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When she fenced, Arya felt alive.

Thrusts, parries, forms, and points. She liked the winning, but she liked the dancing more.

For so long, all she had done was fence. Sure, there was an art to it, but it wasn’t until she’d gone to King’s College and met Syrio that she really began to dance.

Suddenly, the schooling that had once seemed so important fell by the wayside. Arya’s life became bound up in practice and tourneys. Her parent’s railed at her, seizing every opportunity to berate her, trying to coax her back into the good standing of her first year. But, she’d finished her third term with barely passing grades.

Arya’s parents had issued an ultimatum: she was to bring her grades up, or be withdrawn from King’s.

She had never been one to follow orders, especially from her parents, so she ignored them and went to the Winter Tourney anyway. There, in her whites with foil in hand, grades and her parents didn’t matter. All that mattered was the dance, stepping out to face to opponent, and testing her mettle against them.

She was practicing in an antechamber when a soft voice stopped her mid-lunge, “A girl should mind her feet.”

She drew up fast and turned around, “Who in the seven hells are you?”

“A man goes by many names.”

“That’s not an answer, who are you?”

“A girl does not need to know a man’s name to mind her feet.”

“And who are you to say that to me? What do you know about fencing? I’m being trained by Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos, and you’re just some jumped up spectator!”

The stranger smiled at her, “A man is much more than that, lovely girl, and a girl who aims to be a Water Dancer should take with her feet when she lunges.”

He gave her a small bow and left as silently as he had come. Angered, Arya went back to her lunges, imagining that the person she was fighting had the stranger’s face with its mocking smile.


 

Her first opponent was a boy younger than she was, but with better reach. She danced in and out of his guard, scoring hit after hit, until the match was done.

Arya felt that her footwork had been flawless, and damn that man for saying otherwise. Her beliefs were dashed aside when Syrio broke her match down.

“Your feet, boy, I thought I had broken you of your bad habits. Clearly not, as your sword is becoming distant from your body. Too much going on in your head, boy, and your feet know it. Before your next match, you will lunge 500 times.”

“But, Master Forel, I won! You saw me dance! I kicked his arse!”

“Because he was slow and ungainly, not because you were better. I will be running you very hard in the coming weeks.”

“Yes, Master Forel,” Arya replied sullenly.

“I’ll go work on those lunges now.”

“Yes, girl, and keep yourself centered when you do. I could knock you over with a feather while you lunged, if I had a mind to.”

She trudged back to the antechamber, swearing that if she ever saw that bastard again, she would give him a thrashing he would not forget. Her footwork had been fine before he’d said anything!


 

Arya entered her fourth term still unaware of what she wanted her major to be. She had cast lots to decide what courses she would be taking, and this term she had landed on a History of Braavos class (which she approved of), and Anatomy class (which could be useful), a Lit class (which she was ambivalent about, unless they forced Sansa’s Florian and Jonquil shit down her throat), and an Accounting class (which she would contrive to miss as often as possible).

All in all, it wasn’t a bad schedule; she’d heard that the history professor was a boring old man, but apparently, he knew his subject. The other courses were merely ways to pass the time before her dancing lessons. Thankfully, the history course was a once a week, allowing her to squeeze in a couple hours of practice before showing up.

The downside was that the course was a late one, running to almost 2200, which meant that she had to sit sweaty and dirty for almost three hours in the late evening. Arya could tell that she probably wouldn’t be making friends in that class, but she was determined to have those extra hours of practice.

So, when the first Wednesday of the new term rolled around, Arya showed up to class sweaty, toting a gym bag and a foul temper. Practice had gone poorly, and her arse was feeling the sting of Syrio’s boot.

The man was a brutal taskmaster, and Arya adored him, but she wasn’t looking forward to three hours spent sitting on a sore bum.

She entered the room, slinking to the back. Just because she was slightly interested in the class didn’t mean that it deserved her full attention, or participation. She watched as the other students trickled in, wondering when the professor would show up.

Normally, professors were among the first to arrive, claiming to need the extra set-up time, but perhaps this one (due to his age) moved at a slower pace.

Ten minutes had passed; class should have been well underway, and still no sign of the professor.

Arya was getting antsy she could be at home, nursing her arse and practicing forms, but she had shown up because it wouldn’t be right to skip the first day. Clearly, the old fart had other notions. She was just about to pack up and leave when the door opened, and in strolled her nameless nemesis.

Her hands were suddenly clenched around her gym bag while she fought the desire to leap on the bastard and pummel him. He must have felt her eyes on him because he turned his head, catching her glaring at him. The man had the gall to smirk at her in recognition. Arya almost stormed out right then, and would have were it not for the fact that she had a policy of sticking out at least the first class. But gods, she was tempted.

The nameless man arrived at the front of the classroom, placing what few items he had with him on the lectern. Silence had fallen over the students who were, no doubt, in awe of the man’s blatant tardiness. He spoke suddenly, shattering the quiet, “A man’s name is Jaqen H’ghar. A man was called to fill in for the other professor who has gone on sabbatical. A man assumes that you are all here for the History of Braavos course, section 2304?”

A few students tittered at his odd accent and phrasing, but all gave various nods of assent. Arya refrained from any movement aside from a clenching of her jaw. The bastard’s voice had taunted her for weeks, and now, she finally had a name: Jaqen H’ghar.

She settled back into her seat, grudgingly prepared to listen while she plotted ways to make him pay. Jaqen H’ghar would regret ever speaking to her; she would make sure of it.


 

A month of the new term had passed, and Arya was no closer to getting her revenge. Her Lorathi (he had let his origins slip in the second class) professor was a slippery bastard. Every time Arya had tried to tail him, he had disappeared. She couldn’t even observe him outside of class without him catching her.

Desperation growing, she had resolved to attend every class (an unheard of occurrence for her) in an effort to glean what knowledge she could. So far, she had very little. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that she had nothing.

Her frustration was becoming evident in all facets of her life, but it reached its peak in practice. Syrio was constantly on her case about her footwork and lunges.

It was a Wednesday, and she had approximately half an hour left before the wretched class when she heard his voice somewhere behind her, “Lovely girl, a man sees that your footwork has gotten worse. A man would be happy to help.”

Furious, she turned around, ready to flay him with her tongue, but was taken aback by his appearance: he was dressed in whites and carrying a foil. “You—you fence? I thought you were just being a smarmy bastard, trying to throw me off before my match, but you actually fence. You bastard!”

Arya let out a small, inarticulate scream of rage. She was too angry to care that there might be repercussions to calling her professor a ‘bastard,’ and she motioned forcefully to the area in front of her.

“Get your arse over here so I can beat it.” Her voice was low and threatening, but he seemed unruffled by her tone, making his way over to her with a nonchalance that had her grinding her teeth.

“So, a girl does desire help, and a man desires to be helpful. A girl’s dancing instructor follows FIE, yes?”

“Fuck FIE. This is personal. I’m going to fight you.”

His eyes lit up at her challenge, “So, it is to be classical? A man is eager to begin…and to instruct.”

In that moment, Arya forgot everything. She forgot her lack of helmet and his, forgot that were rules, and she even forgot that Syrio would take a strip out of her for this. The only thing she was aware of was the need to wipe that fucking smirk off of Jaqen H’ghar’s face for good.

She attacked, weaving Syrio’s Water Dancing with competitive fencing seamlessly, doing her damnedest to get under his guard. But, the bastard parried everything she threw at him, easily maneuvering through his lines. His defense was impeccable; it was as if he knew her strikes before she placed them!

Arya was growing desperate; she moved back, trying to draw him into her guard before feinting and performing a flèche. Once past him, she dropped into a low lunge, catching him as he turned with her up-thrust foil.

Jaqen H’ghar looked down at her and acknowledged the hit with a slight nod.

Arya withdrew her foil and climbed to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. Finally, she had bested him. She felt like she could breathe again. As her breath returned to her, so too did the noise in the room. Her fellow fencers had gathered to witness the ferocious exchange, including…oh gods, Syrio looked enraged.

Arya had never seen that look on his face before, and she flinched in anticipation of the coming tirade.

“Boy, what did you think you were doing?!”

Arya, red faced, mumbled a reply.

“What was that, boy? Your instructor can’t hear you when you speak to your feet! What were you doing?”

She cleared her throat and tried again, “I was fighting, Master Forel.”

“Yes, you were fighting, not fencing! That common brawling has no place here, and if you think it does, I’ll put you out on your ass! Now, go change; I don’t want to see your face around here for a week!”

Chastened, Arya nodded and walked towards the changing rooms; behind her, she heard Syrio begin to lay into her professor, “And you, what did you think you were doing with my sword? You could have hurt her!”

She strained to hear Professor H’ghar’s reply, but it was a bit garbled and foreign sounding, so she gave up and hurried to get changed.


 

Arya arrived at class that night feeling refreshed. It had been a dirty move to pull, but ultimately satisfying. Even Syrio’s angry words couldn’t take her victory from her, and she would return to his hall in a week knowing that the punishment had been worth it.

Professor H’ghar arrived at his normal time (10 minutes late), and she eyed him curiosity now that most of her animosity towards him was gone.

He was a curious man. Aside from his accent, which could be strange, his hair was a topic of conversation. Who in the seven hells thought that dying half their hair white was a good idea? Jaqen H’ghar, apparently. But, it wasn’t just his hair, or his accent, that made him an oddity. How did he always he always know that she was watching him?

That kind of preternatural awareness made her a little paranoid, but also envious. He was like the cats that Syrio had had her chase before teaching her Water Dancing. Cats just seem to know things and react accordingly. This professor was the same.

The words ‘essay’ and ‘due’ brought her focus back to the present. Shit, what had he said? Was it in the syllabus? Do I even have the syllabus? Gods, I’ll have to ask him, but not now, after class. Arya paid attention and took notes for the rest of the class, hoping that he would repeat himself, but he never did.

The professor called time and bade them good evening. Arya lingered behind the rest, wanting to get the encounter over and done with. She approached the lectern and waited for him to look up, “What was that, that phrase you said to Syrio? I couldn’t understand it.” So much for waiting and the essay.

“Ah, the girl heard that, did she? It is an old Braavosi saying.”

He seemed content to leave it at that, but Arya wasn’t satisfied, “Okay, but what does it mean?”

The professor tilted his head, giving her a queer look, as if measuring her worthiness to hear the words. The look made her burn a little; did he have to be such a condescending ass?

“Valar morghulis.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine, but they also resonated within her, like an old memory. “What—what does it mean?”

This time, he gave her a small smile, “It means, ‘All men must die.’ Does the lovely girl understand?”

She was quiet for a moment, considering his question. “You said that to Syrio when he was getting on to you about our fight. So, is it like you not caring what happens to you, or anyone else, because you're going to die anyway?”

His smile grew, “Oh, a man cares, lovely girl, but only to a certain extent. One day, a man will go to the Red God, but until that day, a man is pleased only to flirt with His call. But, a man has the feeling that a girl wanted to ask a different question; one that pertains to essays?”

Arya could feel the tips of her ears begin to glow, “Yeah, I was zoned out, and I couldn’t remember if I kept the syllabus. So, we’ve got an essay over something and it’s due sometime.”

He nodded, “A girl is most astute. A man feels the question is answered.”

The professor began to walk past her, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm, “Cut the bullshit and just tell me.”

He looked down at her hand on his arm then back at her. He tilted his head again, giving her that look. “A man will think about telling a girl if…”

“If,” she prompted.

“If a girl agrees to go with a man for a drink, or dinner.”

Arya was shocked; the bastard had just propositioned her, all over some information that she could have gotten from the syllabus or another student. Godsdammit, why didn’t she ask another student?

“Are you fucking kidding me? A date for some basic information? And isn’t teacher/student dating illegal or something? That’s fucked up.”

“A man does not care, legal or illegal. A man desires an evening with a girl. And,” he paused to leer at her, “a man thinks that a girl does not really object like she thinks she does.”

Okay, well, that was beside the point! It was the principle of the thing! “You know what, fuck you and your evening; I’ll just go ask somebody else!”

She stormed away from him, feeling his eyes on her as well as an ache in her belly. If she were anything like her sister, she would have called that ache ‘butterflies,’ or some soppy shit like that.


 

Arya had made a gross miscalculation by not befriending any of her classmates. She had looked high and low for two days without finding a single one of them. Her syllabus, as she had suspected, was nowhere to be found, and since King’s was behind the times with the whole ‘internet’ thing, finding it online wasn’t an option.

She was left feeling boxed in, and her only way out was dinner with that bastard because there was no way in the seven hells that she would be going to a bar with him.

Arya was vaguely disgusted by the fact that she could easily locate the professor on campus, while her classmate’s remained as elusive as Alice’s white rabbit. On Fridays, Jaqen H’ghar could be found lounging in a park near campus. He favored a short tree with a broad canopy. She approached him cautiously, not wanting to draw any attention to their conversation.

“Hey, asshole, wake up.”

“A girl bestows such wonderful endearments that a man cannot help but respond.”

“Whatever. Look, I’ll go to dinner with you, you’ll give me the info, and no funny business, or else you’ll be walking with a limp for the rest of your life.”

He pressed one hand over his heart and raised the other, “A man swears not to act without a girl’s permission.”

She eyed him suspiciously, “Right, just so we’re clear. Oh, and another thing, can you drop the whole ‘a man, a girl’ thing? You call me Arya, and I’ll call you…um…professor?”

He smiled broadly at her, “A girl, Arya, may call a man Jaqen.”

She nodded in agreement, “Okay, so, when and where are we going to do this thing?”

“Would tonight suit, lovely girl? There’s an establishment not far from campus that has exquisite Braavosi cuisine. You can meet me there at 2000.”

Arya looked him over, he seemed sincere enough, but she’d consider packing her knuckles anyway, “Braavosi restaurant at eight; fine, I’ll see you there.”

She turned and started to walk away, his voice stopping her before she went too far, “Please wear a dress, lovely girl! A man has a great need to see your pretty legs.”

She didn’t dignify his taunt with a response, choosing to take the high road for once, but she was almost hoping that he would step out of line later, if only so she could deck him.


 

Later that day, standing in front of her wardrobe, there was a small part of Arya that wished she owned a dress. That part was soon ruthlessly crushed by the rest of her psyche, which stated emphatically that even if she owned a dress, she wouldn’t wear it. That bastard professor would have to be content with jeans and a t-shirt.

She left her apartment, and before she knew it, she was at the restaurant. She wasn’t ready to go in, so she paced outside, half hoping that he wouldn’t show, but if he stood her up…well, he might still end up walking with a limp.

“No dress, lovely girl? That is a shame.”

Arya snorted derisively, “As if I would wear anything to please you. This is coercion, remember?”

“Coercion or not, a man is glad to see you, Arya.” The way he said her name made her feel funny. The other guys she’d been with, even Gendry, hadn’t made her feel like that. He curled his lips and tongue around it, making it sound sexy, and sinful.

Her whole body flushed, but she wasn’t going to let him get the better of her, “Yeah, whatever. Can we eat now? I’m starving.” In actuality, her stomach was clenching too tightly, she wouldn’t be eating much, but she wanted to move to a more neutral territory.

In response to her request, Jaqen moved to the restaurant door, opening it and gesturing for her to walk in. She did so, and they were soon seated with menus open. Arya was grateful that her familiarity with Syrio and his wife’s cooking gave her the confidence to pick her meal without relying on the knowledge of her 'date.'

“A girl know her Braavosi food, this is good. Lorathi dishes are similar, but they lack the spice.”

“Yeah, Syrio’s wife is a fantastic cook. We usually do team dinners at his place.”

Quiet fell over them again. Jaqen seemed content just to stare at her, which made her fidget. “Look, this is awkward. You can’t be enjoying this and it doesn’t have to go on. Just tell me what I need to know, I’ll give you some money for the food, and we’ll call it square.”

Her irritated tone clearly amused him because that damn smirk was back on his face, “A girl underestimates her charms. A man would have found another way to get her alone; this opportunity came at the right time.”

“Wait, what?” That piece of information shocked the hells out of her. He’d been wanting alone time with her? For how long? Anger surged through her: if he was so interested in getting into her pants, he should’ve been a bit more polite.

“You know,” she ground out the words through her teeth, “if all you wanted was sex, we could have taken care of that back in Winter. You could have approached me like a normal person instead of pissing me off. Now, you’ll be lucky if I stay in this seat through dessert without giving that pretty face of yours a few bruises.”

A laugh escaped him, “Oh, Arya, a man desires more than one night in bed with you.” He leered at her, “And a man finds it very gratifying that a girl appreciates his pretty face.”

“That’s it; fuck dessert, fuck dinner, and fuck you!”

Arya made to push away from the table, but he brought her up short, “The essay topic is…”

Shit, she’d almost left without the info, but gods, he made her see red! She eased back into her seat and glared at him, “When we leave, you better hope that you can cover your balls faster than I can hit them.”

“That will prove to be an interesting challenge, a man is looking forward to it.”

Arya lapsed into sullen silence, but perked up once their food arrived. Apparently, anger had restored her appetite. She chose to eat in silence, ignoring Jaqen’s gaze by keeping her eyes on her plate.

She ate until she was close to bursting, and only then did she look away from her plate. She was just in time to see Jaqen slip a bite into his mouth. Gods, the way his lips lingered around the fork, his tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop. The way he ate his food should be illegal, punishable by death, or life on the Wall! That funny feeling boiled up in her stomach again, and she rushed to reassure herself that it was just indigestion.

He caught her wide-eyed stare and gave her a slow smile. Heat rushed all over her body, how in the seven hells did he always catch her looking? But, despite her embarrassment, she was determined not to look away. She maintained her resolve until he licked his lips. The action sent a whole new series of tingles through her body, her hair prickled and stood on end. This was becoming too intense, she needed to get out of there.

“Right, I’m done, you’re basically done, and I want my information.”

Jaqen wiped his mouth carefully, placing his napkin on the table before replying, “What happened to dessert, lovely girl? A man begins to suspect a girl of trying to get out of the bargain.”

“You said dinner, not dessert. And I’ve been pretty nice about the whole ‘man-girl’ thing, but now I’m pissed. I want to leave, and I want you to stop looking so godsdamned sexy—oh gods—”

Arya didn’t wait to see his reaction to her words, she was up and out of her chair and halfway to the door before her brain caught up with her body. Once it did, she was full on running, making it out into the street. She was grateful that she’d denied dating conventions by dressing casual.

Suddenly, a hand reached out and spun her around, and she was crowded up against a wall. His mouth was on hers and then gone before she could react. “Lovely girl, why did you run?”

Unwilling to answer the question and reveal her feelings, Arya began to struggle. In any other circumstance, the man that dared to hold her down would be crumpled in a heap on the ground, clutching his crotch, and nursing a cracked jaw (oh, why did she forget her knuckles?!), but Jaqen H’ghar was in a class of his own. He anticipated her move, blocking her legs with his own, pressing himself against her.

Jaqen kissed her again, invading her mouth with his tongue. Arya was overwhelmed by the sensation; his mouth was so hot, his lips were smooth and soft, and gods, the feeling of his tongue sliding against hers was addictive. He broke the kiss, leaving her panting, wanting.

“Come back to my home, lovely girl, so that we can indulge in dessert together.”

His phrasing was so cheesy that laughter escaped her before she could stop it, and instead of looking offended, Jaqen looked satisfied. His eyes were glittering in the dim light, as if he were holding back his own laughter.

“Gods, that was a horrible line! How do you ever manage to get laid, using shit like that?”

He shrugged one shoulder, “A man uses what he has; a girl did call him ‘sexy’ before running away.”

She was sure that he could see her blush, her cheeks felt like fire, “Yeah, sorry, I’ll pay for the meal.”

Jaqen’s grin was distinctly predatory, sending a shiver down her spine, “A man does not care about the money, and the chase was most…gratifying.”

Arya was suddenly very aware of his body pressing against hers, his warmth seeping into her. “Um, prof—Jaqen, you can move now, I’m not going to run again.”

“Hmm, a man rather likes this position,” he punctuated his words with a slow grind of his hips against hers, “but a girl has not answered a man’s question.”

Her rational mind was in the midst of jumping ship, forcing her to concentrate, “You mean dessert?”

He leaned in close, his breath puffing out across her neck, “A man means you, Arya, in his home, against his wall, on his sofa, and between his sheets.”

“That’s, uh, that’s really specific.”

“A man could go on—”

“No! I mean, I’ve got the picture.” It wasn’t that she was a prude, but he was so frank about what he wanted. Gendry had been shy and fumbling, she’d almost felt badly about the whole sex thing, and she had had a few one-night stands. Jaqen was so different, so foreign, from everything she knew, but Arya didn’t know how to back down from a challenge.

“Okay, your place. Fuck the rules, fuck the essay.”

“A man will tell a girl the essay parameters as they walk.”

“Well, at least that’s one thing out of the way.”


 

Standing in Jaqen’s flat, Arya felt awkward, excited, apprehensive, and very turned on. He’d hardly touched her on their walk over, but every light caress had sent a shock through her, making her shiver. Jaqen had noticed, and his touches, though infrequent, had been deliberate and calculated.

She knew what arousal was, had felt it many times, but the lust Jaqen inspired in her, mixed with her latent anger, was potent and dangerous. Arya wanted him. She wanted him against the wall, on the couch, and between his sheets.

“You mentioned something about your wall? This one looks sturdy enough.” Gods, talk about cheesy, that line belonged in one of those pornos the boys had tried to hide from her.

“A girl is very insightful, that is precisely the wall a man had pictured.”

“Just call me ‘Bran.’ I’m a regular greenseer.”

“A man is confused, first a girl wants to be called ‘Arya,’ now ‘Bran.’ Lovely girl, does a man need to pick your name?”

“Don’t be stupid, Bran is one of my younger brothers. He sees things sometimes, and what he sees always comes true.”

“A girl speaks of younger siblings, how many does she have?”

“Um, let me count.” She held up her fingers, mumbling out names, “Okay, Rickon, Bran, and Sansa. Jon sorta counts, Robb, are we pissed at Theon, still? Nah, he counts, too. Um, six?”

Her supposed confusion earned her another laugh, “A girl is not sure? How strange that must be!”

“Haha, yeah, it can be weird, but aren’t families meant to be like that? How did we get on that topic anyway? It totally killed the mood.” That wasn’t entirely true; she could still feel her lust for him, simmering beneath the surface.

Jaqen seemed to sense the lie, “Oh, that is a shame, lovely girl.” He started to move towards her, backing her into the wall, “The wall behind you is looking rather lonely.”

Arya was warming back up to the idea of sex with the professor, more comfortable with him now than she was an hour ago. Talking about her family had actually helped her out. Her back was now flush against the wall, and Jaqen’s arms were caging her in.

One of his hands left the wall to pluck at the hem of her shirt, “Lift your arms, Arya.”

Wordlessly, she obeyed, lifting her arms as Jaqen raised her shirt up her body and over her head and arms. When her t-shirt was off, she lowered her arms and began unbuttoning Jaqen’s shirt, tugging on his sleeves to get him to help. Finally, she got to his undershirt, beginning to lift that up, too.

“Tsk, that’s a bit unfair, a girl is still wearing her bra.”

“My bra covers a lot less than your shirt, so don’t complain. Arms up!”

His lips quirked up and he raised his arms. Arya had to stand on her toes to get it close to his elbows, but his height was stalling her progress, “You’re too tall, bend over some!” Jaqen’s laughter was muffled through his shirt as he bent slightly, allowing her to pull the piece of clothing off. Bare chested, he was nothing short of mouthwatering, and her mouth dropped open a little.

Gods, he was hiding quite the body under his clothes. Arya took the initiative, grasping the bottom of her sports bra and yanking it up over her head. She prepared herself for his disappointment over the size of her breasts; Gendry hadn’t thought much of them, that was for sure. “Sorry, they’re a bit small. I don’t know if you were expecting more…”

He eyed her breasts, appraising them like a jeweler would a gem, and she was tempted to cover them up. “Does a girl think,” he mused, “that a man could fit a whole breast in his mouth? A man would like to try.”

That—that was no the reaction she had expected, “Um…maybe?”

“May a man try?”

Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and his tongue flicked out over one of her nipples. Her nipple reacted instantly, becoming stiff, and Arya had to stop herself from crying out for more. The request would have been unnecessary; his tongue swept out again, and she shivered. Her hands went to his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him firmly to her breast.

She could feel his mouth open, his breath hot on her skin, and then, his mouth engulfed her breast in its heat. A small cry forced its way out of her throat. He laved her breast with his tongue, and his teeth raked over her skin as he withdrew. He couldn’t go far though, her fingers were laced tightly in his hair as she tried to draw him back. Jaqen obliged, applying the same treatment to the other breast until she was sighing with pleasure.

“Hmm,” he hummed against her skin, “too much for a man’s mouth, but a man enjoyed the attempt.”

“So did I; gods, that felt good. I just about came from that alone.”

He drew up a little, pressing his naked chest to hers; her wet breasts slid against his warm skin. His hands went to the button of her jeans, undoing it and pulling her zipper down. Jaqen slipped a hand into the front of her jeans, feeling her sopping wet panties. “A girl is very wet, that is delicious. A man desires a taste.”

“Wha—oh!”

He dropped to his knees, taking her jeans and panties down with him. Arya watched dazedly as he unlaced her shoes, urging her to step out of them one at a time. She kicked away her jeans and underwear, laughing when she realized that her socks were still on, “Hey, Jaqen, you missed something.”

He grasped her wiggling toes and pulled off one sock then the other. Finally, Arya stood before him, and naked and full of want.

“Spread your legs, lovely girl, and hold onto my shoulders.”

Jaqen’s hands smoothed up her legs; Arya sent up a thankful prayer to the gods, she’d almost decided against shaving earlier that evening. His fingers massaging circles into her thighs brought her attention to the matter at hand, rather, mouth, she thought a little hysterically.

His fingers moved in first, petting the hair surrounding her cunt softly; his head followed, his tongue licking a broad stripe up the lips of her cunt.

“Gods!”

“You taste delicious, Arya, better than a man imagined. And you’re so wet.” He licked his lips again and she quaked. His fingers parted her folds softly, his mouth going to her clit. He sucked on her gently, and Arya’s legs buckled in response. Her grip on his shoulders, and his hand on her hip, kept her from crumpling to the floor in a heap of wanton jello.

She ran a shaky hand over his shoulder and into his hair, “Don’t stop! I’ll kill you if you do!”

Jaqen laughed into her cunt, the vibrations tickled her, and she squirmed in his grasp, “Bastard! I said don’t stop!”

Another long lick was his reply then his lips latched back on to her clit. His fingers slid down her folds, circling her entrance. He teased her with the tip of his finger, inserting it slightly, and then drawing it back. Jaqen kept that movement up until her fingers were threatening to tear out his hair; only then did he give her more.

His finger thrust into her, she clenched around it. He set a steady rhythm, alternating sucking on her clit and thrusting his finger. The combination had her reeling, and she could feel herself approaching the edge. “Jaqen,” her breath was coming in pants, “it’s not enough!”

His mouth lifted from her, but his finger continued thrusting, “What do you need, lovely girl?”

“Another finger, and your teeth!”

He went back to his task, adding a second finger, sliding it in next to the first while he raked his teeth lightly over her clit. She shattered seconds later, drenching his mouth and hand with her release. Jaqen brought her down from her high, rubbing her shaking legs soothingly.

Eventually, her breathing evened out, and she could speak again, “That was—gods, that was amazing. You’re the first, nobody else ever…”

“You’re delectable, Arya. Would you like a taste?”

She nodded; he stood up, the fabric of his trousers was rough against her now sensitive skin, and kissed her. The flavor of her cunt exploded on her tongue, salty with a hint of sweetness. Jaqen was right, she did taste good. Her mouth opened further, her tongue seeking out more of her taste in his mouth.

Arya could feel his erection, hot and hard beneath his trousers, and she relished the fact that this encounter was far from being over. Still kissing him, she trailed a hand down his chest, silently appreciating his muscles, wrapped her hand in his waistband and tugged. Her action spurred him to lay his hands over hers before making short work of his button and zipper. He toed off his shoes, the awkward movement breaking their kiss. They took a moment to catch their breath.

“Ah, hey, you got a condom on you?”

“Alas, a man did not take one with him. A moment, please.”

Jaqen left her at the wall, presumably headed to grab a condom. He returned in less than a minute, having taken the opportunity to shed the rest of his clothes, and his cock bobbed as he walked. Arya took in his naked form, admiring the way his muscles moved under his skin.

He was fit and lean, and Arya was struck by the sudden realization that if he had wanted to beat her in their bout, he very well could have. The knowledge brought some of her anger back to the surface, but she waited until he was closer to unleash it, “You bastard, you let me win!”

A sly smile flitted over his lips. “Lovely girl, a man did not let you win,” he insinuated himself into her space, ignoring her anger entirely. “A man wanted to see you fight, to feel you clash with him; a girl is very beautiful when she is dancing with steel.”

His words made her flush with pleasure, but her anger, instead of going away, only heightened the lust in her veins. This could be good.

Quickly, like a snake, Arya struck, biting into his pectoral hard enough to leave a deep mark. Jaqen grinned down at her, fierce and lustful, “So, a girl wants to be rough, she wants to fight for her pleasure.” He sounded delighted at the prospect. “But, after this, a man gets to set the pace, yes?”

Jaqen lifted her easily, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back. He slammed her into the wall, not hard enough to damage, but she would definitely feel it later. Arya responded by sinking her nails into his back and raking them downwards. He grunted at the pain, “Stay still, lovely girl, and let a man get this on.”

The condom was waved in her face as he ripped the foil packet open with his teeth. He lowered his hands; she heard him rolling the condom onto his cock, she could feel the movement of his hands beneath her as he stroked himself a few times.

His hands went back to her hips and he moved her down a little; one hand moved back to his cock, guiding it to her entrance. Jaqen thrust into her roughly, the motion was jarring, but the burn felt amazing. She pulled him closer, growling into his ear, “Harder, you bastard, make me feel it!”

He thrust into her again, the weight of his body keeping her torso against the wall while his hands supported her hips. Arya was flexing her cunt around his cock, trying to provoke him. Her tactic worked, and Jaqen was suddenly thrusting into her recklessly, his face growing red as he panted with exertion. The impact of his body against hers was full, heavy; the sound of their skin slapping together was wet and fleshy, filling the air and mixing with their groans of pleasure.

She slipped a hand between their sweat-slick bodies, strumming at her clit. “I’m—ah!—I’m close, Jaqen. N-need you to go faster!”

He grunted in assent, increasing the pace of his thrusts while maintain their strength. His body was a marvel, and he was truly beautiful as he used it to pleasure her. She pinched her clit sharply; the pain was enough to send her over, and she bit into his shoulder to stifle her cries.

Jaqen thrust into her a few more times before finding his own release. He shuddered against her, a long groan serving as his only audible indication of his satisfaction. They remained in stasis against the wall.

Arya made the first move, unhooking her ankles, sliding her legs down his to stand unsteadily on her feet. Their skin peeled apart with a sticky sound; she gave a weak laugh, “We might have to skip the couch and go straight to the bed. You wore me out.”

He let out a sigh, “A man must admit to being tired as well, but later, after some sleep, a man will make good on his promise.”


 

Later, after some sleep and another round of sex, Arya laid her expectations of the future out, “I’m not saying I don’t want to see you anymore, I’m saying that it has to wait until the semester ends. Y’know, ‘cause of ethical bullshit.”

“A man told a girl that he did not care.”

“Don’t pout, it would be bad if we were caught. We can still fight, Syrio will let us as long as we behave. And a good fight is better than sex sometimes.”

His head popped up from the pillow, “That sounds like a challenge, lovely girl.”

“I don’t think you’re up to it just now; problems of age, yeah?”

“Now that was definitely a challenge. A girl should prepare herself.”

“Uh-huh. Whatev—ah! I take it back, you’re in perfect condition, and I can’t keep up!”

His tone was smug, “Yes, a girl must learn her place—ow!”

“Rude man, that’s what you get. Now, go to sleep, you’re not getting anything after that comment!”

Despite her harsh words, Arya willingly snuggled next to him, idly thinking about what she would do to him the next time they were dressed out in whites.