠and a baby.â
Your eyes widened instantly, panic breaking clean through the haze.
The word landed heavier than the threats had. He felt it. You knew he did.
âBaelor, no what are you talkingââ you said, your voice sharp with fear now, hands pushing at his chest.
He caught your wrists easily. Not hurting. Just immovable.
âYes,â he corrected, calm as ever.
âYou wouldnât leave then,â he continued, quieter now, studying your face like he was already seeing the future play out. âYou wouldnât take my child away from me. You wouldnât drag this through court when thereâs something tying us together.â
His hand slid up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing under your eye where tears had gathered again.
the handy post where I've linked everything I've talked about before and every question I've answered, so you don't have to wonder or read every single post on my blog before you ask a question!
I'll try to update as I go along but I won't always be able to do so instantly so please be patient with me.
Basics
Omegaverse 101
Why would anyone read this?
Alphas
Betas
Omegas
Common Tropes
Tools of the Omegaverse
Biology
How do omega males give birth?
Can omegas mate/impregnate each other?
Do alphas go into rut while their mate is pregnant?
Sexual Dimorphism
What makes an omegas heat symptoms pass?
Nesting instincts during pregnancy
Female Alpha Genitals
Knotting
Tropes
The Run
Bitching
Can bitching be reversed?
Can a beta become an omega?
Would heat inducers work on a bitched alpha?
Bitching between two female alphas
Studding
Breaking a bond
Suppressants/Scent Patches
Dynamics outside of the main three
Overview
Enigmas
Prime Alphas/Golden Omegas
Purebreeds
A true hierarchy?
Other
Defective Alphas/Omegas
Non-Binary/Intersex Equivalents
Omegaverse not based on wolves
Alpha/Omega in relation to Dom/Sub/Top/Bottom
Wingfic (Elaboration)
Wolf Beginnings
Beta Scents/Relationships with Alphas/Omegas
Trans People in the Omegaverse
