Ned is watching the football. He doesn't get to do that very often, since they've always got something else to do, they're very busy people, but Cat insisted she'd finish washing the dishes and he could relax for a couple of hours. She's never liked football anyway. It always takes so long for anything to happen, for anyone to score at all. She prefers rugby, which Ned teases her for, telling her how rich and southern she is.

(She opts against mentioning she's always preferred contact sports.)

Cat sighs and gently slides the last plate into the cupboard before going to dry her hands on a tea towel. She checks the clock. It's nearing midnight, and she should probably go to bed soon. And she'd quite like to, except – Ned won't be following her for awhile, until the game's over. It's one of those European championships or somesuch with a very loose definition of 'European', that they host in Kazakhstan or somewhere like that, meaning it starts at a ridiculous hour. Cat frowns. It's not like – it's not like she needs sex to fall asleep or anything. But still. It wouldn't hurt.

She frowns again at the clock, and then over at the screen her husband is watching. There hasn't been a goal yet. The players are still just running back and forth, occasionally pretending to be injured, like footballers do. Surely, if she only distracted him for a few minutes, he wouldn't miss anything...

Mind made up, Cat – she does not creep, no – walks softly up behind Ned, not sure whether he notices her. From the soft jump she gets when he feels her lay her hands upon his shoulders, probably not. Gently, she starts to rub back and forth. "Cat, what are you–"

"You looked tense, darling." This is a blatant lie; Ned looked a lot less tense than he usually does, and now he's starting to look tenser. Stll, he seems disinclined to contradict her. Catelyn kneads at the muscle under his plaid shirt, and god, for a man of his years he's still so strong, and she shudders remembering the last time she teased and flirted and baited enough he just picked her up and carried her to their bed in the middle of the day. She wonders if the bitemarks she left on his shoulder are still there. She finds her hand gliding off his shoulder and across his chest.

"Cat – I'm watching the game–"

"Then watch the game," she whispers in his ear as she fumbles for his top button. "And try to pay attention. You wouldn't want to miss the first goal, would you?"

Ned groans as Cat's hand slips inside his shirt, and she starts idly flicking at his left nipple, smirking at how it hardens under her touch. "The children will–"

"Either they're out, or they should be in bed by now," Cat dismisses, probably too easily. "Don't worry. They won't see anything," she promising, nipping at the skin on his neck and feeling him arch toward her. "Let me take care of you, dearest husband."

And Ned, as always, gives in with a resigned sigh. "This is all for my sake, then?"

Cat frowns, and gently scratches him with a thumbnail. Ned hisses in pain, but she watches how his hips buck up into the air when she does it. "Careful love," she says, nipping his skin a little harder, "we have to be careful. You don't want me getting too out of control, else someone might hear us."

"Aye. I do know what it's like when you lose control."

She scratches him again. "Careful," she warns, and then she places her hand back above the fabric of his shirt, at which Ned makes a slightly disappointed sound, but then she leans in further so she can trail her hand down his torso, her breasts pressed against his jaw. "It's your damn fault anyway, you drive me wild. You wouldn't refuse to take responsibility for the situation you've created, would you?"

He gasps quietly as Cat reaches for his fly, hand almost shaking in its eagerness to touch, to wrap around that thick, heavy, hard cock, to please and to tease him until he has no choice but to drag her down and bury his length inside her. With her spare hand, she kneads at her slit through her trousers, and is stunned by how she feels the wetness seeping through the fabric. Well that's embarrassing. She ought to get them off soon. Then she realises what she must look like, stretching over the back of the couch so she can touch her husband's cock and her own cunt at the same time, and god, she is more impatient than she thought she was. Her plan changes.

"Ned," she whispers in his ear, "stand up. Stand behind me. Take me like this, over the back of the couch. You don't – you don't even have to stop watching the game, I just, I can't wait anymore."

He hesitates. "Cat..."

"Please, Ned. Please." That is what they typically dub losing control, but it doesn't seem to matter at the moment, not when she's aching inside. "I need you to take me, I need it now, I need – where are you going?!"

Poor Ned jumps a mile when she suddenly stands and shouts that, but she's not talking to him. At the door stands her youngest, clearly caught in the middle of sneaking out, but seemingly unaware or unembarrassed by what he just walked in on. Cat wishes she could say the same, but still, she hopes the fervency of her glare is enough to distract from her blush.

Rickon shrugs. "Out."

Cat's eyes narrow. Rickon, despite being arguably the most wild of her children (he and Arya are basically neck-and-neck in that race), inherited his father's taciturn nature, and so getting the full story out of him is always a bit tricky. "Where?" she asks, as Ned suddenly stands, looking confused and embarrassed, for the most part.

"Friend's place." Well that could mean anything.

"At this time of night?"

"It's not that late," Rickon says.

"I will be the judge of that," Cat drawls. She squints at him, examining his too-small t-shirt and ripped skinny jeans. "Who is going to be there?"

"Few people."

"Anyone I'd know?"

"Maybe."

"Rickon." But her glare doesn't work on him the same way it does her other children, it never has, which is absolutely infuriating. Rickon's never scared of anything. Not that she doesn't want her son to be brave, but she doesn't want him to be so brave she can never discipline him. "Should I even ask how you were planning on getting home?"

"I thought Bran could drive me."

"He's grounded!"

"...Is he? Shit." Rickon shrugs. "He goes out so little I didn't notice." Cat glares harder, wondering if Ned is going to back her up at some point, and Rickon chuckles to himself. "Can't get you to drive me, can I?"

"No."

He laughs again. "Didn't think so." He thinks it over for a few seconds more. "Maybe I'll get Shireen to drive me back."

"Shireen?" Cat's eyes narrow further. "Shireen Baratheon?"

"Yeah? What's wrong with Shireen?" asks Rickon. "She's a nice girl."

"She's eighteen."

"So?"

Cat's about to say exactly why that matters, but then she hesitates. If her underage son isn't having sex with a girl entirely too old for him, she doesn't want to give him the idea that he should be.

"So, can I go now?"

"What? No!" Cat says, stunned by his impertinence. "Absolutely not, I am not having you out on the streets on this hour, I forbid you to leave this house–"

"Are you sure? Because I thought you might want me out of the way." She's confused for a moment, and he shrugs. "Did seem like I was interrupting something when I came in."

That leaves Cat flabbergasted for a moment. Unfortunately, a moment is all Rickon needs to swing the door open. "Wait, come back here–" but it's too late, he's out and disappearing into the night, which he's very good at.

He heat under Cat's skin has all transformed into anger and humiliation. "...When he gets back, he is even more grounded than Bran is," she eventually spits out, still glaring at the door.

Ned sighs and comes up behind her, gently rubbing her sore, tense muscles. "He'll be alright," he says. "Shireen's a good girl. And she's Stannis's daughter. I highly doubt he'd let her get away with a dalliance with a fifteen year old boy."

Cat huffs a little, but relaxes into his arms. Ned's probably right, but still, it's annoying she has to rely on two near strangers' virtue, as she cannot on her own child's.

Behind her, Ned looks idly over his shoulder. "I missed the first goal," he says.

Cat flinches. "Sorry."

"It's alright. Really, I can watch the game any time." And then his hands move down to her waist, pulling her tighter against him. The heat under her skin starts to change back. "Should we go up to bed then?"

Cat hesitates, and bites her lip. "No, don't worry. I... wouldn't feel right if I made you miss the whole game."

"Are you sure?" His hands slip further down as he starts to grind his half-hard cock against her, and oh, he knows her too well.

"I'm sure," she says, unable to fully keep back a smirk, or a moan. "I think I – I can put up with listening to the football for an hour or two. So long as you're keeping me distracted. I have always admired your ability to multitask."

She spins around, looking up at him with imploring eyes. Ned hesitates a moment, seemingly on the edge of saying something. But then he just chuckles, and helps guide her into position.