Somewhere between Winterfell and Summerhall

Mike watched you wiping your tears from across the field, your teammates consoling you a little. At first, you tried lying, saying it’s the sun, the migraine, the period, but your friends knew better. He knew better. Mike gripped his clipboard, a frown marking his face. He hated seeing you like this. Against his better judgment, he decided to come closer.

“You said it yourself, babes,” your best friend had her arm around you, moving tear-soaked strands from your face, “he never wanted to fuck you. It’s important, you know it is.”

You just nodded, that pain half-laugh momentarily escaping your mouth.

“I just didn’t think it would hurt this bad,” you mumbled, trying not to burst into another crying fit. “We’ve been together for so long, and otherwise he was perf-”

“No. Fuck no,” your friend immediately interrupted. “Your needs were not met. And you don’t owe him a relationship just because he didn’t force fuck you when you were tired or sick. And didn’t you say that even when you did manage to do the nasty, he’d only cum jerking off? Come on, you owe yourself someone better.”

Mike had to admit, he wholeheartedly agreed. Someone better, how nicely put. Him.

“Stop clucking,” Mike growled at you two, waving at your friend to get lost.

“Coach, no, please, she’s really not-,” she tried, she really tried standing her ground for you, but you knew it was futile.

“Don’t make me fucking tell you again.”

With that, she mouthed a pitiful sorry at you and made herself scarce. You wiped your tears, tried to fix your hair a little. You could have carried on with your relationship, pretending nothing happened, not provoke Mike anymore and then think of him every time your boyfriend managed to get his dick up for you.

Except you couldn’t, for two reasons. First being that Mike wouldn’t stop, provoked or not. Second, you weren’t sure you wanted him to stop. The guilt was eating at you, absolutely, but there was also something freeing about the whole situation that Mike forced on you.

“I’m sorry, Coach,” you mumbled, your eyes momentarily drifting to his.

Mike didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable. And then, just as you wanted to do more drills, he grabbed your face, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger, the rest of his long fingers pressing into your throat.

The reaction in you was immediate: breath hitching, heart beating, palms sweating… And pussy wetting.

Mike was looking at you from behind his glasses like he wanted to eat you or drag you into the locker room to fuck the tears out of you. Instead, his lips curved into a rather smug smile.

“Good girl,” he whispered, sending another pleasurable jolt through you.

It didn’t take long for him to start screaming at you again when, not even forty-five minutes later, you kept missing your free kicks. Literally all of them would go wide over the net, not even close to the beam.

“Stop over-extending your fucking leg!” Mike yelled, already halfway to you, watching you fumble yet another kick. “These are rookie fucking kicks, what the fuck are you doing?”

You could hear him working himself into another hoarse throat situation, straining his vocal cords to the maximum. Not that you weren’t frustrated with yourself and your lack of follow-through and precision, mangling something that usually came with such ease to you. You felt pathetic. You were pathetic.

Even your teammates were at a loss for words, probably ascribing your lack of performance to your temporary emotional upset. You just wanted Mike to stop screaming at you, because if he managed to get you in your usual state, you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your mouth shut.

“What now, Micha-,” you cut yourself off in the middle of the yell, swallowing the rest of his government name, reminding yourself he asked you not to use it. 

“Other goal,” Mike growled, staring daggers at you. “Now.”

Just what you needed, spending the rest of the practice running drills with Mike. Alone.

“This is all your fault,” you spat out bitterly, watching Mike’s knuckles turn white and the clipboard caving under his grasp.

“Shut. Up. Fucking brat.”

It wasn’t that bad, actually, once you cooled off. Well, partially at least, still pressing your jaw shut, feeling the burn in your calf after repeated shots. You were tired, sweaty, and frustrated, and more tears threatened to burst out of you any second now. Luckily, the coach called the whistle, but before you even blinked in that direction, Mike crowded you.

Standing in front of you, making sure no one could see you from that side of the field, his eyes quickly darted around to see if anyone was paying attention.

Then, he turned back to you, brows furrowed, jaw clenched, and that flush spreading all over his face and neck.

“From now on, you will keep your mouth shut. You don’t talk back, and you don’t speak when I speak. Got it, angel?” his voice dropped on the last word to a throaty whisper.

You noticed how big his pupils were and how his lower left eyelid twitched. Mike took a step towards you, your nose almost touching his chest. Your breathing deepened again, and you looked up at him, wondering what he had on his mind.

“Open your mouth,” Mike whispered, his voice making you tremble. 

You had no idea what he wanted, but you obeyed. Slowly, you relaxed your jaw, eyes still trained on Mike’s. 

“More,” he mumbled, his eyes falling to your lips, watching your tensed tongue resting behind your teeth.

When he was finally happy, he spat in your mouth without a warning. Wet warmth spread across your tongue, drops landing over your lips and around them. 

Sharply inhaling through your nose, your eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed and aroused.

“Every time you open your mouth,” he watched you swallow every last drop, your tongue  greedily dragging across your lips, “remember that only good girls get this.”

“Yes, Coach,” your eyes were still closed, the musky scent of Mike’s sweat still reaching your nose.

“Off you go then.”

**

“You okay?” your teammates rallied around you in the locker room, some faces concerned, some curious, some rather smug.

“Hm? Yeah, of course,” you dismissed them, but they still prodded.

“Why did he grab your face like that?” one voice asked, and you couldn’t really pinpoint who brought it up. 

“He did what?” another voice piped up, and suddenly everyone was crowding around you like you were a wise old grandmother telling a scary story to a bunch of wide-eyed children.

“Ughh,” you growled, irritated to the bone. “I just struck a nerve, and he lost it a little. What’s new, right?” you laughed it off, putting on your best nonchalant face, shrugging. 

The voices started again, everyone talking over each other, and not even your friend could tell them off. Clucking, as Mike said, was the correct word. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to breathe.

“All right!” you finally yelled. “I get it, this is obviously taking too much attention from the game and the team. “I promise…” your eyes drifted from face to face, and then you looked at your captain, a woman you expected much more of than to allow these verbal offences, “that I will set all my differences aside and talk to Mike. And now, if you excuse me, I need to cry a little bit more.”

It worked, their excitement immediately dropped in disappointment that you wouldn’t trash Mike some more. You suddenly felt stupid for even doing so; venting in the locker room was common, but this personal beef you and Mike had for literal years had obviously been nothing but entertainment. 

No one cared how much you suffered when his comments started, no one cared about your problems and issues; you were nothing but a class clown, a court jester. It washed over you, the wave of realisation, followed by sadness, disappointment, and emptiness.

You took a deep breath. No more.

**

It was two in the morning, and you were still tossing and turning, trying to sleep. Mike still hasn’t kept up with his promise, and you started to believe he only said it in the heat of the moment. 

Pulling your eye mask down your face, you turned around, happy that at least you didn’t feel like crying anymore. And then you heard it, a beep and a door creak, but you still decided to pretend you were asleep, deep breathing and all.

Mike laid down next to you, gently, his arm enveloping you, immediately settling between your tits, before grabbing one.

“You smell so good, angel,” he whispered against your neck, inhaling deeply. He was hard already, again, pressing his cock against your ass.

You finally stirred, trying to reach for your mask, but Mike caught your wrist.

“Leave it on,” he chuckled, his lips dragging over the strained muscles of your neck, enjoying the warmth of your skin. 

“I’m gonna make you so happy, angel, I know I can,” Mike cooed, pushing his tongue in your slightly open mouth, teasing a breathy moan out of you.

“Yes, Coach,” you mumbled between sloppy kisses, your hands dragging Mike closer and closer, until he was on top of you.

And then he started moaning, deep, throaty sounds that sent little jolts through your whole body, pooling heat directly in your pussy, tiny little spasms shocking their way through your abdomen. 

His fingers, extended, drew a line starting at your throat, going lower, playing with your nipple, and even lower, slowly dragging over the thin fabric of your tank top, until he reached your panties, an obvious wet spot blooming.

He teased you through the soft cotton, his fingers pushing in a little, then dragging all the way up towards your clit, then back down again; you arched your back into Mike, begging in your mind for him to just move your panties to the side and stick his cock back in, and stay like that until morning, fuck you into the mattress.

“Did you wear these for me?” he teased, his fingers playing with the bow on your panties and sliding over the lacy parts.

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, enjoying the way his tongue dragged over your throat, your heart hitching even higher at the vibrations his chuckle made against your sweaty skin. 

“Good girl.”

And then he slid lower, his lips leaving sticky wet kisses on your collarbone; somehow he managed to pull off your tanktop without disturbing the mask, his mouth immediately closing around your nipple, his teeth grazing it.

He grabbed both of your tits, pressing and massaging, and you couldn’t do anything but moan, enjoying how much Mike wanted you.

“So pretty when you’re so needy,” he breathed out, going lower and lower, until he reached your panties. Mike started sucking and teasing your clit through the fabric.

Your whole body writhed in pleasure as you reflexively pushed your hips towards Mike’s mouth.

“Let me hear you, angel,” he mumbled, hastily removing your panties too, guiding both of your legs over his shoulders. He gently pushed one finger inside you, then the second one too, laughing at how greedily your pussy swallowed them. 

You whimpered, jerking your hips, when he tried to push the third one.

“I know, angel, I know,” he cooed, “but we need to stretch you properly, don’t we? It barely fit the last time.”

He returned his attention to your clit, goading you towards the orgasm, feeling how your pussywalls started to tense and flutter around his fingers, listening to how your moans fell into needy whimpers; your hand grabbed his hair, and Mike couldn’t help himself but moan against your pussy.

“You taste so fucking good, angel, I can’t get enough,” he mumbled, his thumb now drawing tight little circles over your clit. 

“Mike,” you moaned, overwhelmed, immediately biting your tongue. For a moment, you got scared he’d punish you, especially now since you were so close, that knot in your stomach threatening to explode.

“Good girl,” Mike moaned against your mound. “My good girl.”

When he felt you coming, he immediately lowered his head, greedily lapping up your juices as your body trembled in the best orgasm of your life. You had no idea how loud you were or what exactly you were saying, so thoroughly overwhelmed and overstimulated. But Mike wasn’t finished with you, far from it.

As your body relaxed, he pulled out his fingers, sucking on them, watching as your pussy glistened. You whined a little at a loss, but he replaced it with his cock soon enough, your legs still draped over his broad shoulders.

In one quick thrust, he pushed in and folded you up, hitting deeper than before. It was still a stretch, his big, fat cock spearing you in half. You whined in pleasure, begging Mike to fuck you hard.

“Fuck, angel, I can’t even think,” Mike kept snapping his hips, barely delaying his own pleasure to watch your tits bounce up and down and feel your nails against his skin. You lost all sense of time, tasting yourself repeatedly on Mike’s tongue, your hands pulling at his hair and drawing blood on his shoulders, as you kept begging and begging.

“Tell me you’re close,” Mike whispered, “because I want to flood your pussy so badly.”

“No, Coach,” you mumbled in response, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my poor baby angel,” he teased a little, “how about you take that mask off, let me see those pretty eyes, hm?”

“Please come into my mouth,” you begged, finally looking at Mike’s flushed, sweaty face.

“What?” his hips stuttered, slowing down.

“I want to taste you, please,” you pulled him in another desperate kiss.

Mike tried, he really wanted to indulge you, but before your lips even touched, he started coming with long, hoarse grunts, his mind and body overcome by the amount of your desire for him. You could feel it, Mike emptying his balls, the hot sticky seed spilling in you, dripping out of you.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Mike mumbled, falling forward after freeing your legs from his feverish hold. “Next time, I promise.” His lips went back to the same spot where they were the last time, just behind your ear, as he started to suck tiny bruises into your skin. 

You groaned.

“Tell me I don’t have to wait three to five business days again. Didn’t you boast every night, angel, I want you to come around my cock every night?” you mocked him, imitating his manner of speech.

“Behave,” he breathed, somewhat amused.

“Yeah, yeah,” you countered, rolling your eyes and pouting. 

You could still feel his cum dripping out of you, sticking you two together, his hot breath on your neck making your nipples harden again. You were so insanely insatiable, needing Mike to go again, last longer, fuck all your holes, or at least the ones his cock could fit into. 

“Behave,” he gritted out, his hand falling onto your throat.

You smiled smugly at him, suddenly feeling his limp cock twitching against your thigh.

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Maekar groaned, finally tearing himself from you. 

He only meant to give you a quick goodbye kiss, for the day that is, but you quickly turned one kiss into two into a passionate kiss that had Maekar humming against your mouth.

“One more,” you asked with puffy lips, your arms draped around his neck.

“Fine,” Maekar grunted before pulling you closer again, his tongue finding little resistance.

You didn’t have to touch him to know how painfully hard you were making him, Maekar’s huge hands splayed across your back, his fingertips pressing in, his head dipping lower…

“You’re going to be late, husband,” you smiled, pressing a quick peck to his lips.

This time, Maekar swallowed his groan.

Around dinner time, the door to your chambers opened without a knock, in a way you knew Maekar was entering. Still, you pretended to be deeply engrossed in the book you were reading, expecting Maekar to huff and puff a little before leading you to your bedchambers.

“Did you find that amusing?” his gruff voice loomed over you.

“Hm?” you feigned ignorance and innocence, though a tiny smirk gave you away. Looking up to Maekar through your lashes, you could tell he was in a particular mood, especially when he tossed his cape over the closest chair. 

“Undress,” he ordered, and if you thought you could tease him a little more, the tone of his voice left nothing up for discussion. 

Slowly, you stood, unlacing your dress without any sense of urgency, but Maekar waited for the whole Gods-forsaken morning. His lips crashed onto yours, all teeth and bite, his hands tugging, pulling, and breaking, a distinct sound of the fabric ripping filling the room. 

Soon, you were standing bare in front of your husband, his lips leaving a trail of bruises over the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands roaming your body. His hot breath was making you so wet, your hands finally cupping his cock through his breeches.

“Fuck,” Maekar finally grunted, his teeth gliding over your shoulder. He took a couple of steps back, slumping into a chair, taking in your figure. 

Your mouth watered at the sight of Maekar freeing his cock, and you immediately went to kneel.

“No,” he rasped, stroking himself. “Come here. Fuck yourself.”

He immediately hooked one arm around you as you straddled him, the other grabbing your ass; slowly, without any preparation, you lined up the tip of Maekar’s cock and, with a deep breath, slowly started to sink on it. 

It hurt, but you wanted it badly. 

Watching a red flush creep up Maekar’s neck and how he was so desperately swallowing all his moans made you feel so eager to please him, so with a painful yelp, you sat all the way down. 

Maekar’s hand flew to your neck to steady you as your whole body trembled, speared on his cock; he pulled you against himself, your hands bracing against his chest.

“Now you know how I felt the whole morning,” he spat out, but you knew your husband.

There was no bite in his words, and he even pressed a quick kiss to your temple. You rolled your hips slowly, feeling how Maekar’s cock throbbed inside you, and he finally let out a long groan, his head falling between your tits, licking and sucking.

You continued rolling your hips a little faster, listening to Maekar muffle his groans and moans on your tits, his teeth grazing your hardened, sensitive nipples. It unlocked something in you, being completely naked and him fully clothed, for reasons you could never understand.

Your legs were trembling already, but you were determined; you knew Maekar was going to punish you properly in the evening, take your time with you and keep you on edge for hours, denying you over and over again. It was a gift, your current time together, a loving treat before he’d unleash on you.

But now, his cock was spreading you, mixing a little pain with a lot of pleasure, your body nothing but a vessel for Maekar to relax into a little. Or a lot, you smirked to yourself, feeling ropes of cum already leaking out of you in the middle of his surprised orgasm.

“Fuck,” he muttered after his breathing returned to normal. “I need to change out of these fucking clothes.

“I have to go, my love,” Baelor whispered, still holding you close as you sat in his lap.

“You’re always in the meetings, My Prince,” you protested, your nails lightly scratching the skin at his nape, just as you knew would drive him wild. “I never see you anymore.”

You pulled him into a deep, tender, intimate kiss, feeling the pressure in his breeches against your thigh. Baelor’s hands tightened around you, and a breathless moan escaped your lips, going directly to the Crown Prince’s cock.

And then you pulled away, watching his differently coloured eyes go all glassy and unfocused, his hands falling to your ass, gripping it, but letting go when you stood up.

He watched you depart his solar, trying to remind himself that duty called, but wanting nothing else but to follow you back to your shared chambers.

It wasn’t that late when Baelor finally made his way to you, at least not by Baelor’s standards. He could barely pay attention during the meeting, his mind constantly drifting to you, to that kiss, your body pressed against his. 

He found you asleep, a book splayed over your chest, one hand still atop it; you dozed off in the middle of a chapter. Baelor gently removed it, making sure to slide a bookmark inside, before carefully putting it aside. 

You wore nothing but his favourite shift, a dark red silk that was transparent in certain light — the one you wore on your wedding night. 

With a new sense of urgency, Baelor undressed, sliding under the covers next to you. He has missed you and your warmth, his cock stirring to full hardness when a first sleepy moan escaped your lips.

“Baelor?” you whispered, your heavy-lidded eyes meeting his glassy ones. 

Usually, Baelor would be patient, controlled, measured. But those kisses you shared before his meeting reminded him how much he loved to let go, lose himself in you.

“You’ve been teasing me the whole day,” Baelor whispered back, his lips capturing yours as his fingers slid over your breasts, pinching your nipple through the flimsy fabric.

You just moaned in reply, one of your hands tangling in his hair, the other one sliding back to his nape, your nails dragging over the skin; Baelor sighed in your mouth, pressing his tongue deeper, climbing on top of you. You could feel his cock already, hard, hot, and leaking, before his fingers found their way lower, exploring your heat. 

Not for long, as when he was satisfied that you could take him without too much preparation, Baelor impatiently bunched up your shift, his muscular thighs forcing yours wider apart, exposing you fully to him. He tried, Gods know he tried, to give you enough time to get used to the stretch, but when your cunt started to greedily swallow him, Baelor had to admit he was just a man.

He sheathed himself fully, drawing an audible moan out of you, selfishly chasing his own pleasure. He knew now exactly how you liked it the most, which spots to hit and how hard, and how slowly to drag himself out before feverishly fucking back into you. None of it mattered now, as Baelor kept fucking you into the mattress.

You loved it. 

So much so that your moans and whines became louder than the slapping of the skin on skin, your nails lodged firmly into the skin of Baelor’s back, trying to bring him as close as possible, feel his warmth and his sweat. When your back arched off the bed into him, and you started babbling his name, Baelor’s lips finally turned into a satisfied smirk. 

He would never admit it, but he loved getting back at you.

You couldn’t help yourself tease but Lyonel a little before every meeting, just kissing him for a moment too long, or wearing his favourite perfumes and oils.

“You little minx,” Lyonel would breathe out every time, willing himself to leave and tear himself from you.

Today, however, you were feeling particularly naughty, standing on your tiptoes, tangling your hand in Lyonel’s curls, your tongue swirling around his.

“My Lord,” an embarrassed young servant tried again, not looking at you two, his cheeks and ears burning.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lyonel muttered, physically moving away from you, until you cupped his cock, that was.

You could feel it harden under your hand, confines of Lyonel’s breeches still secluding it somewhat.

He practically jumped away from you, his mouth falling open.

“Wife, how dare you start this before my meeting?” there was a certain level of dramatics in his voice, almost as if he was personally offended that you were going to leave him high and dry.

But you just winked at him, pressing a rather chaste kiss to his cheek, and ushered him out of the solar.

You were pretty proud of yourself, occasionally chuckling to yourself as you continued to read your book, waiting for Lyonel to return. It would be some time, you guessed, as this meeting was important, although you didn’t bother too much to find out why.

Imagine your surprise then, when Lyonel returned to the solar with pressing urgency.

“Done already?” you frowned, wondering who and what offended him now.

“No, no,” Lyonel mumbled, walking to you, unlacing his breeches. “We’re taking a short break.” He led you behind his desk as you laughed.

“Take it off,” his head indicated to your dress.

“Lyonel, here?” it was your turn for fake dramatics, especially as Lyonel already had you in his solar, multiple times.

“Take it off, or I’ll take it off,” his voice was impatient and so, so needy. 

He pulled his breeches down a little, just enough to free his cock, before sitting down. You watched him stroke his cock, flushed with blood already, looking painfully hard. 

“Were you this hard this whole time?” you teased, slowly unlacing our dress, trying to give Lyonel a show. 

“Hurry the fuck up,” Lyonel barked, getting seriously impatient.

You didn’t listen, because when did you? So Lyonel took matters into his own hands, turning you around with a surprised shriek from you, and bending you over the table.

“You need it that badly, husband?” you listened as he bunched up your dress and your shift, his cock already sliding between your folds, coating it in your slick.

With a sharp thrust, he sheathed himself completely inside you, causing you to fall further forward on the table as a painful yelp tore from your lips.

No matter how hard or how often Lyonel fucked you, it always took some time to get used to the merciless stretch of his cock.

But this time, Lyonel wouldn’t grace you that time, irritated and a little angry you spurred him on in the first place, chasing his own pleasure.

“Fuck, fuck,” he moaned out, his hands pulling your hips to meet his thrusts, the cold of his rings burning into your skin. 

“I needed this,” Lyonel grunted as he continued to plunge into you, “I needed you.”

His babbling always sent such pleasurable jolts through you, sometimes even more than his cock. But you liked it, when he took, when he used you, when he was so desperate to fuck you, he adjourned his meeting. 

You listened, with a smirk on your face, as Lyonel’s breathing became erratic, a tell-tale sign he was close. He gripped your hips even harder, stilling inside you before spilling his seed. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, slapping your ass before quickly lacing himself back up and returning to his meeting.

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You were pinching the bridge of your nose, too tired to deal with this nonsense. Of course, Mike Webster had to come to you with notes, again, in the middle of the practice, and of course, your discussion got heated again. When it started, you felt quite embarrassed in front of other parents, and maybe even a little intimidated.

Mike towered over you, both with his frame and his experience, and you weren’t actually a real soccer coach either; you were just there to make sure a bunch of six-year-olds were having fun and not hurting themselves during the warm-up, and sometimes when they played as well. You were great with kids, and they loved you as much as you loved them, this particular group especially, but the parents… And especially Mike, started to make it hard for you to come to your second job with the enthusiasm you knew the kids needed.

“Off the field, Mike,” you looked him right into his deep blue eyes, his glasses glued to his forehead. “Now!” you shouted, noticing his hesitation, but not before you grabbed that paper with notes off him.

Turning away, you spotted a tiny bundle of equally blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair staring at you.

“Webster junior,” you sighed, “not you too?”

“Nah,” Tommy responded in an adorably serious tone. “But you know he likes you?”

“Oh, no, baby, he really doesn’t,” you couldn’t help but chuckle, resetting his laces. 

“No, no,” his sweet voice interrupted you before you could even offer an explanation, “he talks about you all the time. In a normal voice,” Tommy whispered, nodding the whole time.

You were literally speechless, but sure as hell wouldn’t be explaining to the little lad how much his dad despised you and your practices and your way of teaching, which he made sure to let you know immediately after practice.

“You’re babying him, you’re babying them all! They can lace up their cleats! You are too gentle, too nice!” Mike followed you around the parking lot after handing over Tommy to his mother. Although they had split custody, Mike insisted on attending all practices and all games, so much so that just a sight of him would make your head throb in most unpleasant ways.

“They are kids, Mike. I just warm them up, run a couple of drills, and help with the games. I am not doing any of the strategy, don’t teach them any of the techniques, and yet, you won’t get off my back!” you hoped your little outburst would finally make him see how ridiculous he was being, constantly bothering you but not raising the same hell with other coaches. 

“Because you’re too soft! You need to drill them harder, meaner!” Mike waved his arms around, a red flush creeping up his neck, his stupid baby bangs sweatily glued to his forehead. “Maybe your son needs softness, Mike, ever think of that?!” It was too far and too mean, and you knew it, but it just slipped. Your head was throbbing already, that disgusting pulsating pain spreading towards your eye, and you just wanted to get your meds and get home.

“Don’t you dare tell me what my son does and doesn’t need,” his voice dropped dangerously low, something dark rising in his glance.

“I’m not, Mike! I’m just trying to get you to shut the fuck up!” your voice broke under the exhaustion and the pain, and you could feel the stream of hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. “For months now you pick on me, and for what? Train them yourself then, Mike, because I can’t anymore, okay?” you scrambled to open your pillbox, but your hands were trembling too hard, and you couldn’t quite grip it.

Mike didn’t say anything, just stepped closer and calmly opened it for you, swallowing hard. He had no idea of the hurt he had caused you, staring at you, completely dumbfounded. He was just trying to help. Surely you must understand that?

But as he watched you struggle to swallow a couple of sips of water, your whole body a shivering mess, Mike realised he had let his temper get the best of him.

He felt his heart speed up, a terrifying realisation spreading through him: you despised him. You truly, deeply despised him. Mike never dated after a divorce, never even liked someone enough to look their way twice, until he saw you smiling in the field, surrounded by two dozen five-year-olds who were excitedly kicking the ball and trying to pass it to each other. 

And now you were crying in front of him. Because of him. 

“Wait,” he muttered, the sound of you opening your car boot bringing him back to reality. 

“Just leave me alone, Mike!” you cried out, slamming the door and driving away.

Mike had no idea how long he had been standing there, trying to make sense of what had just happened. He couldn’t sleep that night, constantly replaying the events of the evening. 

He wanted you badly, and he managed to colossally fuck it all up. Mike knew, somewhere deep down, that he didn’t really have a chance with you. You were younger, and although perhaps not controversially so, you still had so much more to experience in life instead of being dragged down by a grumpy old man. Still, being the sole cause of your tears was eating away at him.

If he could, Mike would do it differently; he wouldn’t be yelling, and he wouldn’t interrupt your practice. And even if we were, he’d console you afterwards. He’d apologise and hug you, hold you close, tight. 

Right. Apologise. Easy enough thing to do, right?

Well, you didn’t show up for any of the practices that week, other coaches excusing your absences, telling Mike you were sick. He grew restless, anxious.

So when he lingered in the parking lot after practice one time to take a call and saw you, all smiles and in a good mood, not fucking sick at all, he knew. 

It wasn’t that you were laughing at a probably lame joke said by that other coach, a fucking moron, and it wasn’t even how you stopped dead in your tracks when you saw Mike staring at you. No, it was the realisation you were avoiding him, and avoiding him made you feel happy.

“What do you want?” you dragged yourself to him, watching as Mike’s eyes went wide, that famous flush creeping up his neck again. 

Except he looked so defeated, leaning against his car, his hands behind his back.

“I thought you were sick,” he mumbled, avoiding looking at you. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take it, that newly disconnected, bored gaze you were sporting. 

Sick of you, you thought, but bit your tongue.

“Mhm,” you muttered instead, your eyes burning a metaphorical hole in his forehead. 

Mike was aware that this was his last chance, but his mind was blank. He watched you roll your eyes and let out an annoyed groan before turning away from him.

“Please come back,” he blurted out, like a schoolboy with his first crush.

You turned around, shocked. You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it again.

“For my son,” Mike added in a panic. “He keeps asking about you all the time. Look,” he reached for something in the car, rummaging through his glove compartment. He quickly pushed a piece of paper into your hand, a handmade “get better soon” card, with a drawing of you and Tommy holding hands; Mike was drawn with angry eyebrows in the background, holding a ball.

You nodded, drowning a sniffle.

—

“Miss Coach, Miss Coach,” Tommy’s excited voice carried all the way to you just as the practice was ending, “can you please come to my birthday party this Saturday?” He gave you a tiny invite card adorned with a bunch of footballs, smiling ear to ear.

“Dad says it’s okay! Mum too! My little sister will be there as well!”

You looked at Mike, who curtly nodded, then continued to stare at his phone.

“I’d love to come, honey,” you smiled back at Tommy, watching him beam as he hugged you.

Saturday couldn’t come fast enough for Mike. He changed his shirt three times and control-freaked around even after kids and their parents arrived. He wanted Tommy to have the best time, but he also wanted to impress you, despite you not really confirming you’d come. Surely, you wouldn’t think he used Tommy as a ploy? It wasn’t even his idea; he only said yes after Tommy already convinced his ex-wife to agree as well.

And then he saw you, in a lovely pastel yellow sundress, already standing in his garden, sipping some pink lemonade. You smiled at him, a polite smile but a smile nonetheless, and Mike felt that hot flush creeping up his neck again.

He stared for a beat too long, taking in your figure, mesmerised. 

You stayed after, helped him tidy up a bit. Although the birthday party was held at his house, he didn’t have Tommy for the weekend, who went home with his adorable little sister, carrying her little plush llama around when she’d drop it.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Mike mumbled, pouring you another glass of Sauvignon Blanc; you refused the red because it was giving you migraines. 

“It’s no bother,” you replied, flashing another faint smile, leaning on the kitchen island opposite him. He looked nice, you thought, in dark slacks and a tight, unbuttoned polo. It was nice seeing him in something other than football kits and exercise clothes, and you had to bite your lips to remind yourself not to ogle.

Mike had no idea how to act, feeling guilty that you were treating him so nicely. He wanted to kiss you so badly, splay his hands around your waist, and pull you close, play with your hair and bury his face in the crook of your neck. So instead, he swallowed and looked away again.

“Do you want to watch something?” he finally asked, feeling the tips of his ears burning.

He felt stupid the moment he said it, wondering what you were thinking of his clumsiness.

“I’d love to, but it’s already quite late,” you replied somewhat disappointedly.

Mike perked up.

“You can stay the night, it’s not an issue,” he blurted out again, suddenly realising how it sounded.

“Oh, is that how it’s gonna be?” you teased back, chuckling, sipping some more wine.

“No, no, no, I just meant,” Mike swallowed hard again, clenching his jaw, “that, that if you want to watch something, we could, and obviously, I have a guest room and a guest bathroom too, completely virginal as well…” he trailed off, staring off into nothing, his whole face a shade of a strawberry. He took a deep breath, glancing at your amused face, ignoring your continued chuckle.

“What I meant, is that I have a guest room that has never been used before, and that you’re welcome to it. Yeah.”

“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” you couldn’t help but tease him some more.

“I wish I could use that excuse,” Mike forced a laugh, “but this is only my second glass.”

“No worries Mike, I was just pulling your leg. You’re being awfully nice, but I know how you really feel about me. Thanks for trying, though,” you flashed that smile again, bigger than before, and Mike could swear he felt lightheaded.

And then you closed the distance, pressing a quick peck to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mike. See you Monday.”

He walked you to the door, just nodding along. Your lip gloss left a little of a sticky residue on his skin, and Mike wanted to taste it, to taste you.

“You should open the door now,” you laughed out after a couple of moments of you and Mike just standing there.

“No,” Mike said slowly.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know how I really feel about you.”

“Okay? So you hate me more than I thought?” you tried to play it off, but your face noticeably dropped. You hoped that your coming here would help straighten your relationship out, not to something friendly, but at least tolerable, and Mike telling you off so seriously made you feel so sad. More sad than you would ever admit to anyone but yourself.

“I don’t hate you.” You rolled your eyes now, irritated to the bone. You had a crush on Mike once, or Tommy’s handsome father, as you called him, which went away as quickly as the first time he yelled at you. Sure, he was hot when he yelled, and you were entertained for the first two or three times, but when it continued, you pushed that attraction somewhere deep and locked it away. 

Mike closed the distance this time, gently stepping into you, his lips finding yours with a striker’s precision.

He slid his hands around your waist, pulling you into him, tasting the cherry of your lip gloss. The kiss was exploratory, gauging, so when Mike pulled back a little, you followed that little string of spit between you two, leaning in, he finally exhaled the breath he was holding in for the whole day.

The second kiss was much more passionate, Mike’s hand finding your neck, his long fingers gently coiling around it as he pressed his lips harder, nudging you to open your mouth, his tongue slowly exploring around yours. 

You could feel butterflies in your stomach spreading through your whole body, your hands finding their way to Mike’s buffed chest, sliding upwards to his neck and further, tangling in his hair. His kiss was deliciously sloppy, and you pressed yourself against Mike, feeling how hard he was already.

It drove him wild in an instant, his head dropping to your neck to press a hot, wet kiss there, sending heat directly to your pussy. Mike had to control himself not to start fucking moaning, tasting your skin, his fingers playing with the bow of your shoulder strap, the other hand sliding to the curve of your ass. 

A tiny moan escaped your lips, and Mike grabbed your ass with both hands, picking you up with ease; you wrapped your legs around his waist, a new wave of heat and want spreading through you.

“Fuck me,” he murmured, carrying you towards the couch.

“That’s the general idea,” you kept kissing him, licking his neck, pulling off his shirt when he finally sat down, you perched on top of his lap.

Mike didn’t respond, completely lost in you and your kisses and your scent; he untied both of your straps, pulling your dress down, burying his head between your tits, his huge hands playing with them, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucked on the other one, drawing another long moan out of you.

You rolled your hips, feeling his hard cock through the fabric, watching as his whole body tensed up in anticipation. You were so wet and so horny, unzipping his pants and pushing your hand inside, feeling his fat cockhead under your thumb, leaking and red. Mike unzipped your dress, clumsily pulling it over your head, immediately regretting the loss of your touch, even if it was only for a couple of seconds. 

You got up to help him get the rest of his clothes off, but Mike knelt in front of you, slowly pulling down your panties. He kissed you just above your clit, and then licked a long strip between your folds.

“Fuck, Mike,” you moaned, trying to hold steady by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling a bit hard.

Mike continued, licking and sucking, introducing a teasing finger that only rubbed at your opening as he sucked at your clit, his tongue flicking across it, sending more jolts of pleasure through you. You couldn’t stop your moans anymore, your hips rolling at his mouth, Mike’s fingers slowly pushing their way into your wet, aroused pussy.

You pulled harder on his hair, and Mike chuckled against your skin, his hot breath sending more pleasure through you. You were close, desperately so, to come on Mike’s tongue and fuck him already, feel his big cock spread you as you fuck yourself onto it.

The thought was enough to unravel you, your body shaking as Mike held you steady, still lapping at your clit. He looked up when you released his hair, licking at his lips and wiping his chin, greedily licking his fingers too. He sat back, guiding you to sit on top of him, lining up his cock, stroking it just a little.

Your mouth salivated at the sight of it, and you eagerly tried to take it all in in one move, but it was impossible, the stretch too big, too painful.

“Shhh, slow down baby,” Mike cooed, his hand on your waist, the other tangled in your hair just above your neck. He watched as your pussy impatiently took half of him, squeezing him, trying to drain him already, and kept sinking, trying to swallow his whole cock. “Breathe, baby,” he instructed just as you leaned your hands on his chest, arching your back in pleasure.

Mike couldn’t resist, sucking at your nipple again, mindful of the gush of wetness his tongue caused your pussy, and you finally sank down the whole way, feeling how hard his cock was, throbbing inside you.

Impatiently, you started rolling your hips, finally drawing loud, unrestrained moans out of Mike, whose hands immediately braced your hips, helping you fuck him. But it wasn’t enough, just sliding your pussy that way, no, you decided you really wanted to bounce on it, to feel the fatness and the length of it. 

“I can’t do this for long,” you moaned out, listening to the joint squelches and skin slaps your bodies produced, “but I don’t want it to stop.”

Tears of pleasure formed in the corners of your eyes as you clawed at Mike’s chest. 

Music to his ears, your words and your moans, and Mike gripped harder at your hips, meeting your movements, thrusting harder into your now still body, fucking your pussy in a way he had been imagining for the past year. 

“Please, Mike, don’t stop,” you spurred him on with those pretty words and even prettier moans, your head falling back.

“I can’t do this for long either,” Mike managed between his moans, already trying not to come for the past couple of minutes. He was gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, but you didn’t complain, and he really didn’t want to let go.

“Don’t,” you moaned, “just fill me up. Fill me up and then fuck me again, Mike. Please.”

Mike didn’t manage more than one more thrust before he did just that, spilt his hot cum deep inside your fluttering pussy, with a lot of groans and fucks spilling from his lips as well.

“Fuck you’re perfect,” he finally muttered, trying to catch his breath. “Fuck, baby.”

You laughed, giving him a long kiss, still tasting yourself on him. 

“So, about that movie…” you teased, drawing an honest laugh out of Mike, who playfully slapped your ass.

“I have a TV in my room, so…"

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“What the fuck did I tell you?” Coach Mike screamed at you, his voice going high in his everlasting irritation. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed him, rolling your eyes, causing that smug giggle in your teammates. Not that any of them would ever dare to disobey him or any other coaches.

“Stop being such a fucking bitch,” he said through his teeth, his face grimacing, jaw clenching impossibly tight. He was holding his glasses in his fist so tight you were sure he had already broken them.

“Takes one to know one, Michael,” you spat back, a vicious sneer lighting your face.

“How many fucking times,” he got in your face, tensions growing so high your teammates were already stepping in, “did I tell you to stop calling me that?”

Your lips formed in an exaggerated pout, mocking Coach Mike, as your teammates dragged you away, still amused, but asking you to dial it down a couple of notches.

You were a topic often discussed between the staff, your sharp tongue and aversion to authority becoming almost mythical. Your personality quite entertained most, but Mike had taken a particular dislike to your attitude, and although he initially tried to resist, he started to take it quite personally when your hurled insults reached him. 

So much so, in fact, that he decided to teach you some manners.

You could swear you heard a faint sound of your hotel door opening, but surely, it was just your imagination playing tricks on you, that treacherous in-between feeling before completely falling asleep deceiving you. Except when you felt a warm body slide in next to you, sleep already having taken you so deep you were unable to move, you knew you weren’t imagining it.

Your heart rate spiked in seconds, then calmed somewhat when a familiar scent reached you, then spiked again, confused why Coach Mike would enter your room in such a manner. 

He pressed himself against you, his hand resting snug against your mouth; all sound, if you made one, would come out muffled, but at least you were jerked fully awake. 

“Not so mouthy now, are we?” you could hear his smug, sanctimonious sneer as his hips ground against your ass in shallow thrusts. He was already hard, so hard you wondered if anyone had ever been so hard just getting in bed with you.

“You smell so fucking delicious,” he whispered against your ear, “I should have done this sooner.”

Alarms started to go off in your head immediately, and you tried to move, but Mike leveraged his whole body to quickly get on top of you, pressing you hard into the mattress, his hand still glued against your mouth.

“This will be the last time I tell you, hm,” he muttered, his lips finding your neck, pressing hot kisses that gave you goosebumps, “stop mouthing off, and stop fucking calling me Michael.”

His hand gave way a little, just enough so you could speak.

“Do you get paid to assault the players, Michael, or is it just a hobby?” you couldn’t help yourself, bitterly spitting out the first thing that went through your mind, still desperately trying to get him off yourself, jerking and thrashing your whole body, trying to move.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of your head, pushing you even deeper into the mattress, his chest pressing against your back.

“What the fuck,” he said through gritted teeth, “did I just tell you, hm, angel?”

His hips continued their little thrusts, his hand snaking its way around your throat, putting you in a tight headlock. His voice and that mocking nickname he used rang in your ears.

“From now on, it’s yes, Coach, and no, Coach, got it?” As he was saying it, he flexed his muscles, effectively tightening his grip around your throat.

You strained to breathe, gulping for air, tiny tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered, defeated and deflated.

Mike immediately relaxed his arm, leaning closer.

“I’m just teaching you a lesson, you annoying spoiled fucking brat. And you are the only one that needs to be taught, because everyone else knows how to behave.”

“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered again, your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow.

Leaning slightly on his side, his legs still enveloping yours, he pushed his other hand under your shirt, groping your tits and rolling your nipples under his fingers.

“Do you like that, hm?” his mouth continued leaving wet marks all over your neck and shoulder, his sneer filling your ears.

“No, Coach,” you whispered out, unsure if Mike was even listening to you.

“No? Are you sure, angel?” his hand slid down into your wet panties; he moaned loudly into your ear, pleased with what he found there. 

“No, Coach,” escaped your lips as you closed your eyes.

Mike finally kissed you, claiming your mouth in a sloppy, aggressive, almost bruising kiss as his fingers explored your pussy; one of his long fingers gently penetrated you, his thumb rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, “how the fuck will it fit, hm? Do you think I’m too big for you?” Mike continued to ignore your rigid body under him, thin fabric doing nothing to stop the sliding of his cock between your ass cheeks.

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, barely audible.

“You are dripping. Are you that desperate to be fucked, angel?” he continued talking, biting at your lips, pushing his tongue in and out of your mouth, his spit spreading all over your cheek. He pushed another finger into you, slowly massaging your tight walls, preparing you for his throbbing cock. 

A lone whimper escaped your lips.

“Fuck, angel,” Mike breathed out, fevershily pulling his cock out of its confines. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, warm, heavy, and leaking against your bare ass. Mike quickly pushed your panties aside and snapped his hips, sheathing himself all the way in.

The stretch burned, sending a quick bolt of pain through your pussy, and you yelled out, causing Mike to extend and push a couple of his fingers into your mouth. They lay heavy on your tongue, and you bit down, cautiously first but harder after, in one last, desperate try to fight back.

Unfazed, Mike simply tightened his arm around your throat without a warning, causing you to desperately open your mouth seeking more air. 

He kept thrusting, splitting you on his cock, moaning your name, still holding you in a headlock. His cock spread you so deliciously, and it felt so agonisingly good to be punished by Mike in this way, even if you were feeling so guilty about it.

“Does your boyfriend fuck you like this, angel?” he taunted, capturing your surprised exhale with his mouth. He continued to fuck you hard, slowing down from time to time to drag his cock halfway out before pushing all the way back in, almost like he was rubbing it in, the fact that you were obviously enjoying him so much.

“No, Coach,” you finally admitted, more tears flooding your face, “he doesn’t really fuck me at all.” Your voice was hoarse, but at least you felt a little better, admitting something that was weighing so heavily on you for so long, even if that admission was to Coach fucking Mike, who was currently fucking you under his full weight, his arm around your neck making you feel deliciously dizzy.

“Oh, angel,” he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, “you should have come to me sooner.” You couldn’t tell anymore if he was making fun of you or not, his cock making you feel so insanely, devastatingly good. You wondered how he was pounding into you for so long and so hard, not losing an ounce of his strength or determination.

“Coach?” you whined, biting at his flexed bicep. You couldn’t think at all anymore; your mind was lost, floating, and your body palatably overwhelmed.

“Yes, angel?” Mike laughed, his hand groping at your tits again, pushing your tank top up. 

He was still in his official team kit; hell, he didn’t even bother to take off his shoes, so consumed by trying to, in his own words, teach you a lesson. He did mean what he said - he should have done it sooner. He wished he had done it sooner, not to teach a brat like you manners. No, Mike regretted not enjoying your tight little cunt earlier, listening to those obscene wet sounds it was making under the constant assault of his fat cock.

“No one ever fucked me like this before,” you immediately buried your face away from him, pressing it against his arm, your cheeks burning.

“Poor baby,” he cooed, sweat from his head and neck dripping all over you, “poor, poor baby angel. Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” you yelled immediately, before biting your tongue. “No, Coach,” you tried to play it off, but Mike was already chuckling in your ear.

“You look so good under me, angel,” Mike was babbling now, his hand pulling both of your wrists, pressing them together against the pillow. “Every night, angel, I promise you. I want to feel you come around my cock, pretty girl, I want to hear all those little pleas from those pretty lips,” he kissed you again, moaning at the same time, looking at your fucked out, cock-drunk face.

You didn’t want it to stop, the heat in your cunt giving you one of the best feelings you’ve ever experienced, topping even some mediocre orgasms you had. You now moaned and whimpered freely, your teeth grazing at Mike’s lips and chin, your tongue darting out trying to find his. Unable to form any words anymore, you’d only let out tiny sounds that seemed to encourage Mike to be even rougher, snapping his hips at you, burying you further into the mattress.

“I’m coming, angel,” he muttered into your ear, biting at your earlobe, pressing his nose there. “I’m coming, and I’m coming in deep.” His breath was hot, his deep voice thundering through you as Mike chased his final pleasure, his final claim.

Mike started cuming into you, but still thrusted shallowly, trying to enjoy everything your pussy would give him. His groans filled the room as he stilled on top of you, his sticky seed spilling deep inside your battered walls, and then leaking out around his cock.

He stayed on top of you for a while, relaxing, listening to you trying to breathe, and then, with a long groan, lay down next to you, his arm still wedged under your neck. 

“You can tell that loser of yours to fuck off,” he muttered, his voice falling into that angry growl, “because I’m not giving up on that cunt.”

He pulled you closer, observing your red eyes and puffy lips with great attention, tangling his fingers into your hair. He wasn’t frowning, but you knew he was completely serious. What his deluded mind initially envisioned as a punishment unleashed something in him, and you knew that when Mike wanted something, he’d always get it.

And what if deep down, you wanted it as well? What if you too wanted to feel your panties soaked with his cum night after night, Mike on top of you fucking you into the mattress until the only thing on your mind was his cock? What then? You bit your bruised lip, your mind scrambling like crazy. Are you really going to put your pleasure, yourself, first? For a crazy fuck like Coach Mike?

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, awfully close to dissociating.

Mike smiled.

“Good girl,” he whispered back.

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“What the fuck did I tell you?” Coach Mike screamed at you, his voice going high in his everlasting irritation. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you dismissed him, rolling your eyes, causing that smug giggle in your teammates. Not that any of them would ever dare to disobey him or any other coaches.

“Stop being such a fucking bitch,” he said through his teeth, his face grimacing, jaw clenching impossibly tight. He was holding his glasses in his fist so tight you were sure he had already broken them.

“Takes one to know one, Michael,” you spat back, a vicious sneer lighting your face.

“How many fucking times,” he got in your face, tensions growing so high your teammates were already stepping in, “did I tell you to stop calling me that?”

Your lips formed in an exaggerated pout, mocking Coach Mike, as your teammates dragged you away, still amused, but asking you to dial it down a couple of notches.

You were a topic often discussed between the staff, your sharp tongue and aversion to authority becoming almost mythical. Your personality quite entertained most, but Mike had taken a particular dislike to your attitude, and although he initially tried to resist, he started to take it quite personally when your hurled insults reached him. 

So much so, in fact, that he decided to teach you some manners.

You could swear you heard a faint sound of your hotel door opening, but surely, it was just your imagination playing tricks on you, that treacherous in-between feeling before completely falling asleep deceiving you. Except when you felt a warm body slide in next to you, sleep already having taken you so deep you were unable to move, you knew you weren’t imagining it.

Your heart rate spiked in seconds, then calmed somewhat when a familiar scent reached you, then spiked again, confused why Coach Mike would enter your room in such a manner. 

He pressed himself against you, his hand resting snug against your mouth; all sound, if you made one, would come out muffled, but at least you were jerked fully awake. 

“Not so mouthy now, are we?” you could hear his smug, sanctimonious sneer as his hips ground against your ass in shallow thrusts. He was already hard, so hard you wondered if anyone had ever been so hard just getting in bed with you.

“You smell so fucking delicious,” he whispered against your ear, “I should have done this sooner.”

Alarms started to go off in your head immediately, and you tried to move, but Mike leveraged his whole body to quickly get on top of you, pressing you hard into the mattress, his hand still glued against your mouth.

“This will be the last time I tell you, hm,” he muttered, his lips finding your neck, pressing hot kisses that gave you goosebumps, “stop mouthing off, and stop fucking calling me Michael.”

His hand gave way a little, just enough so you could speak.

“Do you get paid to assault the players, Michael, or is it just a hobby?” you couldn’t help yourself, bitterly spitting out the first thing that went through your mind, still desperately trying to get him off yourself, jerking and thrashing your whole body, trying to move.

He groaned, pressing his forehead to the back of your head, pushing you even deeper into the mattress, his chest pressing against your back.

“What the fuck,” he said through gritted teeth, “did I just tell you, hm, angel?”

His hips continued their little thrusts, his hand snaking its way around your throat, putting you in a tight headlock. His voice and that mocking nickname he used rang in your ears.

“From now on, it’s yes, Coach, and no, Coach, got it?” As he was saying it, he flexed his muscles, effectively tightening his grip around your throat.

You strained to breathe, gulping for air, tiny tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered, defeated and deflated.

Mike immediately relaxed his arm, leaning closer.

“I’m just teaching you a lesson, you annoying spoiled fucking brat. And you are the only one that needs to be taught, because everyone else knows how to behave.”

“Yes, Coach,” you whimpered again, your throat nestled in the crook of his elbow.

Leaning slightly on his side, his legs still enveloping yours, he pushed his other hand under your shirt, groping your tits and rolling your nipples under his fingers.

“Do you like that, hm?” his mouth continued leaving wet marks all over your neck and shoulder, his sneer filling your ears.

“No, Coach,” you whispered out, unsure if Mike was even listening to you.

“No? Are you sure, angel?” his hand slid down into your wet panties; he moaned loudly into your ear, pleased with what he found there. 

“No, Coach,” escaped your lips as you closed your eyes.

Mike finally kissed you, claiming your mouth in a sloppy, aggressive, almost bruising kiss as his fingers explored your pussy; one of his long fingers gently penetrated you, his thumb rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

“You’re so tight,” he groaned, “how the fuck will it fit, hm? Do you think I’m too big for you?” Mike continued to ignore your rigid body under him, thin fabric doing nothing to stop the sliding of his cock between your ass cheeks.

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, barely audible.

“You are dripping. Are you that desperate to be fucked, angel?” he continued talking, biting at your lips, pushing his tongue in and out of your mouth, his spit spreading all over your cheek. He pushed another finger into you, slowly massaging your tight walls, preparing you for his throbbing cock. 

A lone whimper escaped your lips.

“Fuck, angel,” Mike breathed out, fevershily pulling his cock out of its confines. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, warm, heavy, and leaking against your bare ass. Mike quickly pushed your panties aside and snapped his hips, sheathing himself all the way in.

The stretch burned, sending a quick bolt of pain through your pussy, and you yelled out, causing Mike to extend and push a couple of his fingers into your mouth. They lay heavy on your tongue, and you bit down, cautiously first but harder after, in one last, desperate try to fight back.

Unfazed, Mike simply tightened his arm around your throat without a warning, causing you to desperately open your mouth seeking more air. 

He kept thrusting, splitting you on his cock, moaning your name, still holding you in a headlock. His cock spread you so deliciously, and it felt so agonisingly good to be punished by Mike in this way, even if you were feeling so guilty about it.

“Does your boyfriend fuck you like this, angel?” he taunted, capturing your surprised exhale with his mouth. He continued to fuck you hard, slowing down from time to time to drag his cock halfway out before pushing all the way back in, almost like he was rubbing it in, the fact that you were obviously enjoying him so much.

“No, Coach,” you finally admitted, more tears flooding your face, “he doesn’t really fuck me at all.” Your voice was hoarse, but at least you felt a little better, admitting something that was weighing so heavily on you for so long, even if that admission was to Coach fucking Mike, who was currently fucking you under his full weight, his arm around your neck making you feel deliciously dizzy.

“Oh, angel,” he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, “you should have come to me sooner.” You couldn’t tell anymore if he was making fun of you or not, his cock making you feel so insanely, devastatingly good. You wondered how he was pounding into you for so long and so hard, not losing an ounce of his strength or determination.

“Coach?” you whined, biting at his flexed bicep. You couldn’t think at all anymore; your mind was lost, floating, and your body palatably overwhelmed.

“Yes, angel?” Mike laughed, his hand groping at your tits again, pushing your tank top up. 

He was still in his official team kit; hell, he didn’t even bother to take off his shoes, so consumed by trying to, in his own words, teach you a lesson. He did mean what he said - he should have done it sooner. He wished he had done it sooner, not to teach a brat like you manners. No, Mike regretted not enjoying your tight little cunt earlier, listening to those obscene wet sounds it was making under the constant assault of his fat cock.

“No one ever fucked me like this before,” you immediately buried your face away from him, pressing it against his arm, your cheeks burning.

“Poor baby,” he cooed, sweat from his head and neck dripping all over you, “poor, poor baby angel. Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” you yelled immediately, before biting your tongue. “No, Coach,” you tried to play it off, but Mike was already chuckling in your ear.

“You look so good under me, angel,” Mike was babbling now, his hand pulling both of your wrists, pressing them together against the pillow. “Every night, angel, I promise you. I want to feel you come around my cock, pretty girl, I want to hear all those little pleas from those pretty lips,” he kissed you again, moaning at the same time, looking at your fucked out, cock-drunk face.

You didn’t want it to stop, the heat in your cunt giving you one of the best feelings you’ve ever experienced, topping even some mediocre orgasms you had. You now moaned and whimpered freely, your teeth grazing at Mike’s lips and chin, your tongue darting out trying to find his. Unable to form any words anymore, you’d only let out tiny sounds that seemed to encourage Mike to be even rougher, snapping his hips at you, burying you further into the mattress.

“I’m coming, angel,” he muttered into your ear, biting at your earlobe, pressing his nose there. “I’m coming, and I’m coming in deep.” His breath was hot, his deep voice thundering through you as Mike chased his final pleasure, his final claim.

Mike started cuming into you, but still thrusted shallowly, trying to enjoy everything your pussy would give him. His groans filled the room as he stilled on top of you, his sticky seed spilling deep inside your battered walls, and then leaking out around his cock.

He stayed on top of you for a while, relaxing, listening to you trying to breathe, and then, with a long groan, lay down next to you, his arm still wedged under your neck. 

“You can tell that loser of yours to fuck off,” he muttered, his voice falling into that angry growl, “because I’m not giving up on that cunt.”

He pulled you closer, observing your red eyes and puffy lips with great attention, tangling his fingers into your hair. He wasn’t frowning, but you knew he was completely serious. What his deluded mind initially envisioned as a punishment unleashed something in him, and you knew that when Mike wanted something, he’d always get it.

And what if deep down, you wanted it as well? What if you too wanted to feel your panties soaked with his cum night after night, Mike on top of you fucking you into the mattress until the only thing on your mind was his cock? What then? You bit your bruised lip, your mind scrambling like crazy. Are you really going to put your pleasure, yourself, first? For a crazy fuck like Coach Mike?

“Yes, Coach,” you whispered, awfully close to dissociating.

Mike smiled.

“Good girl,” he whispered back.

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You wouldn’t leave your room for days, sneaking out to grab some food when you were sure your uncle wasn’t in the kitchen. You had no idea when John ate, or if he ate at all, still following you to the fridge and back like a loyal dog. You found a couple of those thin scarves that were trendy when you were a kid, so you’d religiously wear them even to the bathroom, just so your uncle wouldn’t see the marks around your neck. 

When he wouldn’t let it go, wondering why your voice sounded so hoarse, you lied, saying that your whole friendship group got into a fight and you cried so hard you gave yourself a sore throat. To get him to finally leave you alone, you just mumbled that you were on your period, before bursting into tears.

Even as the temperatures reached all-time highs, John kept wearing long sleeves, unable to look at the scratch marks you left. He has never felt so guilty about a thing in his life, and he killed people for a living, for fucks sake. It was never supposed to get this complicated. He was hired to protect you, to keep you safe, and sure, he did take it too seriously by trying to protect you from yourself, but now, he couldn’t even protect you from himself?

John hasn’t lost his cool like this since his early teens and has never lost it against a person before, his victims mostly being public properties and trees. He was cold, calculated, and meticulous, and not involved.

You hadn’t been crying since, but that didn’t make it much better. John was still barely sleeping, flinching awake at any sound, repeatedly checking if you were still in your bed throughout the night. He kept trying to come up with an apology, obsessively cleaning his gun. He pushed all the shirts you got him to the back of the closet, so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at them. You were so careful in picking them out, asking what kind of fit he’d prefer, what colours he liked. And a smile, a huge, warm smile every time he’d exit the changing room, and you’d try to match a tie to it, just in case he needed it. 

But to you, John looked the same. A little shaken, but the same. You knew you went too far, but you never thought he would react the way he did; you expected him to yell at you or tell you to fuck off, but you didn’t blame him for it. You blamed yourself, running your mouth again instead of being kind or simply communicating. You felt violated and dirty, and you didn’t want John to regard you as such, so you asked for reassurances in the worst possible way. 

You sighed softly into your pillow.

Maybe he should resign, John wondered, but just a thought of it filled him with dread. How could he leave you, especially knowing how serious the threat against you was? It was sheer, stupid luck that he was fighting off drunken creeps and not cartel, thinking again how much he wanted to turn your uncle’s face into mush for being so idiotically dense for entering into business with them in the first place.

He was pulled back to reality by a soft knock and those little sounds you would make before speaking.

“I’d like to apologise again, John. I didn’t mean any of it, and it wasn’t fair to you… I should never have said those things.” You swallowed, a little sad that he was avoiding looking at you directly. “And it’s a lie that I can’t wait for you to be gone. If anything, you made my life much easier. Made me feel… Safe.”

He nodded, pressing his lips together. John was the one who should be apologising, begging on his knees for forgiveness. You should fire him. Slap him, spit in his face and bash it against the floor. Instead, you were telling him how safe he was making you feel. 

Safe. Safe. Safer.

You were both startled by a sharp knock - your uncle always had impeccable timing.

“I’m sending you back to the East Coast. You too,” he glanced at John.

“But my classes don’t start in a month,” you were confused, and now quite worried all over again.

“I know, angel, I’m just not comfortable with you here,” he sounded dejected but firm in his decision. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

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Baelor

Your foot tapped anxiously beside your husband, your eyes set on the table as if you were trying to imagine you were anywhere else. It had been his suggestion to stop in and visit your homelands on your back to King's Landing after a tourney, but now he was wondering if that was the right choice.

Your father seemed, fine. Nice enough shoveling the food into his mouth as if it was his last meal. Your mother sat next to him, her nose turned up in disapproval, rolling her eyes every few minutes. He imagined she too wished she was somewhere else.

Your elder sister. Who still remained unmarried, sat next to her. She seemed to be the real issue. Her burning gaze has been boring into you all night. Assessing your every move as if she was waiting for you to slip up so she could point it out.

Your hands, which had been shaking all dinner, had finally given her what she wanted. The silverware fell form your hands with a loud clutter. Your eyes, to which were always filled with happiness broke his heart.

They were wide, scared and you looked more like a timid animal then his wife. Your mouth hung half opened as if you were about to let out a giant sob, "I am sorry. I am so sorry," you began immediately, your entire body shaking like a leaf.

He stared at you a moment going to reach out in an attempt to comfort you, but before he could a shrill voice met the air. Your sister had decided now was time to make her attack, "How are you suppose to be a Queen if you can not handle making it through a dinner without looking pathetic."

Baelor's mismatched eyes widen as he stared at you for a moment, "Excuse me?" he questioned, his eyebrows drawn together as he turned toward her. She went to open her mouth to reply, but stopped as she noticed his face.

The perfect prince was gone and instead in his place was the reminder of just what he is. A dragon. A knight with prowess who had gained his own reputation. His jaw was locked as he looked to her daring her to continue, but she did not.

 He nodded seeming pleased, "I suggest you watch the way you talk to my wife. Your future Queen next time," he said, before turning to the head of the table toward your father, "I expect that behavior will be corrected. It will not be tolerated again," he told her.

"As you wish, Your Grace," he said, with a bow of his head. "Apologize to your sister," he then hissed to the elder.

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before your mother's stern expression met hers causing her to let out a small whine of defeat, "I am sorry—"

"Princess. Call her what she is," Baelor added.

Your sister stared at him for a moment blinking, as you watched the whole scene in bewilderment wondering if you were living in a dream for a moment. He nodded in prompting waiting for her to continue.

She swallowed harshly, "I am sorry for offending you, Princess. It will not happen again."

You said nothing only staring at her slightly before turning to Baelor, clearly not knowing what to do. He said nothing, but shrugged. He would rather you not accept her apology and make her squirm a little longer.

He picked up your silverware handing it to you, "There you are, darling," he said, with a small smile, "Better finish your plate. We have a long trip back home to King's Landing on the morrow."

Maekar

Maekar had not wanted your family to visit in the first place, but you had assured them they would not be staying long.

 But as dinner waged on he could tell that you did not seem to want to be here anymore than he did. Your eyes, usually bright a full of life were cast down on your plate as you glanced to your mother every thirty seconds.

Your shoulders were tense as if you were awaiting a striking blow that he could only himself prepare it. His hands moved under the table resting against your covered thigh giving it a firm squeeze.

 He watched the tension from your shoulders melt away and you turned toward him giving him a tight lipped smile. Your eyes moved down toward his plate then, without word he slid it over to you knowing that you wanted the potatoes that you had not been granted on your own.

Your name was then called out and you froze, "Mayhaps you should skip the potatoes tongiht. You are looking a bit pudgy as of late," your mother said, off handed, completely normal as if it had been said hundreds of times.

You opened your mouth to reply, but it was not your booming voice that filled the hall first, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Maekar," you whispered, tired, defeated as if you expected him to sit there and allow them to degrade you like that.

His burning violent gaze turned from you to your parents at the head of the table, both looking to each other mouths open trying to form a coherent thought, "I did not mean to offend," your mother tried, but it did nothing to dim the fire burning through him.

"And yet you did. Your daughter is my wife. A member of House Targaryen and I expect you to talk to her with respect now. Anything less will be seen as treason," he barked, before sliding the plate over to you, "Now get her more fucking potatoes."

Maekar shook his head, as you said nothing picking away at the potatoes. Your mother and father sat still at the head of the table eyeing him. Your father opened his mouth, and your husband caught it from the corner of his eyes.

His head snapped toward him, his scowl deepening, his eyes squinted as if he was trying to burn the man, "Unless you have learned manners within the last few moments I do not wish to hear a word from either of you," he said, his voice low, the edges catching just the way he wanted it too.

The rest of dinner was silent and you left the next morning.

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You stayed holed up in the house for more than a week, only leaving your room to eat or, when you’d feel especially antsy, to bake, making John eat most of it. He never complained, no matter how many muffins or pieces of cake you’d give him, but you wished he’d at least tell you if he liked it, unprompted, that is.

“Why are you lingering around the house all the time?”

Your uncle was on his third piece of cake, and his last for this week, given his cholesterol levels. 

“Some creep groped me in the club, and I can’t fucking wash it off,” you muttered, more to yourself, but loud enough for both of them to hear it. 

“What?” your uncle immediately stared John down, or tried to anyway.

“Don’t fucking look at him like that!” you snapped at him, throwing the fork into the sink. “Where do you think those bruised knuckles came from?”

Already feeling guilty by the way you reacted, you scurried to your room, feeling a fresh batch of tears threatening to burst out of you.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” John spoke, completely unprompted, for what felt like the first time ever.

“You know what, John? Fuck off, fuck off all the ways to hell.” You were fighting tears, the heat, and your embarrassment. Your lower lip was trembling, and your throat was tightening again. 

Ever a stoic, John didn’t move a muscle, not even to raise his eyebrow. Usually, you would appreciate his uncanny ability to stay unprovoked, but this time it truly bothered you.

“I can’t wait for your contract to be over,” you spat out through gritted teeth before slamming the door in his face. And then you immediately went to the double door between your rooms and locked it on your side, already crying, quiet sobs filling the space. You didn’t even care that John could hear you.

He, on the other hand, unknowingly to you, was in the bathroom across the hall, the one you shared, going through all of your things, emptying the contents of your cosmetic bags into the sink, before erroneously throwing it all back in. He went through your cabinets, even emptied the dirty laundry hamper, going through every piece of clothing, listening to your sobs. 

John was furious, mainly with himself, but he was paid to protect you, so he continued, going through every nook and cranny, checking and rechecking every hiding space where you could slide in a razor. He found a few, pocketing them, realising you would probably have another stash in your bedroom. He already got rid of one, but if John knew anything about you, it was your pathological need to self-harm. He noticed your scars on the very first day, when you were exiting the pool; he didn’t think anything of it, except to keep an eye out for more that would appear - the fresh, ill-healed, often glowing red marks that would sometimes peek under your dress when you were dancing, or the thin, superficial lines on the inside of your elbows.

And it stung, what you said, the way you said it. John couldn’t wrap his head around why, why would it sting so fucking bad that a rich, spoiled princess couldn’t wait for him to be out of her life? This job was easy, he kept repeating in his head. Easy, well-paid, and didn’t require much preparation, or mental resources, or premeditated murder. And you were nice to him too, always all-smiles towards him, full of thank-yous and pleases: thank you for driving me, John; do you mind, John; thank you for being here, John; you’re the best, John. He was clenching his jaw so hard he thought he might chip a tooth, resting his head on a partially wet towel that still smelled like you, a mix of flowery and fruity, and under it, the scent of your skin.

John snapped out of it with a terrifying realisation that you went quiet; no sobs, no whimpers. He tried the door, first the one from the hallway, and then the one that you never locked before, the one connecting your room to his. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.

He knocked, then promptly slammed the door with his hand, three times in a row. Nothing. He continued, calling your name, pausing periodically to listen for movement in the room. Still nothing.

His fists were shaking, more drops of clammy sweat forming on his forehead. Grabbing his gun, John broke the door with one hard kick.

You screamed, almost falling off your bed, pulling off the headphones. Still grasping onto your plush pink bunny, you were trying to make sense of the situation.

John was, for whatever reason, breathing harder than you, wiping sweat from his brows with his forearm, his other hand gripping his gun, clicking the safety back on.

“You were told to keep this door unlocked,” he spat out between ragged breaths, his accent slipping again into something you couldn’t place. He pushed the gun into his jeans behind his back, his eyes scanning your room, the lights temporarily causing you to press your eyelids harshly together.

You watched in horror the way he moved, from corner to corner, even checking under your bed, before he started methodically going through your things, first the bookcase, picture frames, and then through your drawers. 

“What, the dirty lingerie is not doing it for you anymore?” 

You had no idea why you even said it. John certainly never did anything to make you even slightly suspicious, and you never caught him with your panties or other items of clothing. You just wanted it to hurt, not in any sort of retaliation, but because you yourself were hurt, and sick of it, sick of being ridiculed and told to toughen up. You wanted John to feel what you were feeling, even if it turned you into a mean, spiteful person you didn’t recognise.

John’s hand was wrapped around your neck in an instant, pressing you against the wall. You gasped, but otherwise didn’t make a sound, your eyes glassy, air already struggling to reach your straining lungs. His eyes looked so pretty, you thought, even though he looked like he wanted to kill you.

“Fucking brat,” he muttered under his breath.

He was fuming with rage, letting you finally get to him with such a stupid provocation. John himself didn’t know exactly why it hurt so badly; he’d replay it endlessly in his head in the upcoming days, trying to make some sense out of his reaction. He felt it from the back of his throat, through his tightening chest, all the way to that hollow drop in the stomach. His fingers tightened around your throat in response. 

John wanted you to beg and to apologise, or to at least scream and fight back. He hated the idea that you thought he was the same as that creep from the club, accusing him of violating your privacy, of violating you in such a despicable way.

Or perhaps it hurt because it was true - wasn’t he just burying his head into your used towel, desperate to feel close to you? Was that why it hurt so much when you told him you wanted him out of your life, because John wanted the opposite?

His sight fell to the plushie you were still holding onto, rather holding it close than trying to pry John’s fingers off your throat.

When he let go, his hand immediately snatched the bunny out of your hands.

“Please,” you squealed, almost hysterical that John would rip it apart. “I’m sorry I said all those things, please.” 

You were grabbing at his hands and forearms, nails scratching his skin, but John wouldn’t let go, already knowing exactly into which seam to dig to find yet another one of your razors. He gave you the bunny back and then wordlessly moved on to your nightstand, having a gnawing feeling you moved everything into the first drawer, which he forcefully pulled out and emptied onto the bed.

He knew why; it was your toys drawer, and unsure if he or your uncle was constantly emptying your macabre stash, it was probably the only place you could think of that would make them uneasy. Grabbing the rest off the bed, he slammed the door on the way out, making you shriek. 

He lay wide awake, listening to you trying to swallow the sobs until dawn.

Chapter One, Chapter Two

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