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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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Darkness stuck its heavy black press to every corner. You rose and dressed in the quiet. Whisper of cloth on flesh. Every noise felt like treason as you pulled on silk and stockings and a cloak. Lacing slippers.

You moved with the flimsy adroitness of a shadow past your husbands door. The strength of air-splitting snores coming from within giving you easy mind and passage.

You’d no doubt he’d tired himself out. Sweat slicked, and reeking of port.

You’d seen the brazen scullery maid with dark hair and slim hips, hurry along to his chambers earlier in quick steps. A salacious grin on her mouth. She was plain and easy. That seemed to be what he liked.

Maybe the fact that she could hold that mantel, a vestige of pride of being welcomed to his bed, over you, some grand lady, was the real draw. Mockery.

Your reliable maid, Saria, told you that woman was all boastful smirk and shining teeth with it in the mornings. Fancies herself tall with it.

You don’t know what her hurry was for. He rutted and humped like a boar and spills his seed too soon. Cared naught for his partners pleasure. You wish her well with him.

That, and the frankly average size of his cock, which you’d never found to be particularly pleasing, she was also welcome too.

Greater pleasures swelled for attention in your mind. You’d been aching for days. Empty and unfulfilled.

At first you ignored it. When the fire burned low and that slithering snake of an ache flared between your hipbones; you ignored it. Turned over and tried to let sleep claim you. Fingers twisted in the sheets. Thighs sticky.

You tried distraction. You went into the city and spent your way through a very weighty purse on fripperies.

A whole clutch of new ribbons. More pearl rings. Pendants and silver jewellery. A whole tray of honey cakes. Sweet candied plums from Dorne. Three new bottles of expensive scent from Lys, that smelled like nectar and heaven. An armful of silk dresses in colours of the sea. Jade like dune grasses. Teal like the sky on a good day. Silvery blue that reminded you of the cunning curl of waves hit by sun.

That empty void within you grew as cavernous as a dragons maw; you were feeding it the wrong things. That’s why it wasn’t sated.

You cannot deny yourself any longer. The hunger grew to be too much. You realise what you were craving;

Lyonel was right. You would be back.

You tread down the courtyard and out the servants door via the kitchens. All is dead and dark and you think it terribly ironic you won’t be missed til the lilac and rose smudged dawn. When the house rises once again.

When the servants wake and bustle to chores when dark still kisses the edge of the morning. Fires will be swept. Candles refreshed. Shutters opened. The days bread merely wet dough in the oven. Ready to begin anew. No one will know of your perfidy.

You plunge headlong into this filthy, reeking night again, with a full purse on your hip.

You head for the pleasure house. This time, you don’t give yourself leave to hesitate at the door. You are made of Velaryon tides; you sweep through all bluster and silence.

Your slippers meet the fine cool tiles of the entryway. Polished to a mirror shine. Ivory and obsidian in fine diamond cut. The familiar smoky perfume slipping over you. The same sultry strings of music coming from somewhere you can’t place. Some silk draping or a clever panel you’ve no doubt. Exotic ripe fruit torn open to be devoured. Tonight it is pomegranates. Ripped and bashed open. Their insides glisten like gems bathing in sunlight.

The wine pours freely. People revel in the usual debauchery in the open. Wet smacking flesh. Moans travelling along skin.

Your wedding ring gets tucked once more into your pocket. Now that’s becoming a habit.

You swallow. Edging into the room. Curious glances from under heavy, kohl dark lashes flick your way. Your hood is dropped back by a steady hand.

A serving girl, naked save for some sort of gauzy fabric that hangs in arches over her hips, breezes your way. That slinky thin cloth seems to be a uniform to mark all the whores hereabouts.

She’s carrying a heavy silver tray of wine. Holding it out to you with a smile. Her hair is dark, blood red like a priestess. It reaches in waves down her back. Eyes pale. Jewels of ruby rest fat and glistening between her small breasts.

She offers you the tray. Wordless. Her eyes sting at you with their intensity. Smile curling. You nod. Wetting your lips. Taking a cup. She’s moving on after you utter a weak thanks.

You watch as a male patron reached out and slapped her ass to make it jiggle as she nears him. She doesn’t even flinch or spill her offerings. Used to it, you suppose.

You find a decent enough place to hide. Behind a huge black and gold patterned urn. Crammed in a small window alcove of a bench on silk cushions. You let the brothel in all its splendour carve on around you. You slink to the side of it all and stick to hiding, like flotsam caught on low tide.

A heavy boulder settles on your belly. You begin to feel regret closing in. Fetid trap of its jaw crushing your spirit. Wine feels spiky on your empty stomach. Like holes burnt in parchment. But the warmth it floods down your throat is welcome. It’s nice and quite strong. You lean to it. Pretty soon your goblet is near empty.

Unfortunately, your hiding spot gets a rude uncovering.

A man brazenly sits himself down next to you. Cushions slumping silk under his weight. He groans like the seat is a great comfort on weary bones.

You shrink down. You’d hoped to pass unnoticed until you could catch the eye of the mistress and ask for someone. Maybe Duncan again. Maybe his husband Lyonel- if either were available to accommodate you. If not, you’d slink home in disgrace.

He chuckles. Dry and throaty. “A shy one, are we?” He asks. Twisting to face you.

He stretched back and rests himself closer to your side. You’re sure he thinks himself handsome. There is certainly a good essence of that to his face. Blue eyes. Golden hair swept back. A square jaw. A clipped beard. He’s garbed in a crimson doublet, open wide at the neck. Plain breeches and shining boots. Fine jewellery shouts wealth from his fingers and neck.

“You’ve got the wrong idea.” You remark. Standing your goblet down. Ready to bolt for the hallway just to your left. The one that led to the door. Mayhaps this was a grave mistake-

He eases into your space with . Shoulder brushing yours. You smell the perfume of him. It sours your stomach to twist. A strong wash of greasy scent. All gold lustre and overpowering wealth. Enough to choke on.

“It’s alright. You need not speak overmuch.” He assures with great confidence. “I can draw other noises from that pretty mouth.”

His eyes find yours. It’s unsettling how dark they look. Cenote heavy.

“I’m not-“

He turns fully into your side. Crowding you in. Fingers resting easy on your leg. Cutting over you. Your tongue clearly fell insignificant to him.

“You must be new here. You’re spooking like a skittish mare. I usually have to pay double for that lovely little game.” His hand slides under the velvet of your cloak and up your silk clad thigh.

“I’m not a whore.” Your eyes burn at him. Holding his gaze. Hoping he reads your ire. Pearl drops hanging on your earlobes shake. Jaw grit into a hard packed line, that hurt your teeth.

He grins all the more. “That’s more like it.” His hand slides up and greedily cups the side of your thigh. Fingers attempting to sink into the fat of your ass. He moans in pleasure under his breath when he grabs you.

“Your hair, splendid. White as pearl. Maybe you’re a dragonseed, huh? Fire and blood and a nice fierce hot pussy between your legs. Can’t wait to sink into it.”

“Stop- please. Stop, Ser.”

“Squirm and fuss. Underneath it all you can’t wait to be spread under me. Pretty one. I know it.”

“Fuck you.” You bite.

You push both hands at his chest and shove. A grunt coming from your mouth when he falls back to the alcove seat. Unleashing yourself from his grip. Yanking your cloak away.

You bolt for the door. He splutters in offence. His hand snatches out, bands a fierce grip on your upper arm before you can run. Even through all your soft fabric, you know the touch may leave a mark.

He catches you. Pushes you up against the nearest doorway. Keeps you there with his tall body.

“You think I won’t chase you down. Cunt. I’ve paid a royal sum for this. I should thrash you bloody with my belt for even daring to disobey.”

You try and pry his hand off. He only tightens his hold. “Get off-“ you cry.

Trying to shake him loose. Gripping his hand to try and loosen his grip. To no avail. Angry hot tears spike your eyes.

You wonder how the room can carve on uncaring, with this filth pawing at you. Hurting you. You twist. You try and slip out his grasp, but the net has truly closed.

Before you can comprehend. A ringed, bronze-skinned fist, inundated with rings, clenches the man by the neck of his red silk.

A strong kick to the back of his legs from behind gets him crippled, falling down to his knees. Landing hard enough to shatter bone. He sputters mightily at the indignity.

He keeps him there. Stood to his back. A small, wickedly-sharp dagger now pressed to one side of the man’s neck. He gulps and the tip pricks his delicate skin. Nearly puncturing.

Your saviour came in a surprising, storming form; Lyonel.

You breathe hard, shrunk in the doorway. Huddled back. Watching the man towering over this entitled prick.

“What is the fucking meaning of this. Unhand me. Now.” He screeches. Lyonel smiles down. All grin and devastation.

He smirks wider. Takes great pleasure in dragging the steel in a slow, uncontested line along his throat. Whitens the reddening skin. Testing.

“What have we here...” He addresses the man with cool venom. Hand fisting tighter in his clothes. Cutting off his wriggling. Choking him with a twist of the fabric.

He looks a picture for a man who thought himself invincible; holds his hands aloft showing he’s not armed. Weak.

“I don’t think I appreciate your tone, Lormer.” Lyonel says to him. Taking great sweet joy in toying with his knife. Tracing a pulsing angered vein in the scum’s neck.

“What did he do to you, pet-“ He slowly raises his eyes across to you. You calm your breathing enough to answer. Struck dumb. His grip still burned your arm.

“He grabbed me. I told him I wasn’t-“ You swallow. Words coming spilling out in panic. Shaking your head.

“I was just- I was talking to her…” Lormer tries to excuse. Choking on his own deference.

A filthy lying coward with a quaking tongue when the steel came out. Lyonel buoys a dark brow. Looking amused and fully confident the man was lying.

“Last I checked, you entitled shit, a man doesn’t need to get his hands involved to talk to a lady.” Lyonel assures.

He brings his gaze slowly up to you. Their depths stun you. Muscles strain in his bulging arms. He’s dressed much the same as last time. Jewels and gold encrust his arms and neck, his nipples, his ears. Banded on his upper arms.

He’s shirtless. Draped in pearls. Eyes lined in kohl. Hair hanging low curls over his eyes. Instead of gauzy cloth slung to his hips, tonight, he wears leather breeches that melt perfectly into folded-black, pirate style boots up his calves.

His chest pelted with raven and silver hair, arms covered too wirh a dark dusting of it. Oil glimmers off him, shining past his nipple rings. On his biceps and neck. He glistens in the light and scent seeps off tan skin; Orange wood, cloves and cinnamon. He smelled like a Pentos market stall. All spice and exotic flare.

He’s just as devastating to recount as you remember.

“I thought she was a whore.” He defends. Voice shrill. Rising in pitch.

Lyonel shares an easy look with you that gets your belly hot. Flustered. Like he’s struck a flint to spark.

“You were mistaken. Get the fuck off out of here. Consider your coin tonight as payment in recompense for offending Cerelle.”

“You can’t-“ He froths. Spitting indignation.

“I can. I have.” Lyonel snaps. Dismissing.

He pitched a sharp short whistle. Two heavy set guards on the door are called in by it.

“Take this one away. Bar him any future entry. Blacken both eyes. Maybe break a rib. And when he begs all pitiful and says ‘please’ you are to kick him to a pulp until he pisses blood. Understood?” He orders.

They smile their ready assent. He is dragged away on his knees. Hissing insult and ruin as he goes. Boots slipped along the floor hard enough to scratch the fine things.

People barely bat an eye. The music doesn’t even falter. Whores roll their eyes. Go back to their smiles, their lust, their wine.

Cerelle, the pleasure house Mistress, watches from the side of the room. Happily sat with her long legs crossed, sipping her wine. Robe a wicked apple green tonight. Complimenting the emeralds circling her neck like a gorget. She likes to lay naked under a silk robe amongst her boys and girls. She rests in the corner, cunning as a spider. Watching her web. Maybe later she’ll have a lover. She hasn’t decided who yet.

She watches the scene unfold with icy indifference. Good riddance. No man, lord or prince, could afford to offend her.

She has half this city all sewn up in her palm. From dock workers, to lordings, to princes; she has the master of whispers in her silk lined pocket. And never lets them forget it. A whore can be as deadly as a blade if used right-

When she sees Lyonel stood with you, she smiles and lets that lie. He had others interested. They’d queue up into the street for time with him. Knowing you pay well buys you her discretion. You can have her best for the night. She trusts Lyonel to give you a time that will have you crawling back on hands and knees for more.

You drag your eyes back across to where he stands. The dagger gets twirled masterfully in his hand. Slipped away to a sheath on his low slung belt. He steps forwards with careful attentiveness.

But that smile can’t be gentle. He looks distantly smug. “Come along. Darling.”

He nods his head back towards the sweeping marble stairs. He offers out a hand. Respectful. Knowing full well you may not take it for the indignity you’ve just suffered.

You blink at him. Unsure. Hands clasped to yourself like it would hold you together. You look like a cornered mouse.

“You came back for a reason, did you not…” His eyes sparkle. Tilting his head down in cheeky inflection.

That you can’t deny.

You gently place your fingers in his. He slips them up quickly to his mouth. Drawing you level. Lingers a beautiful, slow kiss on your knuckles, as his eyes find yours again. All sorts of sin and mirth lives in them.

Your body feels that deeply. Everywhere. Between your hips especially.

He tucks your hand in his elbow. Walks you through the all the sin and debauchery. Sweeps you away above stairs. Away from the mess and the room that reels with moans.

“I have a very good Highgarden wine in my room. Better than the red swill they serve down here.” He assures.

His thumb flicks a hot, smooth arc across your hand. You are swallowed up into the tempest of him. You’re alarmingly at peace with it.

The room he leads you too, is different to last time. You climb higher up in the cavernous house. The air drifts heavy with the weight of Jasmine no matter where you go. The vines that wrap around the front of the house, strangle each window with scent- it comes pouring down the stairs to greet you.

The stairs are also littered with many men and women, half dressed. Some sat. Some perch in arched doorways. Made up and all of them pretty and perfumed.

You spy a tableau of naked flesh and fucking when you peer in one room. One man enjoying two women. One at his cock, pressing it into her cheek to suck on. Another with her legs split, braces over his face. Riding his tongue.

“Care to join?” Lyonel’s mouth sneaks over and whispers across your ear. Catching your gazing at the fluidly moving curvy hips of the one sat on the man’s face.

“No. Thank you.” You fluster. Visibly. He chuckles to see it. Sweet little pet.

You hurry along after Lyonel. Coming along a landing. Up to another marble stair. Brushing last exotic plants with fern fronds that swipe at your cloak.

You pass the door you’d been shown too last time. Duncan’s door. It was shut. You have little wonder as to the nature of the happenings within. Low pitched and very keen moans break across the walls out to where you stand. Male ones-

Lyonel turns back when he notices you staring again. A grin crawls across his face. Honey slow.

“Duncan’s a little busy. Got his hands full with a little Dornish Lord. Wild as a feral cat that one. Poor dunk will have the marks to prove it by the time he’s done.” He winks.

You swallow. Keep your pace to where he waits for you. You make quick work of the stairs. He leads you into rooms that wear the same perfume as he does.

The room was as grand as Duncan’s had been. But the style differs. Duncan’s room was orderly and kept like a sultry, cosy paradise. Lyonel’s room is a messily-stacked treasure trove, a brothel room crossed with an antique collector’s lair.

Panelled dark wood walls but the amount of art and naked frescoes on covers up the walnut shade of it. Everything is slaked in russet and orange. He must wake up seeing a Dornish sun and tasting juice every time he opens his eyes. The ceiling is crammed with hanging bulges of gold patterned silk, and metal and glass lanterns in every size, shape and colour imaginable. Fetched from markets or stolen from pirate ships.

The bed takes up a whole huge archway that ends with a window. It’s covered in a patterned panel for discretion. The same walnut as the walls. Curtains of flimsy orange and ochre lay in gathered drapes over the slab of the bed. Numerous velvet and silk cushions pile at the headboard. Blankets scattered and creased. As if he’s a bird laying in a brocade nest.

The floor is soft underfoot. Fine cushioned threads of an imported patterned rug. The side table to one end is covered in plenty of flagons and exotic bottles of drink. Mounds of pears and oranges sit fat and plump in bowls. There’s oil paintings and books. A shelf from floor to ceiling covered in trinkets, some weapons, books and treasures.

There is a huge golden bath centred in a gathering of mahogany carved screens off to one side. A silk robe in gold hung over one of the screens. A mosaic end table by the bath holds luxurious bathing things.

There’s a bowl of white rose petals, another of dried lavender, and oils wait in a cluster of bottles. Shining jewel tones in the light. Cakes of honey soap sit as chunky block-squares in a golden tiered bowl. He’s every inch a decadent man.

The door closes behind you. “Shall I lock it my lady? If you’d prefer we remain undisturbed.” He seeks.

You nod.

A twist of a red taselled key in the iron lock sees you completely alone.

“May I take your cloak, darling?” He asks, stood just behind you at your shoulder. Keeping his distance seemed a wise course at the moment. After what occurred downstairs.

You unclasp the pearl. He slides the velvet from your shoulders. Gently sets it aside on an upholstered lectus, that spills over with plump cushions.

The scent of you floods across to him. One that curls his smile; sea salt and dune sage. The mineral kiss of the sea poured off your skin.

Brings to mind wave sprays and rugged tides. A blue scallop shell hiding in the sand. The quiet strength of the oceans forgotten treasures.

“I’m sorry for what you suffered down there. Lust and drink can make foul quick work of men.”

“You knew him, by name…” you utter. Slowly. Careful. You seem to chew over your words before you speak them. A woman with rank, but carrying the agony of reticence.

“Unfortunately.” He answers. Darkly.

“Drink?” You watch as he crosses to the side. Unbuckles his belt to lay his dagger down near the bottles.

“Early for liquor, but I have Highgarden wine or Tyroshi pear brandy... ladies choice.”

“Wine please.” You cross your hands and fidget with them again.

“Anyway. Yes. To answer your question. I did know his name. Low-life cunt has been coming here a while. I’ve been wanting to bar him for what he does to the girls.”

“What does he do.” Your face is a painted picture.

He sighs as he pours the wine.

“He beats them pet. and enjoys it. Mans a sick cunt. Likes the thrill of chasing down women who don’t want him. Hunts them like prey. Makes them plead. His last time here, he nearly broke Asha’s jaw. Cerelle barely tolerated his coming back.”

You swallow. He hands you a glass of wine. Gives something to still your fretting hands.

He sees you worrying at your upper arm. Fingers passing over the flesh he’d grabbed. He tilts his head.

“He did hurt you?”

You appear caught out. A fish thrashing in a net.

“No. Just…Where he grabbed me is all. It stung. Where he dug his fingers in.”

He stands down his wine. Steps a little closer. Voice shifts from gravel to gentle. Eyes locked on yours. Serious and stalwart.

“Come here. Let me see.”

His fingers fall soft on you. For a man who seemed so ferocious, boisterous even, in nature. Stromping and bursting with sound. Alive with gold and pearls and vibrant flirting. You forget, storms can deceive, and twist to calm when they need too.

You slide your gown down an inch. Your shift too. Baring it. Let him get a glimpse of the bare round of your shoulder. Skin supple red like marmalade in the crimson half light. Dress folded down your upper arm where he’d sunk his fingers around your flesh, hard enough to bite.

“Beastly. To leave marks on such a beauty.” He whispers.

Glides a curled knuckle down your shoulder. Careful not to add to your pain. He makes you shiver.

He’s stood so close. You can feel the heat beating off him. Eyes so intense you actually feel them on you. Drunk with it. And you’ve only had one tiny sip of wine.

Your breathing crashes out a little heavier. Your eyes threaten to tip back in your head when he swoops in. Presses his lips to your shoulder. Delights your skin to thrash all over with a sweet, simple kiss.

The stubble of his trimmed goatee tickles. It’s a pleasant sensation. Strikes you dumb how good his lips feel on you- you were warned people came to him and came crawling back for his mouth. You’re beginning to understand why.

You do the only thing you can. You breach the silence.

“Thank you. For getting rid of him.”

He stands back. Gazes at you with reverence. Amusement. Nods with a courtly bow of his head.

“No one in this house touches you, without your consent.” He remakes. Final. His voice is storm edged. Biting.

“I’ve been hurt before.” You tell. Eyes sinking like stones to your feet.

It was your routine. You scarce lived a day without feeling it. Shame. Pain. Frustration. They became your daily bread. Your sustenance in your miserable birdcage of a marriage.

“Duncan told me. The circumstances of what’s driven you here, to us.”

You take in his words. Not shocked. But not exactly at peace either. “He did?”

He hums. Nods. Husband gently comes over to touch your forearm. A reassurance.

You fold it in. Like the encompassing pull of a wave. “Truth is, I feel I should be sadder about my situation than I am.”

He frowns.

“I confess. Instead I find myself, rather… relieved.” You pluck the right word with care.

Lyonel looks scandalously intrigued. “Relieved?”

Heartbreak or anger he was expecting. You are calm as a millpond. Not a breath of anything like it across your face. You have the breezy countenance of someone who somehow accepted her grim role long ago.

“My husband is no great lover. He finds his pleasures with our maids. Or indiscreet noble ladies of our acquaintance. Sometimes whores, if the right set of open thighs doesn’t come across his path.”

“I came here the other night because his indiscretion is starting to turn heads. Bear small, squealing consequences…” you explain in not as many words. He nods in understanding.

“I have borne so much in silence and the thought of having to do anymore made me sick. Made me want to scream. So I-“ you waved your hand.

“I’m a woman. Sometimes I want to be touched. To be desired. To be held in something other than disregard and pity. I’m-“

“You came here for a good fuck.” he surmises. Cheeky grin.

“No better cure than cock from a man who knows what he’s about. Now that’s something far worth screaming for.” He sips his wine

Pierces a look your way with enough sultry flirt to melt skin off your bones.

You actually smile and avert your eyes. Cheeks feeling full with heat. Thumb plucking at the rim of your goblet.

“I see Duncan was right about your mouth.”

His laughter booms. Sudden and warm as sun. “I’m famed for this mouth. Pet. Drink the rest of that wine and I’ll show you why.”

Your eyes flick to the goblet in your hands. You raise it up and sip more of the heady red. The metal cold at your lips as you take a deep pull. Anticipation boils already in your stomach.

“Have a seat.” He urges.

Nods his head to the chaise spilling over with cushions just behind you. You look back and meticulously lower yourself to it. Like you were afraid of bruising the silks.

He stands his wine on the low table with all the drink. Comes slowly over without even breaking stride, and crouches before you. The same predator like intensity in the shift of his dark eyes. You feel caught.

“Might I kiss you.” He seeks.

“Yes. Lyonel.” You reply with your eyes focused on his lips. Framed so nicely by the silver and dark of his beard.

You hear the clack and swing of his pearls and jewellery as he moves. Hand coming to frame your jaw. Thumb brushing your cheek. He closed in slow. Lips moulding to yours. Hot and sweet.

Duncan had been shy about kissing you harder; Lyonel stuns you with it. Hypnotises you with the clever, easy curl of his tongue.

It intensifies. Enough to tip you back. Spine falling to unfurl against the cushions. His hands still take your neck. Both thumbs now sweeping your cheeks. Taste of wine shared on your tongues.

He kisses you breathless. Kisses you to the brink of madness. That flavour of it dances on his tongue. Like sparks from a fire and mixed with sinful decadence. Tongue slipping along your teeth like he wanted to count them all. Grazing your own as he pulls back. Softening your eyes to a dozy shade. Storm tossed sea. Cheeks full of warmth. Moulding your passion in his hands as if he were shaping soft, sun warmed clay.

His hands leave the safety of your neck. Sliding down your silk dress in a audible hush. Coming to your hips.

He urges you forward. Scuttled you right to the edge of the chaise. The look on his face and his smile spoke leagues as he positioned you. Face clever as a fox, and twice as plotting. ‘Trust me’

“Lean back. Sweeting. Close your eyes. Let me lift your skirts and help you forget everything but my name…” He thumbs across your soft lower lip.

You go for your hem. He helps you lift it up. Shift and all. Slowly revealing more and more of yourself to him. His eyes drink deeply of every new inch. Your ankles. Calves. Up to your knees. The whisper of silk becomes an endless kiss. You tuck the silk around your hips.

“Let me take it from here sweetness. My area of expertise.” He winks. He knows his way around a cunt blindfolded. Literally.

Your eyes close when he gets his hot palms on your thighs. Warm gold rings. You’re bare and wet, just under your linen shift where he’s touching. Hands and then his lips;

Hotter than his hands and honey soft.

“One thing I’m going to ask…” He hushes low as his bearded mouth gets to your knee. Grazing the soft skin. A hot kiss and whispered words. The friction is enough to make you squirm. Arching in his hold. “Do you want it slow or wild tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Is your answer.

“Then how about we go wild until we feel otherwise.” He suggests. Wickedly.

“You’re the expert.” You state.

He smugs a grin. “Suppose I am rather.”

When his tongue strikes a path down your inner thigh. Kissing the curls that covered your cunt, the biggest exhale jumps through your lungs. Bleed jerkily out of you.

He tilts you a little more. Shifts and lets your silks settle over his head as he lays his tongue to you. Curls soft against your shaking thighs. Giving you the careful option of letting there be a barrier between you until he eases you into comfort.

“Beautiful.” He mumbles into your curls before his mouth and tongue close in. Devastating. He parts your lips with a stroke of tongue, and delves in.

He begins to lap at you in earnest. Tongue uncurling to plunge deeper. Beard dripping slick and spit in no time. Your head thuds back. Mouth open. Legs widen. You let yourself completely surrender to the sensations he’s making thrash through your veins. The utter bliss wracked your body.

The slick, wet sounds pouring from under your skirts are utterly filthy. He’s a loud eater it seems. Unashamed moans and hums come sneaking from under your silks. He was licking your clit with a rhythmic, frantic intensity, his growls muffled against your thighs.

Where you shift, below your hips feels sticky. You begin to fret again.

“Lyonel.” You whimper. Voice all kinds of breathy.

He hummed with your clit half in his mouth. Pulling back to kiss around it. Smother the taste of your pussy into his beard.

“I’m staining the silks.” You fret. You could feel the hot puddle forming under your ass. The plump, red cushions surely now stained a dark maroon.

He gives a hard suck to your clit before you respond. Pulling more of your flavour into his mouth. A move that has you shivering and arching. Yelping and thrusting your hips up to his face. Like he’d let a lightning bolt loose on you.

He sloppily pulls away to answer. Hotnunder all the silks. Air restricted. Smell of your gorgeous cunt in his nose. Grinning. Cheeks and beard beading your mixed slick. “Then fucking stain them.”

He resumes his feral pace. One that gets your thighs clamping his face. Moans coming unbidden from your throat, pretty as any song.

“Ready to get that dress off yet.” He checks. Pulling back to drag a breath. He had been too busy suffocating himself on your cunt to notice or care about much else.

You shudder. The thought of fully being able to see his eyes between your hips. That dark curly head bowing as he feasted at you, suddenly seemed too good to miss out on.

You plant your feet to the floor. He flutters dripping kisses up your thighs. Beard leaving behind wet trails into your skin.

You manage to wriggle out your dress and leave it to slink to the floor. Entirely forgotten on the expensive rugs. You go the whole way and lose your shift too. Unplucking the laces and letting it bow over your back. It comes off when you pull it over your head. That too joins the dress.

You sit before him. Utterly bare. His eyes roam you for a feast. From your neck. Down your lovely shoulders. Over tits that make his mouth feel lonely. The flare of your hips. The soft push of your stomach. Thighs he wanted to be wrapped around.

“Every inch of you is a delight. Sweeting.” His fingers find your thighs again. Cupping hips. It feels like they never left. His eyes go right to your perfect cunt framed between them.

You tried to steady your breathing to speak, but the words crumbled to ash on your tongue the second he put his tongue to you again. Before was cordial; he was learning the taste. Now he was devouring it.

He spread you open with his thumbs and watched you throb. “My god. Darling. Pussy this pretty? I’m going to have to eat your heart out.” He promises.

He leans back in to lick the entire length of you for starters. Slowly. Like he was dining with the king and didn’t know what to savour first. He was memorising what sounds came from here he placed his tongue. Flat or wide or fast. If he swirled, you gasped. Sucked, you cried. If he flicked it inside you, the moan was softer.

He claimed your pussy with a sharp, possessive flick of the tongue that brought stars bashing into your eyes. Breath hot and damp as he feasted and left no inch of you unclaimed. His nose pressing your clit. His tongue scooped deep. His beard an extra level of sensation you hadn’t counted on loving. The almost painful prick of it when so much pleasure unfurled within you.

You gasp, sitting up nearly bent doubly, nails flying to ground yourself on him. Digging his scalp, curly hair bunched in fists when he plunged two fingers deep, reflecting the very continued and atill aggressive lap of his tongue to your clit.

He was determined to wring every last shed of pleasure out of your body. And when he curled those two fingers, you feel like your whole body bucks, floats and throbs. That divine place that Duncan found last time. The one that melts your eyes back into your head. Makes you gape. That flips your whole belly into dynamite sparkles.

His eyes greedily watched the roll of your tits as he feasted down below. He made a note to himself to pluck and suck at those later when he gets his cock in you. Your fingers burned their clutch in his hair but that was the part that made his eyes roll back.

His fingers sustain their brutal rhythm. A curl and little devastating flick that left your pussy sucking down tight on his hand.

You felt wild beneath him and it made his smile grow into the press of your curls where his nose was rooted, he could still smell and taste the salt of the sea. The press of his lips doubled. He kept the pace. Steady and familiar. A pattern that drew the best sorts of cries from you.

Thighs softly trembling, sweating bracket over his head. Your body began to glisten. Marmalade orange and sticky in the light like he’s poured oranges over your skin. You roll your hips. You ride your pleasure back to his ministrations.

You clenched and quivered with your head tossed back. Letting the ardent feelings swim through you. “Lyonel. Please. Gods. Lyonel.” You hummed. Mouth sticky and dry. Half delirious with his name.

His grip was tightening, possessive, dragging your hips closer onto his mouth, you dangled off the edge of the chaise with a soft cry of shock, and he keeps you teetering there.

Hips and skin sticking to his clammy hands. Warm pennies of his rings. Making you stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene glide of fingers he gave you. You’ll pulse and clench, giving and giving until your pleasure bursts soon. He can feel it. He can hear it.

He was sloppy with it- so much slick pooling beneath you and off his chin, he spies the growing patch that drooling down onto the edge of the rug. It had seen worse.

His tongue flicking now more eager, his nose pressed against your clit, and sweet gods your taste intoxicates, sea sweat and salt and woman. He was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked. The hums of it came back spit slick and wet.

“Lyonel, please, I’m-“ you warn. Your own moans cutting you off. Searing tears gather in your lashes. Sticky and plying them together all dark and dewy.

When your body locks up, he grins. White flash of teeth. Your legs lock and shake. Chest pounding. Heart thumping to hurt up against the trap of your ribs. Every feeling surrendered to the liquid hot urgency between your thighs.

Your release hits like the sea. Waves breaking on stone.

He moaned as he tasted you. Felt you cum against his tongue. The second it broke. He lapped it up. You did burst hot and soaking down his fingers. His wrist drips with it. He kisses and drank you through it. Lessening and slowing. Letting you ride the endless crush of it. Sucking gently on the throb of your clit on his tongue.

He sits back when he hears you sigh. A word on old Valyrian tripping drunk off your tongue. Legs falling open. The silks below you utterly drenched. A huge, dark wet puddle forming below your beautiful ass. Spit shines and drips in strings off your thighs.

He’s a sight to behold. Sweat glistening on the pelt of his chest hair. And over his pearls and gems. Face beading sweat, from brow to chin. His beard is filthy wet and slick. He looks dirty and utterly turned on. Eyes heavy as dark diamonds. Shimmering wickedly and red in the light.

“Gods.” You cry gently. Coming back to the room.

“Your first time cumming that hard on a tongue?” He seeks. Said devilish tongue trapped between straight teeth. He leers at you. You’re too boneless to do much but lay there and finish feeling the bliss bleed through you.

“I’ve never, cum, like that before.” You tell him. Openly.

“You flooded my mouth. Little pet.” He cackled. “Nearly made me spend in my breeches you wicked thing.”

“I’m sorr-“

He swoops down and presses two fingers to your lips right away. “Ah. That word doesn’t exist in these rooms.” He insists.

Sorry. You swallow down saying it again.

“That beautiful cunt of yours nearly had me spending like a green boy. I’ve not even had my cock in you yet.” He smirks. “Shall we see to that?”

“I’d like that.” You confirm happily. Eagerly.

His grin comes. He presses a kiss to your mouth. Shifting back to a stand to throw off his boots. Clattering messily behind him. Your taste still shining all over his face. His dark leather breeches obscenely tented where he’s pressed like a dark, heavy ridge against his thigh.

He unbuttoned his breeches theatrically slow. Used to the audience of it. The spectacle of a sordid fuck. They get shoved to his thighs. Pushed down to pool at his ankles and he kicks them away. Cock swaying as he did. The cuffs and gold on his arms and fingers winked at you as he undressed.

Your eyes stick to the trail of hair dusting his belly. It lead like an arrow point down to his groin. The flushed column of his cock as it lay against his legs. Nestled in a thatch of raven black curls. Some silvered. Prodding upwards with a slight sway to its own weight. So curved it nearly hits up to his stomach.

He was smaller than Duncan. But then, it’s hard to imagine there could be a man any bigger. Lyonel was girthy and not shy about his size. With good reason. If he was as good as his cock as he was his tongue, then he certainly knew how to use it.

“Get on your knees for me. Where you are. We’ll try something.” He instructs.

You nearly squirm out your skin where you watch him slowly tug himself where he stands. The ruddy head disappearing in his thick fingered fist. All those rings too.

You shuffle onto your knees. Feeling a low stone of guilt sink down in your stomach at the amount of dark wetness on the silks. “Forward a bit more.” He urges. Slinging himself on the settee behind you. Kneeling up on his knees. Legs behind him.

You bend low. Feeling exposed. Your breasts hang. Bared wide open to his gaze. But you can’t ignore how much you’re dripping down between your legs. It reaches your knees you’re certain.

“I know it feels filthy. My sweet. Me fucking you this way. They do call this a whores position after all. Going at it like dogs… but. Bear with me.”

You feel him shift behind you. The wiry brush of his hairy legs against the back of yours.

“Because.” You feel the silky warm glide of his cock as he slowly drapes it through the dripping wet of your lips. He’s hotter than a sun. Harder than steel.

You gasp.

He takes himself to hand. A firm squeeze to the base. One that makes a clear drop of pre-cum squeeze out of him with pleasure. Rolling to drop to the silks too. Utterly ruined them. It makes him smile to reckon the scent of you will be all over them tomorrow.

“As you’ll see-“ he breathes.

He sinks his cock into you. Pushing slow. Parting you like the old gods did to the sea.

Sinking so it’s a gentle push that never ends. Breaching you with silky, certainty. He groans. Throaty like gravel with each new inch.

His hands feel kind on your hips. He doesn’t bruise. Or thrust before you are ready. He doesn’t rut, hump and use you as an object for release like your husband had.

He tilts you. Tips you in a different new angle. Adjusts you. His hands find your sides and hold gently. Like you’re made of paper. And when he sinks again- his hips don’t stab or push. They roll-

Your cry pierces the air so loud it’s a shock. To the both of you. He smiles down at the vicious bow of your back. Greedy. There it was-

“There we go. Now I’m going to fuck that spot til you sob and gush for me again.” He says. Filthy. Drawing his hips from you. Letting you feel the first girthy, teasing inch. He was so girthy and splitting you wide it felt obscene.

“Please.” You sob. Your nails bite into the silks. He hears the grind of it. “Please, do that again-“ you beg. Head tipped back. Sweat stuck hair to the back of your neck in strings. The pearl necklace you wore, swung between your tits to whack at your sternum with each thrust.

“That’s it. Pet. Thats- fuck, that’s fucking good.” He sighs. Slapping his body to yours. You were so wet sinking into you felt like a dream. Soft and sweet as one. Drenching as the sea.

The way he moved behind you is like art. It feels like art and pleasures like sin. The span of his hands on you. The brutal burrow of his cock as it strikes you deep. Following the same successful pattern that had you writhing back into him. Mouth falling open. Soft moans being fucked out your throat.

He starts to moan. “Seven cunting gods. Sweet girl. You feel like heaven.” He grunts. Looking down to watch where you join. The slick meeting mess. The slap of his hips to your thighs. Wet-slick, slapping sounds taking up the whole room with your heaving breaths. His pelvis snapping to yours. Urgent and deep. No one had ever fucked you this deeply. You want to sob with it.

Unable to help it. Your fingers grip the edge of the carved settee. Nails no doubt digging gouges into the wood. The sheer width of him ever got easier to take. You sweat and cry his name. Every thrust sent sparks flying through your skin and belly. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped the furniture. An attempt to lessen the storm of a man that was pounding away at you.

When his hand moved to find your slippery sex, thumb toying jerking circles around your clit. You clench on him. He chuckles with it. Head thrown back. Ecstasy painted across his face. He rubbed in a way that fell in situ with the relentless pace. His fullness breaching you, doubled with the friction of his thumb at your clit made you whine. High and desperate.

His mouth aligns itself to your shoulder. Pearls and warm gems scatter across your back. He doesn’t even falter. His tongue licks a stripe up your shoulder to your ear. You can still detect the sweet girlish tang of you splashed across his mouth.

“Fucking divine. Darling. You better come back to me again and again. I could never tire of this beautiful cunt and your gorgeous cries.”

His teeth sink in your shoulder and you shatter. Grasping for him. Raised up on your knees. It’s frightening how fast it happens. It starts swirling at the base of your spine, and it takes your whole body whirling with it.

You choke on your moans. Tongue lodged in your throat. He lets out a boisterous, booming laugh when he feels you clench, pussy damn near strangling his dick. You begin to spasm around him, milking him with a desperate, squeezing heat.

"I got you," He groaned. Low and rumbling. His voice a husky ruin as he felt you clench and squirt. Slapping to the silks below in a wet rush.

He takes his time with the way he ruts his hips. That angle that made you sob and arch. He wants to bleed more out of you. Shiver yourself to utter blissful death on his cock. He knows you can. Barely holding yourself up with it. Arms shaking.

"I've got you, my delicious little sea pearl... right where you belong. Cumming and crying yourself silly on a worthy cock. That’s it.”

He watched the tension leave your shivering, trembling shoulders. The jut of the bone under skin as you break. The one big horrible tension that had been coiling in your body for weeks. It finally gave. Snapped clean through like a cleaved bowstring.

As Lyonel drove into you mercilessly from behind, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, wet smack that echoed off the walnut orange entwined walls, the world outside this one, simply ceased to exist.

He didn’t slow at the peak of your pleasure. He railed you right through it. Over to the other side. His completion loomed heavy and he delighted himself with the fact you were squirming to get away by the time he’s done. Cunt sopping to your knees. Throat hoarse. Body shivering like spent lightning.

He didn’t slow even as his own pleasure swarmed in his guts. He finally tipped over that glorious edge and came. As with everything to do with Lyonel, it was all a huge production.

A heavy cry leaving his mouth. Shuddering with a violent, muscular and furious intensity as he emptied himself to you, deep deep deep as he could get. Cock rammed hard to you. A white, sticky ring at the base. Your pleasure writ in perfect, showered warm evidence down his lap.

Hips slacking off as the thundering stopped in his head. Sighing for breath as he felt the blissful pull of heady release shake his own body.

It had been the same as it was with Duncan. You felt an odd rush of pleasure with the way Lyonel’s spend filled you. The hot rush that made you bite your lip. Taking much needed pleasure out of the guilty joy of it. You curl your nails into the settee one time. Leaving dents in the carved, elaborate dark wood. You loose them and let your hands uncurl. Arms unleashing.

Your shoulders sink low. Lyonel drags his sweaty hand - the one that has been on your clit - down the centre of your spine. Calming you. You could happily have his hands on you all night if allowed.

The only noise left the room for a long while, was the ragged, exhausted desperate gasping and gulping of air. The sign of two people who had just meshed and fucked, like they’d been caught in a war and won. Loose limbed and gilded in sweat.

When he pulls out of you. He does it with kisses spread across your shoulders. His hands lovingly cradling your ass. Dislodging from the wet, carnal mess he’d made of you. His cock came out of you dripping.

With careful hands, he manoeuvred you so you were twisted on your back. Body splayed open for him. He leaned over you. Sweaty front crushed to yours. Sweat melding bodies rubbing. He took your chin and trapped you into a kiss. Took all the breath you barely had spare.

Your hands find themselves tugging in his hair. Sharing a filthy kiss that tastes like sweat, and you. You sigh when he pulls back. Familiar with the taste of your tongue again.

“Tell me you’re not too scandalised. My little pearl.” He grins. His thumb flicks at said pearl dangling off your necklace. Possibly where he earned the nickname. Rolls it around on your neck to crash into your breasts.

“I believe I am scandalised the exact right amount. Thank you.” You breathe. Your smile splits your face. You reach out to cup his face. Bristled beard meeting your palm.

“Might I ask for one more drink of wine. Before I leave. I believe my legs won’t stop shaking for a while-“ You sigh.

He chuckles. Leans in and presses a stout kiss to your nipple that makes you gasp all girlish. Before he gets himself up, legs stretching back into life as he makes for the side.

He refills his own glass and brings it back to you. Fuck searching your own wherever you put it- he’s too impatient. You’ve shared each others bodies. You can share a goblet.

You lean back on the sofa. Covered with a sheet he brings you. Orange and guazy. Pointed gold stars patterned on the fine thread. It smell like mint and orange peel.

You almost feel a little dark crawl of morning cover your chest when he pulls on a bright saffron colour robe. Covering up that wonderful body. Gem and jewels of course still spill free down the plunging neckline. Chest hair still catching your eye. His hair is sex mussed and more wilderness than order.

When you sit up. Your whole body feels the brunt of it. Back flaring. Hips chafing. A well used ache in your cunt.

You reach for your dress. Finding the coin purse tucked up inside the pocket. Safe out the bandits hands. Your fingertips graze the velvet purse. You pull it out. You don’t even count the coin within. You just hand it across to him where he stands.

He takes the wine off you. Takes a sip from the spot exactly where your lips just were. Weights the pouch you just pressed in his hand. Tosses it in the air. Let’s it land back in his palm.

“What could I buy with the contents of this purse. My lady….” He seeks. Playful.

“A keep. A small one. Maybe a castle tower. Some horses. Many fine swords, perhaps.”

He lobs the purse back into your lap. Vollying it like a trebuchet. Coins clink into place between your thighs.

Your face is an utter bewildered picture. You look up at him. Confused. He holds the wine out to you. Your mouth hinges wide open when he explains.

“Keep it. Just promise me you’ll come back.” He assures you.

You shake your head. You protest in the strongest terms. He cups the side of your face. Bends at the waist to lean low. Warm skin and cinnamon and sex sweat fills your nose. His wicked smile and dark eyes takes the rest.

He gives you his reason with an answer that’s all sex and sin.

“Darling. This was my night off.” He winks. Chuckling. A sound so low and filthy it slithers along your spine like hot honey.

Damn the man.

What do we think will happen next? BOTH?

Forgive the random tags but I’m Tagging some phenomenal akotsk babes whose fics gave me life. Let me know if you want on/off the list. I’m new to AKOTSK so forgive my presumptions @jintaka-hane @mynameistocool @lovebugism @maekarsmistress @pearlessance @noxiiousstrawberriies @ingystark @oakleafing @marsrambles @just-some-random-blogger @vhagars-dementia @escapic-mezzanine @tearsweetenedtea @rotseria @adumbgirlinloove @moonlitmaester @silens-oro @feral4youu @whatislovevavy @happinessisaloadedgun @faelinda @crayonbug @celestrys @sallymaywritings @captainfern @theprophaecy @multyfangirl @angstybadger @asterionex @liliac-dreamer @goregal22-blog @stainlesssteelbedframe @ghostlybfgf @fayefayefay @cats-n-batss @silkaurum @mags-writes

“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.

If you like my writing, all interactions are greatly appreciated-`♡´-

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Ormund Hightower that doesn't stop fucking his wife throughout her pregnancy because her cunt is so deliciously swollen from carrying his babe that he gets even more addicted to it than he was before. Whenever he can he has her on her back or on her hands and knees, careful not to squish her stomach while rutting into her with vigor.

Ormund Hightower who becomes obsessed with his lady wife —spoiling her whenever he can with the softest silks, beautiful new ribbons and sweet, sweet perfume that only makes him want to spend more time with her.

Ormund Hightower finding out he adores the smell of her skin — something entirely hers mixed with the smell of the milk that leaks from her breasts the closer to the due date she is. He loves how she smells, he loves that he partly is the reason of why it's happening.

Ormund Hightower that cannot stop himself from nursing from her breast after the baby is born, latching onto her nipple and drinking the sweet like honey and so so delicious. He loves to lay with her in their bed, head on her chest as she cradle it. It's intimate and so sensual and he loves hearing her gasp and whine while his mouth is closed around her.

Ormund Hightower pretending he has no idea what is happening while maester is surprised that her milk still haven't dried up because their babe is fed by nursemaids so why would his lady wife still produce it?

Ormund Hightower that gets her with another babe as soon as she feels strong enough to bear another, making her swell with his babe again, while carrying a squealing, giggling infant on her hip — a sight that makes his heart swell and a smile to form on his face all by itself

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You met him at your cousin’s school performance. She had spent the entire week talking about her new best friend, Egg, and the moment the show ended she dragged you over to him to introduce you. 

Egg greeted you like he knew you forever, smiling brightly. He then introduced you to his father, who was standing behind him. Maekar merely inclined his head.

“Hello.”

One word in that voice, expression serious, ice blue eyes staring at you. That was all it took, and you felt your whole brain seize at the immediate crush you had on him.

Later that night while chatting with your best friend, you told her that you were apparently losing it. Because for the first time in your life, not only you developed a crush on a blond man, you wanted to desperately fuck said blond man.

Her response was immediate.

Thoughts and prayers. 

The second time you saw him was entirely by accident. You were doing some shopping therapy, when someone shouted your name loudly enough to startle half the other shoppers nearby. 

Egg came running towards you.

“There you are!” He announced, hugging you.

“I was not aware I was being hunted down.”

Egg rolled his eyes dramatically. Then you noticed Maekar approaching behind him. He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms that immediately became the reason you forgot anything you were about to say.

You coughed and tried to recover, smiling sweetly at him. “It is nice to see you again.”

Maekar studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded.

“You as well.”

You spent the rest of the interaction trying very hard not to stare. 

The third time was at Egg’s birthday party. Your aunt and uncle could not attend, so you ended up accompanying your cousin. Not that you minded and Egg was happy to see you as well.

The children were having fun, and the adults were making small talk. Nearly an hour into a conversation about school admissions and property taxes, you decided you deserved a medal for endurance. The small talk got to you in the end, and you excused yourself.

While searching for the bathroom, you turned a corner and nearly collided with someone. A warm hand settled on your arm to steady you. You looked up and your breath hitched.

Maekar, who had just left his office and was looking at you with that unreadable expression again. 

“Oh my god, I am sorry!” You exclaimed.

“You need to watch where you are going.” He warned, but his hand did not leave your arm.

“I know, but I was trying to escape from the parents.” You laughed.

For the first time, you saw the faintest hint of amusement in his expression.

“Come with me.”

Fingers curling on your arm, you followed him into his office. His office was quieter than the rest of the house, insulated from the noise of dozens of children and parents.

A heavy silence settled between you as he poured a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he handed it to you. 

“I am glad I am not the only one who cannot stand the fuckers.” He almost growled, his voice so low that it made your stomach flip.

You let out a chuckle and downed the whiskey in one go, the burn of the alcohol almost mirroring the heat radiating from him. You caught him watching you as you did that. Not just your lips, but his gaze roamed greedily over your body, tracing the lines of your dress as if he were imagining exactly how to rip it off you.

His expression darkened at your slight, inviting nod, and the tension snapped.

He lunged forward, his mouth crashing hard against yours. The kiss was not gentle, it was a claim, a conquest. He tugged harshly at your lower lip with his teeth, and it made you moan loudly. You reacted instinctively, your fingers diving into his silver-blond hair, gripping tight as his tongue forced its way past your lips to claim every inch of your mouth. 

“Fuck…” He groaned as he firmly gripped your ass, pushing you more towards him. 

Not leaving your lips, his warm hand then slid under your dress to grip your thighs with bruising force, hoisting you up. You gasped as he moved, sitting you on the cold surface of his desk, his body pressing firmly between your thighs. You wrapped your legs firmly around his waist, pulling him closer.

You could feel the ridge of his hard cock through the fabric of his trousers and your soaked panties, pressing firmly against you. You arched, grinding yourself against him, moaning as his hips moved to meet yours.

The world outside the office ceased to exist. There was only the sound of your ragged breathing, his groans and the noise of your lips meeting his, your tongue touching his in desperate need. 

You were both on the verge of tearing each other’s clothes off, the hunger too visceral to be ignored anymore. But just as his hands moved to push your panties down, and yours moved to open his trousers, you both froze.

The distant sound of Egg’s laughter echoed, a sharp reminder of the occasion. 

He pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses touching as both of you struggled to catch your breath. His eyes were almost black, filled with a raw and agonizing lust.

“Dammit.” He hissed, the word a guttural curse.

He could not do it, not here, not during his son’s party. But the restraint was clearly torture. 

Before you slid out of the office, you gave him your phone number and he captured your lips one last time in a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of whiskey and promise. He let you go, but the look he gave you as you walked out the door told you exactly what he planned to do to you the moment you were alone.

The fourth time you met Maekar was on a date he set up after three long, agonising days. The air between you was thick, tension simmering during dinner.

You wore your favourite little black dress, playing the part of the civil companion while your mind was simmering with desire. Every time his gaze roamed over you, you could feel the phantom sensation of his tongue, his teeth, and the heavy weight of his cock pressed against. 

You knew he was fighting the same war, his eyes already darkened with a possessive heat.

Any pretense to civility shattered the moment you were alone. There was no slow build, only a desperate, frantic need to touch one another, for him to be inside of you. 

Your moans echoed loudly in the living room. You were perched on top of him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you sank down, taking every bit of his thick cock. He stretched your walls to a delicious, aching fullness that made your toes curl and your vision blur. Maekar’s hands were iron clamps on your hips, anchoring you firmly as he leaned forward to latch his mouth onto one of your nipples, sucking hard enough to leave a mark.

On the floor beside the couch, the remnants of your red lace underwear lay destroyed, torn in his haste to get inside you.

You began to move slowly, hips rolling in a rhythmic, grinding movement before you lifted yourself high. A loud groan ripped from his throat as you slammed back down with force, burying him deep in you. He released your breast, trailing wet, searing kisses up your neck before capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. Your fingers tangled deep into his silver-blond hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him. 

“Maekar-” You whimpered against his mouth, the sound cut short as his palm connected with your ass.

“You liked that?” He chuckled darkly, hissing as you gripped him tighter when he delivered another spank.

“Yes!” You keened, the sharp pain sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. 

You picked up the pace, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please… please Maekar do not stop.”

He delivered a few more firm spanks that left your skin glowing red. He moaned loudly, his head tossed back to the couch as your walls tightened around him like a vice.

“Fuck, you are so tight…” He groaned, your name sounding like a prayer on his lips. “You feel like heaven.”

His praise made you blush, and you were shaking, hovering on the edge of a cliff.

“You liked that, did you not?” He asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “Like to be told how good you are?”

You could only nod, kissing him again with a desperate hunger, your hips moving in a blur. 

“I did... oh, so much…” You barely managed to choke out.

Suddenly, his hand shot up, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat. He squeezed, cutting off your air just enough to make your head swim and your heart hammer against your ribs. The sensation sent another jolt of pleasure through your clit, your pupils dilating as you looked down into his almost black eyes.

He released you just as the need for air became desperate, his hand winding into your hair and tugging your head back harshly to expose your throat. He shifted his weight, his hips surging upward in tandem with yours, driving himself even deeper. 

“You are mine now!” He growled, the possessiveness in his tone absolute, his grip on your hair tightening as he claimed you completely.

“Yes! Yours!” You almost screamed, your walls clenching around him as you both spiraled towards release.

Rowan had to admit that when she first locked eyes with you, the warm Lady Baratheon, adorned in expensive jewels, lavish garments, and black fur, she fixed herself on finding a patron to help advance her. Ser Manfred was enjoyable enough, but the Baratheon wealth was unmatched, especially when coupled with the Redwyne fortune. Rowan cared not for politics; the smallfolk never seemed to benefit from it unless the wheel be truly broken, but coin mattered. Coin could buy her a better life, so she seeped her way into your favor, like the sweetest honey dribbling into tea.

You were charmed by her when you met her that fateful night in Lannisport, cups overflowing with Arbor Gold. Perhaps you were a bit starved for female companionship. You had your ladies, your young daughters whom you adored, and corresponded with your younger sisters who still lived in the Arbor, but mostly your days and nights were spent among men, especially when you accompanied your good husband to tourneys. Now you had two sons who needed your attention as well. Rowan was sweet with sparkling eyes that reminded you of the sapphires you so loved. You were not naive as to her profession, knowing she was the preferred paramour of Ser Manfred, one of your husband's closest friends. But it did not bother you. Women had to learn many ways to survive in this world.

"Lord Ashford has extended an invitation in celebration of his daughter's nameday. I'm certain Manfred has requested you, but I would like you to accompany me instead," you smiled at her one afternoon on a rainy day in Storm's End, pulling your favored black fur around your shoulders to stave away the chill. She stood on a small wooden stool as your seamstress altered a dress you had gifted her.

"Mi'lady? Truly, I would rather be by your side if that's what you wish," she grinned. The silk hung perfectly on her curvy frame. The violet hue made her red hair even more vibrant.

"It's settled then," you smiled, taking a small sip of Arbor gold. The twins, Flynn and Floris, played at your feet, dark hair gleaming in the firelight. You had done more than your wifely duty by bringing seven healthy Baratheon children into the world, including three sons.

Lyonel entered the room, pulling off his gloves with his teeth before dropping them to the floor. The twins clamored around him, wooden toys forgotten, and he scooped them into his arms, carrying them with ease.

"Ladies," he smiled, giving you each a nod. He never seemed bothered by Rowan's presence or by how much time you spent with her. Though you never complained about Manfred or either of the Humfreys constantly buzzing around him. "Has my wife invited you to Ashford yet?"

"Indeed, mi'lord, she has just mentioned it," Rowan smiled.

"Wonderful," he hummed, and you poured him a cup of wine, placing it in his hand after he placed the twins down, and kissed his cheek before browsing through the small chests that continued your jewelry. You plucked a diamond and amethyst choker between your fingers and walked over to Rowan. Floris peered from behind your golden skirts, dark eyes wide with awe. You procured a golden chain with a stag's head, its eyes set with plump rubies, and draped it over her neck. She twirled around, happy with the little bauble her mother had bestowed upon her.

"I think this shall go nicely with the dress," you said, smiling as you stepped behind Rowan and secured it in place.

"Mi'lady, you are too generous," Rowan gasped.

You could feel Lyonel's dark eyes studying you curiously.

"My station allows me to be. Please, you hardly ever ask me for anything. I enjoy giving gifts to my dearest friends," you assured her, squeezing her shoulders.

Lyonel ducked his head, trying to conceal his chuckle, and Flynn emulated his father's amused sound. Ah, friends? Is that the game you still wished to play? A bit of guilt swirled deep in Rowan's stomach. She had grown closer to you over time, and while she enjoyed the many refinements that came with it, she began to develop a different perspective. You were kind, giving, gracious, and treated her like she was your equal. She long pretended the facade of love when it came to the men she kept company with, but when it came to you, she began to feel the real thing. She suspected Lord Lyonel picked up on such as well, yet he made no attempt to chase her away.

The children were left behind at Storm's End in the care of their handmaidens and stewards. Soon, they would be old enough to join. You and Rowan rode in the wheelhouse with wine, fruit, cheese, and silken fans to keep you cool. Yours was a rich plum decorated with bunches of golden grapes.

"I'm certain your husband will prove champion here," Rowan smiled before sliding a plump red grape between your lips, making your cheeks warm.

"Mmm, he is quite competitive," you hummed before crunching it between your teeth.

"We will have to keep ourselves entertained," she winked. A sudden warmth spread through your cheeks. The beat of your heart quickened in your chest.

"Well, my husband will certainly throw a lavish celebration tonight once the camp is set up. You must dance with me."

"Of course, mi'lady."

Upon arrival, the two of you walked arm in arm, a guard following behind, while the men set up the tents. The stalls were already buzzing with goods to sell. Ser Humfrey Beesbury greeted you both, his golden mustache twitching in the gentle breeze. Soon, the sun became too hot for your liking, and you were thankful to find respite later in your personal tent, shielded from the heat. You studied Rowan as she mended a pair of breeches one of Lyonel's squires had ripped, watching her nimble fingers fly through the stitch in no time.

"I feel you staring, mi'lady," she teased.

"I wish you would call me by my name, we are friends after all," you whispered. Yet that word didn't quite encapsulate your true feelings for her. It was something deeper, something stronger.

"Friends…never thought the likes of me could ever have a friend like you," Rowan murmured, setting the fabric aside.

"Why? Because the structures of society imply that we cannot be? I do not believe in such a thing."

"Because you sit at the top. It is easy to dismiss it when it doesn't impact you."

You pursed your lips. "I suppose you are right."

"I do not mean to ruin the mood." She started to say mi'lady before quickly correcting herself and using your name.

"One of the many things I love about you is that you speak your mind. You could never ruin the mood," you whispered, scooting closer to press a gentle kiss upon her smooth, creamy cheek.

She turned her head at the opportune time, her lips landing squarely against yours. It was now or never, and Rowan never ran from what she wanted. The kiss sent a spark rolling through you, heat coiling tightly in your belly like a snake. You had never longed for another before. Loyal and devoted to Lyonel since you were young, and the betrothal pact long arranged. Trepidatiously, your fingers tangled in her fiery curls while you deepened the kiss, tasting cinnamon and pears. It all spiraled into a heightened desire from there.

The two of you tangled in the bed, shedding shoes and stockings, bare feet sliding over shapely calves, while hungry mouths voraciously smacked in unison. Breasts pressing together, nipples scraping against each other. A sudden warmth palpitated in the air, with fingers grasping at silken fabrics while tearing them from each other's bodies. Rowan's mouth latched around one of your nipples, suckling on the tender bud until it pebbled agaisnt her tongue. Dampness clung to your inner thighs. Her palm skimmed over your cunt, fingertips gathering up your arousal.

"You're so beautiful disheveled," she whispered in your ear.

You chuckled softly, chest heaving gently. "You certainly have me feeling unraveled."

"Do you want me to stop?

"No." You were ready to topple over this cliff with her.

That rosy mouth kissed and caressed the curve of your neck while her fingers skillfully buried inside you, stroking you with expertise. She knew how to make your body sing. Almost as well as Lyonel did, he never left you wanting in bed. Her thumb massaged your swollen pearl, making your toes twitch and curl. That tightly coiled snake in your belly finally sprang free as pleasure wracked your body. You moaned and writhed under her hands, soaking her with your release. After finding your breath again, you pulled her close and kissed her.

"Teach me," you murmured against her warm mouth. Gazing into her sapphire eyes, all you wanted was to pleasure her. You wanted to give her everything.

She guided your head between her plump, splayed thighs before directing you on how to use your tongue to get her off. Her skin was slippery with her arousal, engorged and pink, reminding you of pink roses in bloom. Ever eager to please, you followed her instructions as her sweet taste poured over your mouth and tongue. Almost drowning in her. Your naked body entwined with hers, holding her close with just a thin silk sheet to cover. Lyonel entered the tent, making a beeline straight for his antler crown. His dark eyes landed on you and Rowan after he settled it on his head.

"Is it crooked?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Not at all."

"I see you two finally came to your senses," Lyonel smirked. "Oh, I'm never letting Manfred hear the last of this. My wife stole his paramour."

"Lyonel…"

He raised a hand, his smirk softening into a kind smile. "If it truly upset me, I would have chased her away long ago. Do you plan on running off? Abandoning our children and me?"

Such a thought made you recoil, and Rowan gripped your hand with a reassuring squeeze. Neither of you wished to flee into the night. She would never ask that of you. Perhaps she might persuade you to leave Lyonel, but you could never leave the children behind.

"I do not," you assured Lyonel. He stepped closer, gently taking your chin in his hand. There was no hatred or jealousy in his eyes, no look of disgust upon his face. Mayhaps he always knew the inkling that hid deep inside you. A soft kiss landed on your lips.

"Then I have no concerns. We can discuss specifics later." With that said, he left, no doubt to tease Ser Manfred and get lost in the cups already.

You cupped Rowan's cheek, circling your thumb across her lips. She kissed the ridged pad. The two of you remained entwined, tucked under your black fur, until it was time to dress for the celebrations. A Baratheon revelry was not to be missed. She wore her new violet dress with the necklace you had gifted her, while you wore a shimmering golden samite gown, dripping with pearl jewelry.

Music billowed in the air, food and wine flowed, and many of the guests danced about. You pulled Rowan behind you, both clapping to the beat of the music as you circled each other. Gathering your skirts so as not to trip, you moved your feet, and Rowan matched your steps. Your fingers laced with hers, arms twisting overhead as the two of you danced. Lyonel's cheers and clapping could be heard over all others, and you caught a glimpse of Manfred's sour expression.

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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