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barbieaemond · 4 months

Text

Religion

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst, misogyny, banter, pregnancy, childbirth, oral sex, p in v, fingering, orgasm denial, dry humping, overstimulation, brief lactation kink, breeding kink, manipulation (to get some), some good ol' tying up, slandering of the Gods lol

Author's note: this is the third and final part following And I dream of a grave and A curse for a curse but can be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that Aemond did not cheat on his wife while in Harrenhal. He used Alys only for her visions.

Word count: 13k. Ye have to suffer for your smut darlin'

MASTERLIST | English is not my first language.

taglist: @multyfangirl @ladystarksneedle @arcielee @darylandbethfanforever9 @zaldritzosrose @alphard-hydraes-blog

Her mother had come to King’s Landing three days after she gave birth. Peering through the door, the Princess didn’t know if the woman was more surprised to finally see a baby safely tucked between her daughter’s arms or to witness that she was still breathing. She had chosen to believe both.

Since she was a little girl, she had been instructed in what was coming, for her and all the girls like her: how to serve men, how to serve the Realm. She knew pregnancy could be a time of great distress, physical and otherwise, and for her, it turned out to be nothing more than that.

She spent the first moons plagued by sickness, glaring at the Maesters who told her that morning sickness was perfectly normal. It would've been, if only it had lasted the hours the sun was at its highest. Instead, she couldn’t keep down her breakfast, just like her lunch, or dinner. She had lost weight, she couldn’t stand any kind of smell with the risk of rushing to her pot and empty her stomach.

Then, on one fine morning, while she was walking the gardens with two of her maids, she had suddenly bent over, hissing with pain while clutching her maid’s arm, dreading the trickle running down her thighs.

The Maesters said occasional bleedings might happen, that she only needed to rest and take some tonic to strenghten her body. But that day signaled the end of her peace and the beginning of her confinement.

Because clearly, at the first sign of something going wrong, slipping out of his control, Aemond would panic, albeit showing none of it, standing as tall and stoic as ever and somehow more than he’d ever done now that the Conqueror’s Crown weighted on his head. But she knew better. She knew how to look through all his walls. She knew he was scared—for her, for the baby, for his sister, for his whole family. It was simply too much for a single person to carry all of that on their shoulders. And it was precisely for that reason that she didn’t object to any of his orders. After all, she couldn’t. He was the King now, even if he didn’t choose to style himself as such.

Thus, her chambers became her prison.

Cobwebs didn’t have time to grow because she was quick enough to point them out to the servants. She was aware of the slight drop in the stone tiles just behind the terrace, as of the strategic point where to linger to gain some cool breeze from the sea. She knew the baby liked to sleep upside down in the early afternoon, occasionally kicking hard as he, or she, settled comfortably in her womb.

Aemond had picked some books for her, mostly about history, having her yawning at the third page. She had tried needle work, putting all her good will into it for the sake of doing something, and she had deliberately chosen to believe she was undeniably good at it. But that was a very generous lie.

“What is that supposed to be exactly?” Aemond asked one day, peeking over her shoulder as he reached her on the terrace.

She didn’t look up, keeping her eyes fixed on her embroidery tambour, working the needle in and out. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He leaned down until she felt the long silver strands tickling her head and even without turning, she could feel him grimacing. “A bird?”

At that, she had raised her head, reading all the disbelief on his face. “It is a dragon. For the cradle.”

Aemond had simply furrowed his brow, unable for the life of him to consider what he saw as something even remotely resembling a dragon. But he thought better than to anger his pregnant wife, given her late sour spirit, but especially in light of how fiercely she had started to stick the needle in, likely picturing to stick it into him instead. He had built the most fake pleasant smile he could master and said “Very well. Excellent work, my love.”

“Thank you, husband.”

The trouble was that, as time went by, she only became sourer. She grew more and more uncomfortable, too tight in her own skin. Her back hurt, her breasts hurt, and she was starting to believe she was carrying a real dragon, with fangs and all; she had no other explanation for how hot she constantly felt, forced to lie in a thin white chemise all the time, despite the winds carrying the winter.

But maybe there was another reason why her spirits were so low and sour. She had come to learn that pregnancy affected every aspect of her life, including the most pleasant one.

She would grow wet for a kiss. She would close her legs and rub them together upon seeing him rise from the bathtub. She would moan into his mouth if he so much as grazed her nipples with his knuckles. But as she grew bigger and bigger, along with the discomfort, kisses and some intimate brushing were all she would get from him. Aemond had grown distant, not only with his presence, due to all the duties he had to fulfill wearing the Crown, but even when he was there, in their chambers, sleeping next to her, she felt him leagues and leagues away.

“Pregnancy is a very hard time for a woman.” The Dowager Queen had said to her “It is overwhelming to think that you are never alone and yet...somehow you are.”

She’d never understood what her good mother meant until she was confined to her chambers, alone with her thoughts and her fears. She didn’t expect Aemond to do something, this was women’s business. And she knew his reluctance to lie with her rested solely on concern and love for her.

No matter how much he craved to take her, he had decided to put his husband’s rights away for the delicate final moons until the baby was born. He still felt guilty, for Harrenhal, for the witch, for forsaking her only to get drunk on visions and prophecies. Yet, those visions turned out to be true. He had shut that voice in his head and tried to make amends. But they didn’t have the time to mend themselves together, to knit all the distrust and suspicions into something good; the baby was coming, and it seemed he or she did nothing but grow them more apart.

He saw how tired she was, how some days she couldn’t even get out of bed. And how useless he felt when he would catch her crying, like that night when he found her all alone on the terrace at the hour of the owl.

She was sitting on her chaise filled with cushions when Aemond walked around her. Given the state of his white shirt and hair, he had likely just awakened and hadn’t found her beside him.

“What are you doing out here? You will catch a cold.”

“I cannot sleep.” she had kept her eyes far, on the Black Water Bay, far from him. But he saw them anyway, her reddened eyes.

“You cannot stay here in your condition.” He said almost tiredly, but when she didn’t even blink at his words, he called her name, with the tone he used in the Throne Room.

“Aemond, please.” She whispered, turning her head. “I—” she bit her tongue, unwilling to put this on him, but she knew he wouldn’t let go until she was safely back in bed. So, she said “I don’t want to hear her.”

It took him less than a moment to understand what she meant. Helaena. Helaena who lost a child, who saw her flesh and blood horribly murdered before her eyes. Helaena who couldn’t stop wailing in the dead of night.

She had looked at him, seeing that torn thing, broken and raw like a split wound; shame and guilt and rage all at once. Then, he lowered himself onto his knees until he took her cold hands and squeezed them tight. His mouth opened, but she was faster. “Don’t say it.”

You cannot keep such a promise, you cannot keep us safe. No matter how many times you say it. But she wouldn’t take that solace away from him, not that plainly. The more he said it, the more he seemed to believe it. So be it.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, and there was a beautiful, heartbreaking desperation in his hushed voice. “Tell me what to do.”

She had built a convincing smile, running her hand through his loose hair and pushing some strands back. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Her spirits during the day would slightly improve. And between the Council and some hearings in the Throne Room, he always saved some time to go visit her in their chambers. She didn’t seem to enjoy being watched like a toddler, but deep down she cherished his concern. She cherished the way his hands would gently hold her own, or caress her hair, her belly. She found it hard to believe those hands could bestow such reverence and violence at the same time. And even in his absence, he managed to ensure she always had anything she needed. Even blackberries in early autumn.

“Myra, where have you been?” She asked in a late afternoon, when one of her most loyal maids entered her chambers after disappearing for the whole day.

The young girl had an awful look. She seemed exhausted, as if she had walked the entirety of Flea Bottom, twice. “Apologies, my Princess. It took me quite a while to find blackberries.”

“Seven Hells, it is only a craving. You did not have to go all the way through King’s Landing to find me blackberries.”

"No, I-I ought to.”

The Princess paused, frowning at the young girl. “Did someone else tell you that you ought to?”

“Well…yes…” the maid said, sinking her gaze to the floor “The King—uhm Prince Regent.”

She sighed deeply, and with heavy steps, she walked towards the terrace; her maid was immediately at her side to help her. “What did he tell you?” the Princess asked as they reached the chair outside.

The girl waited for her to sit, slowly and awkwardly given her big belly; then, a little timidly, she said “He…ordered me to go look for blackberries and not to…bother coming back if I didn’t find them.”

The Princess rolled her eyes in quite an unlady-like manner, “How in the name of Seven did he know about it?” She asked, grimacing as she desperately tried to find a comfortable position. “I have barely seen him this morning.”

The young maid helped her, fixing some cushions behind her back and whispered “The White Cloak at the door…I suspect he reports everything to his Grace.”

The notion didn’t seem to strike her that much, or maybe she was too tired, too uncomfortable and too hot to comment on the matter, or even scoff at it.

She grabbed a fan from her maid’s hands and unceremoniously shook her shoes off, placing her swollen feet on the cool tiles. Closing her eyes, she basked in that small relief; the floor was cold, the sun was about to set, and the baby was sleeping.

According to the Maesters, her time was close. She was eager to meet this little person but in truth, she just wanted it to end. She hated having no control over her body, her spirits, her marriage. She missed being a wife and being treated as such, not just as the mother of his child. She had come to think that, deep down, any woman felt that way, but they were forced to hide everything behind a joyful smile while sinking to their knees to thank the Mother. Wasn’t that the sole purpose of any girl in the world? To bleed on a birthing bed? Wasn’t that the way men measured women’s value?

She swallowed hard as the question spun in her head. Am I finally worthy of you, Aemond?

She wouldn’t dare ask him.

“What is it? Are you unwell?”

She was too lost in her thoughts to even hear his footsteps on the terrace. As her gaze flew up, she read the deep concern on his face, all lumped in the steep furrow between his eyebrows. He must’ve seen her grimacing, thinking she was in some pain. She was, but she was too much of a coward to tell him.

She resumed her fanning, averting her gaze and stretching her legs out further on the floor. “I feel like I’m boiling.”

“Yes, I can see that.” He deadpanned, raking his eye over her disheveled state; sprawled on that chair with her legs slightly open, her white chemise all crumpled and unbuttoned, and a bead of sweat on the forehead, in the crevice of her swollen breasts. He thought the times when a mere look at this woman would make him hard were gone once the novelty of having a wife, someone rightly and thoroughly his, had dissipated. He was wrong.

“I’m well aware of my lack of decency.” She replied, seeing how he was staring, the little inquiring curve in his eyebrow. “I’m afraid I care very little about decency at this moment. Blame it on your son.”

His lips curled up, watching her gather her loose hair with one hand while she kept fanning herself quickly with the other.

“Are you still inclined to believe for certain that it’s a boy?”

“I know it’s a boy. Only men can be this insufferable.”

That little smile on his lips lingered, deepened, and then he moved, going to stand behind her. “Let me.” He said, and took her hair between his hands. She couldn’t see what he was doing but got the gist as she felt his deft fingers moving and her neck free to get some air. When he walked around the chaise to sit beside her, she saw that his hair was loose. He had tied her hair with the black lace he always wore to prevent the silver strands from ending up in front of his eye.

She loved to see him like this: hair loose, eyepatch lost somewhere in a drawer, sitting next to her, even without saying a word. The sapphire seemed to match his eye, glowing a soft violet under the setting sun. She felt that familiar lump in her throat, as she stared at him, a restless thing flowing through her whole body, demanding to be released only to be trapped under her teeth, biting down her lower lip, starved and yearning.

“A little bird told me you put a hound on my trail.” she said at one point, shutting her little fan.

Aemond didn’t look surprised to acknowledge that she knew. He had actually ventured with himself about how long it would have taken her to realise he was spying on her every move.

“You are well aware of my duties now.” He said, turning his head to look at her. But not quite. His eye seemed to linger everywhere at once, fleeting, snatching a look here and there, her legs, her sweated neck, her belly…his own testament, as if she wasn’t one already.

You left your mark on her just as she did on you. Those were Alys’ words, at which he had ugly sneered. And she had laughed at the sight, eerily, as someone who owned the truth. I’m your spoil of war and yet, you speak to me ten paces away. What are you afraid of, Kinslayer? That your skin would burn like brimstone if you touched another woman?

“Besides,” he resumes “any lady would be flattered by her husband’s genuine concern.”

“You could flatter me in different ways.” was her prompt answer and she moved incredibly fast, given her impediment, getting close to him until she filled his nostrils. She smelled different since she was pregnant. A thick smell, musky. She tasted differently. Sweeter and somehow sourer. He swallowed at the mere memory. “We have talked about this.”

“And I’ve talked to the Maesters.”

His head spun around, forcing her to stifle a smile at his ever strictly reserved nature.

“They said there’s nothing wrong, or remotely dangerous, if we…engage in our conjugal duties.”

He tried to ignore her hand, her fingers traveling up his arm like a spider’s legs. “Did you need the Maesters to learn that?”

“No, but you do. You hang on their lips…I wish you hung on mine.”

Aemond heard her voice dropping a tone, and dropped his chin down, looking at her hand roving on his chest, shamelessly slipping beneath his dark green doublet, skin to skin. She glided on his planes slowly, making sure to trap one of his nipples in the little hollow between her index and middle.

“I don’t need them to know about my private matters.” He said mindlessly, trying to hold a grip on his thoughts.

“Seven Hells. It baffles me to witness how prudish you desperately want to appear while I perfectly know how debauched you really are, to the bone.”

“My debauchery is confined to these four walls.”

“Oh, is it? What about that time on our way to the Grand Sept?” She tilted her head, so she was talking almost in his ear. “Do you remember?”

Her hand on his chest was burning, or was it his own skin? His own flesh simmering wherever she touched him.

“Don’t do that.” She whispered when she saw his long legs cross. “Let me see. You have condemned me to do nothing else.”

His eye chased her hand as she grabbed his knee and pushed to uncross his legs, so that she could see, the outline of his cock through the breeches, see how he ached for her. “Do you remember what you did in the wheelhouse?” She asked again, looking at him; the sapphire was the only thing flashing violet now. His eye was pitch black.

“You put your hand beneath my gowns…” she said and her hand slid up against his thigh “you grabbed me, harshly.” And she did the same, forcing his mouth open and a shallow breath out of his throat. “And you grinned…because my garments were soaked.” he closed his eye for a moment, perhaps recalling, or maybe because her hand was moving, palming all his length through the breeches.

“And then you slipped your fingers underneath…” and again, she did just so, unbuckling his belt and sinking her hand in. He opened his eye, and basked in what he saw: that sort of silent, desperate plea in the little wrinkle between her eyebrows, in her heaving chest, in the way she was rubbing her legs together.

Thus, just when she was about to grab him, he grabbed her wrist instead and crashed his mouth against hers with a low growling sound. She could do nothing but moan, giving him open room to slip his tongue in and taste every corner, driving his body closer and closer, but not too much as to crush her.

She, on the other hand, felt free, finally, to roam, to rummage. Her hands grabbed and pulled everywhere, at his doublet, the collar, the buttons, the thin white shirt underneath it all, until everything was loose, and she was free to touch him, all the while making the sweetest wanton sounds, close to desperate whines. “Please, Aemond…” she begged freely, holding his face “just this once…please…”

He shushed her with another harsh kiss and with a free hand, he clutched her white nightgown into his fist, pulling up, enough to stick his arm between her legs. She spread them for him, panting with anticipation, and stopped breathing altogether when he cupped her core with the large palm of his hand. Aemond trapped her lower lip with his teeth, biting softly upon feeling how wet she was, dripping on his fingers, so much that he wished to fall on his knees and wipe it clean with his tongue.

“Please…” she breathed, barely rocking her hips to urge him to touch her.

“Hush.” he said, and curled his fingers, brushing his fingertips against her centre, gaining a delicious wince from her. “Tell me of the wheelhouse.”

She smiled breathlessly, her eyes hungry and heavy, full of lust. “It was the first time I wore green.” she started to tell. “We were still betrothed. I wanted to impress you.”

“Hmm. You certainly did.” He remarked, watching her closely while rubbing his index pad against her entrance, teasingly, making her squirm. “Go on.”

She felt like burning, her face hot for the sun, the baby, the ache in her lower belly, stirring and coiling. “You told the White Cloak to take another round…” she said, breathing with her mouth open. “You grabbed my waist and forced me on your lap.”

“And you pushed me away. Twice.” he’d laughed, flashing a grin that made her willing to shove him away, to pull him closer. “What a farse you put on.” he continued, leaving a chaste kiss on her neck that resulted in her writhing some more, pushing her pelvis against his hand. “I had to cover your mouth for your mewling. You were so fucking loud.”

It was then that he finally granted her some mercy, slipping one finger inside her drenched lips, spilling a long gasp from her.

“No. Not quite.” He observed cruelly and slid another finger, this time gaining a proper loud moan. “That’s more like it.”

His two fingers started to pump slowly, and yet she was making the lewdest sounds he’d ever spilled from her, arching her back as far as she could, scrunching her face almost in pain and pulling at his collar, twisting, as if he were torturing her instead of giving her pleasure. She made his cock stir painfully, his teeth grind for the ache, for the fact that she was coating his whole hand. “Easy now…” he warned her, his tone all husky. “You don’t want to come already, do you? ‘Tis the only thing you’ll get from me, sweetling…you better make it last.”

She whined in annoyance, forcing another grin on his ruthless lips, and with that same ruthlessness, he slowed his ministrations, only to cup one of her breasts with his free hand, squeezing softly until the thin, silky fabric slipped down, revealing her pink, swollen nipple. “I must say…I’m relieved you will summon a wet nurse…so these will be all mine.”

She had to stifle a breathless laugh at that. “Being jealous of your child is a bit too much, even for you…”

“Oh, my love” he crooned, freeing the other breast “I am jealous of the clothes on your skin.”

Wasting no time, he wrapped his lips around her nipple, causing her to arch against him once more, one hand flying down his shoulder, fisting his doublet, twisting it as he swirled his tongue and hummed with delight dripping from his tone, as if he were tasting honey, and the sweetest ever made.

His fingers resumed their frantic rhythm, sinking deep inside and stretching, hitting that special spot that made her sight go black, reduced to a mess of sweat coating every inch of her skin and a string of moans growing hoarse and high-pitched.

“Are you close? Hmm?” he rasped “How about another? Can you take another for me?”

He slipped a third finger in, causing her to wince and cling to his shoulders with her mouth open in a silent scream. “Good girl.” He praised at the sight. He wished he could savor it for a little longer, he wished to keep doing that again and again, until the sun went down and rose again, until there was nothing but ruin around them.

But she was so close now, he could feel it in her tensed arms around his shoulders, in her clenching walls around his hand, and quite frankly, the ache in his breeches was unbearable, twitching at every moan and squelching sound of his fingers inside her flesh.

She came loudly, curling her ankles on the ground and writhing in his hold as if in a delirium. He kept her still, his hand buried inside her, feeling the quick pulsing that rivaled the one in her heart. And he watched her, gasping for air and throwing her head back, utterly spent, hair all sticked to her forehead. In his eye she had never looked this beautiful.

He pulled his fingers out, making her wince slightly, and brought them to her mouth, smearing her spent desire on her own lips, like the final touch to a painting. And then he kissed her, humming at her bittersweet taste. He held her face gently, grabbing her jaw and angling her head to taste her better, eliciting a blissful sigh from the back of her throat that made his hardness throb. As if she had felt that, her hand had slipped between them with purpose, sinking past all his layers and taking hold of him.

She rejoiced in the little whimper he gave her, and started to work her hand up and down, making it impossible for him to kiss her any further, if not for a sloppy and panting mess of spit and teeth.

Given the unbearable pressure building past his navel, he knew he wouldn’t last long. And she knew that too. But she didn’t want to have him this way. Awkwardly, she stood up and spread his legs to make herself some room, but as soon as Aemond, despite the lack of blood in his mind, caught her intentions, he stopped her, grabbing her arms firmly.

“No…” he croaked. “Not on your knees.”

She couldn’t help the little surprise on her face. Aemond had never been this considerate, especially in bed. He could be gentle in his own way, subtly. Little hidden things in the way he would run his fingers through her hair once she had reached her peak, the way he would regain air once he’d spilled inside her, breathing into her neck and running his lips lazily against her skin. But most of the times, he was very diligent, all focused in giving her and himself the pleasure they both craved; he was somehow harsh, ruthless, a mirror of who he was outside the bedroom, possessed by some kind of urgency that would break her in the most beautiful and cruel way and put her back together at once.

But then again, she imagined the promise of his heir living inside her was affecting even one of the most ruthless of men.

She sat down again and watched him stand up, his breath labored and open-mouthed as he looked down at her, working the few laces of his breeches still tied. She didn’t need an invitation, an order, a mere tilt of his chin to sit upright and put her hands alongside his snatched waist.

She looked up, and he found himself swallowing hard, cursing silently at the sight of her looking straight into his eye with his cock a breath away from her, all hard and glistening on the tip. Shamefully, he thought that would have done it for him.

A coarse grunt left his lips as soon as she wrapped her mouth around it, teasingly swirling her tongue on the slit without ever averting her gaze from him. He hissed painfully when her lips started to travel along his length, trying with all his might to hold back and not spill into her mouth so soon.

She, on the other hand, seemed eager to watch him come undone, just as he had done to her a few moments earlier. She started to suck him eagerly, like a starved creature, because on all those nights and days when he had taken her apart, learning every inch of her and how to bend it to his will, she had done just the same.

She knew how to make him wince and moan openly, while on her knees on their bedroom floor or on a fucking terrace during a late afternoon, with likely anyone to walk on them at any moment. With the Gods watching.

She didn't care. The Gods didn't care for them anyway. Let them see to whom she fell to her knees.

He couldn’t stop looking, how pretty she was like this, swallowing him whole, up to the hilt, hitting her throat with a gagging sound. So lecherous, so holy.

He was so close he had to bite his lip to restrain himself, letting out a string of curses until he felt the pressure growing stronger, and then, he thought, he might as well have it his way.

“Stop…” he croaked, grabbing her cheek but delicately, slipping out of her mouth and running his thumb over her sore jaw. She closed her slicked mouth, a drop of spit running down her chin and she looked at him, with such devotion he thought he had nothing to envy the Gods.

“Let me…” he pleaded, wiping her chin clean with his finger. “Let me fuck your mouth, sweetling. Would you?”

A question that needed no answer. Indeed, he wasted no time and grabbed the back of her head, tilting it slightly up for a better angle. He sheathed himself all the way in, gasping deeply at feeling the hot walls of her mouth, her cheeks hollowing.

His fingers curled into her hair, but never in a hurtful way, enough to keep her still as he started to move his hips against her face back and forth, his open mouth quivering as the pleasure began to build where it left off.

“Fuck—” he cursed once, and then twice, fucking her mouth faster to chase his peak, pulling ever so slightly at her scalp until he went still altogether, pushed his waist hard against her, and grunted loudly, in a pretty uncharacteristic way, as his cock twitched and spilled down her throat until the last drop.

Panting harshly, he pulled himself out and watched her close her mouth, eyes fixed on him, working her cheeks and making no mystery of the white essence on her tongue before swallowing it, thoroughly.

Aemond let himself fall on that chaise and she watched, she drank that sight: his hair all disheveled and damp with sweat, a shade of pink on his cutting cheekbones as he slowly pulled himself together, breathing through his open mouth while buckling his belt and breeches.

“I think I’m going to take a bath.” She said at one point, clumsily standing up. He had mumbled something in return, still caught in the throes of what they had done, but before she got back inside, she turned and said “Oh, just so you know…all of this was a ploy.”

She smiled cunningly at his frowning. “I never had any cravings. And I knew about the White Cloak at the door since the first day you put him there. You are not as subtle as you think you are, my love.”

A man of few words, but loud actions.

Her pains came during a peaceful afternoon.

In haste, nursemaids began their frantic rounds in and out of the Princess’ rooms like soldiers, carrying hot water and boiled rags. The Dowager Queen abandoned her perch beside Queen Helaena, or what was left of her, and went to assist the Princess. Having borne four children, she had quite a bit of advice to dispense, things she had learned on her own skin, things that any Master would never have told her because oblivious and convinced they knew what happened to a woman's body at such a delicate time based on how deep they had buried their nose in an old dusty tome.

Alicent helped the Princess rise from the bed, clutched her arm firmly and helped her walk. She said it was vital to walk, that it would ease her pain and help the baby come sooner. She told her to squat when the pain hit. She rubbed her back and wiped the sweat off her face as if she were her own daughter. It felt like that. Even though the Princess seemed to face it all with a stiff lip, Alicent could see that she was scared and in terrible pain, that she probably wished for her mother to be there. She had wished the same, no matter how many times she had faced it.

“Your Grace?” The Princess asked after another wave of pain had come and gone.

“Yes, child?”

“Do you think your son would forgive me If I said this one is both the first and the last?”

The Queen had smiled at that. “If the Gods bless you with more children, it will be easier, I can assure you. The first time is always rough. But it shouldn’t be long now.”

Well, her good mother turned out to be wrong. Because the pain plagued her for a full night, giving her no peace. At the hour of the nightingale, the nursemaids forced her to bed, and she gladly went. She was exhausted, she could no longer walk without hissing at every step, and by that time she was so used to the pain she no longer whined or anything, only scrunched her face and ground her teeth.

The servants stripped her bare and replaced her sweat-soaked nightgown with a fresh one. They dabbed her face with a wet cloth, but she could barely register anything, floating into unconsciousness only to be brought back to the present as another pain choked her breath.

“Perhaps some Milk of the Poppy?” One of the nurses said at one point.

“No.” the Maester said. “She may need to start pushing any moment now. We need her vigil.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes opened, wandering helplessly around the room. Useless research, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. She didn’t expect him to be. The birthing bed was no place for men, save for the Maesters, although she was starting to doubt their real usefulness when all they could do was pull her nightgown up, take a close look and shake their heads. They might as well let Aemond be there.

She imagined he must’ve been waiting outside, or in the Council, and yet she ached to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for him in her mind, clutching the sheets in her fist as if she could clutch his hand instead. And then she felt someone’s hand closing around her own, loosening her grip. Alicent, smiling down at her, and holding her hand tight.

It was holding her good mother’s hand that, at the first light of dawn, she gave birth to her child. A boy, healthy and all screeching as soon as he was out of her womb, clad in blood and grease.

Aemond had decided to name the child Aenar, if it was a boy, after the first Targaryen Lord, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes or force her tears back when he was finally admitted to their chambers and took their son in his arms for the first time.

Alicent was beaming at the sight, squeezing his arm. “Congratulations, my son.”

But Aemond didn’t seem to even register her mother’s words, or presence, utterly enraptured by his little creature. He cast a look at his wife, a secret little look that told her how proud he was of her, how relieving it was for both to have come this far after all that happened, to have this little thing, this little ounce of peace amidst all the chaos of war.

What she didn’t know at that time was that Aenar was not exactly a peaceful child.

She had believed there had finally come the time when she could be herself again. But from the earliest days, Aenar proved not to be an easy child to deal with. The newborn cried and cried for hours, plagued by belly aches, and seemingly able to calm down only when in his mother’s arms. They had obviously called on a wet nurse; highborn ladies did not feed their children themselves, let alone a Princess. But Aenar had categorically refused to latch onto his wet nurse’s breasts. Alicent had proposed to summon another one, but as they dawdled and wavered, the Princess felt her heart break into pieces each time she held her little baby in her arms, all red in the face, hungry and in pain, turning his head towards her cleavage, desperate for her milk. Thus, she had put aside ceremonial court and all of that and chose to feed him herself.

But it was a strenuous task. The Maesters had warned her it would be tiring, sleep depriving, but she really had no choice. She had to do it every three hours, sometimes less, because being latched onto her breast seemed the only thing that would prevent the baby from screaming at the top of his lungs all day long. The nursemaid had recommended fennel and chamomile for belly aches. And, instantly, Aemond had ordered an astounding amount of both to be delivered to the Red Keep’s kitchens.

Queen Alicent taught her to hold the baby on his stomach, to rock him, but not too fast. They told her to take several breaks during breastfeeding, to make the baby belch often and prevent air from his belly. In the first week after Aenar was born, her mind was all but a vessel of do this, do that. No, not this way. Don’t ever wake the baby when he’s sleeping. Try to sleep when he does. Don’t eat spicy dishes.

In the midst of all of this, Aemond turned more and more suffocating in all his well-hidden, self-consuming concern. A handful of white cloaks, the most trusted by Ser Criston, were constantly guarding the door, day and night. He had a secret passageway that led to his rooms walled up, and she could swear he slept with his dagger beneath the pillow. Evidently not at peace with such extreme measures, he had the cradle moved to his side of the bed, within his reach, so that every time she had to wake up because the baby was wailing, she had to walk around the bed and pray that she would not tumble to the floor in the dark.

However, she was at least grateful to have Aemond’s support, for the little he could do. If he wasn’t occupied with warfare or hearings, he spent all the time he had with her and their child. And in those moments, no matter how exhausted she was, she would always find the strength to smile at the view when he held their baby, tracing his long fingers over the velvety grizzled skin of Aenar’s small hands; even when he’d speak to him in Valyrian, at which she had frowned at first.

“You do realise he’s one week old?”

“”Tis never too soon.”

“Mh. What’s next? Bring him to the skies on dragonback?”

“I’ll have you know Vhagar is perfectly safe to—“

“Over my dead body.”

He had smiled and stood up, going to place the baby in her arms. Aenar immediately began to fuss, whining and turning his head against her chest. She had started to unbutton her chemise but then stopped, looking up, where Aemond stood still like a sentry, and watching.

She raised an eyebrow. “Am I putting up a show?”

“Usually, you do.” He drawled. “Am I not allowed to watch? It seems my son and I already share a few interests.”

She looked away, smiling, and then she freed her left breast, watching as the baby immediately latched onto it. A moment later, Aemond took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him. He stared at her, and she saw that familiar glint his eye.

He trailed his thumb over her lip, barely breaching inside. “Soon?” was all he asked.

“Soon.” Was all she answered.

The soreness and the bleeding were reducing, and she was back in her tight flesh.

But the Gods must have cursed them some more, because that “soon” never seemed to become “now”.

The sickness didn’t seem willing to leave the poor child alone, along with his parents and the entirety of the Red Keep who had to suffer through his heartbreaking cries day and night.

The Princess had started to feel hopeless and guilty, no matter how many times the nursemaids, and even Queen Alicent, told her it was not her fault, that it was natural. No matter how many times she tried to convince herself they were right. Her heart broke any time the baby cried, wriggling desperately in her arms, in Aemond’s, in the cradle. She would end up crying too as she tried to soothe him, caressing his back with her cheek resting on his timidly silver-haired head.

She was working herself up to exhaustion, often falling asleep with the baby still latched onto her breast. It was Aemond who would take the baby to the cradle, it was Aemond who would button her chemise and pull up the blankets.

She hit rock bottom two weeks after Aenar’s birth, when she realised she hadn’t bathed in four days. Even Aemond, she could swear, was starting to look a little ragged around the edges. You don’t want to be King and take decisions in the middle of a war only to come back to a screaming infant at night.

But then, like a curse lifting, the sickness stopped. Amidst all those days she had stopped counting or even being aware of which was which, Aenar stopped crying. She was ashamed to admit that the first night he slept peacefully in his cradle, she had gone to check on him five times, to see if he was still breathing.

She began to gradually return to her former self, able to enjoy motherhood with a more rested mind, at least. Physically, she still felt worn out, given how much time she spent breastfeeding or rocking the baby to sleep. But now she was strong enough to take the baby out, walking the gardens with her maids and smiling proudly as the court ladies stopped to congratulate themselves and say how beautiful her baby was.

By doing this, though, she also became aware that she had lived in a bubble for so long that she had almost forgotten there was a war raging, there were battles being fought across the realm.

Reality hits her one day when Alicent goes to visit her and her grandson, bringing the news of a very important victory near the Honeywine, a large river flowing in the Reach, thanks to Prince Daeron Targaryen who had arrived all victorious on that very morning, riding his blue scaled dragon, Tessarion.

The news stuns her for a moment. She had no idea of it, partly because she had been too caught up with Aenar, but also because Aemond had not told her. Yet her family came from the Reach, they lived there, not very far from the Honeywine; her older brother fought for the Green Army. Still, not a word from Aemond.

Taking advantage of Aenar sleeping and the fact that Alicent offered to watch him, she leaves her chambers and heads for the Council. There’s a bustle of lords coming out of the door when she gets there, barely paying her any attention as they hastily babble about armies and supplies and men; always more men to be sent to slaughter.

She stops at the door, widening her eyes at the silver head crossing the threshold, one she hadn’t seen in a long time. “Prince Daeron.”

The youngest son of Queen Alicent and late King Viserys was nothing but a boy. But war had taken its toll on him too. He stood like a man, a Prince, and more than anything, a skilled dragon rider.

“Princess.” He says, tilting his chin down.

She curtsies and sees an immediate gentle smile softening his Valyrian features. “I believe some congratulations are in order.”

“Well, in all fairness, you shall be the most celebrated, my Prince. I’ve just heard of your recent victory.”

His gentle smile lingers, but loses its sparkle. “I must say I much prefer to celebrate life…rather than…the death of innocent men and women.”

There can’t be objections to such a statement; she just nods and casts a distracted glance inside the Council.

“Please…” the Prince says then, making room to let her pass “I won’t keep you away from my brother.”

She turns her head and smiles, tightly. “I’m afraid it is your brother who keeps himself away from me.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the Crown.”

“Indeed.”

The Prince bows to her and leaves.

Closing the door behind her, she glances at Aemond sitting at the head of the table, in the King’s chair, with such effortlessness that he seems to have been born exclusively for that purpose.

“I thought I heard you.” he says absent-mindedly, scribbling down a small piece of parchment. She slowly walks to the windows, casting a single furtive glance down, but she can’t possibly make out what he’s writing, or to whom.

“How’s—"

“Aenar is fine.” She cuts him off. “He’s with your mother, sleeping.”

He stops scribbling, glancing up for a moment. Her voice is tight, cutting. He knows that tone. It’s the same one she used in Harrenhal, as if he should have fallen to his knees and be grateful for the mere fact that she was speaking to him. But he doesn’t have time today to circle around her like a coiling snake, so he goes straight to the point. “Is something the matter?”

“You didn’t tell me of the Honeywine.” She says after a moment, gazing at the Bay.

Aemond sighes, a sign that he was expecting such a question. “You were looking after our son.”

“And?” she’s quick to rebut, quick to reach him at the table and stare down at him. “You didn’t deem it appropriate to inform me of a battle raging in my family lands?”

“I am your family.” He says, stoically, as if common law, and she has to stifle a bitter laugh. The nerve of him. “That is a very lovely concept. Strange how it got lost on you in Harrenhal.”

“Enough!” he barks, and the sudden harshness makes the quill pierce through parchment. “I thought I’d made myself clear.” He warns. “I don’t want to hear another word about the witch. Ever.”

She obediently looks down, regretting having said that, but not entirely. Perhaps she has spent so much time beside him that she, too, can’t let go of her grudges.

“I did not tell you, for I did not want to upset you.” He says, resuming his collected tone. “You were worn out by the baby, I didn’t want to put more weight on your shoulders.”

She knows he’s sincere. Still, her nod is stiff as she looks away, biting her cheek. She is just so sick of it all. Of being regarded as a cunt to be bred at first and now a weakling nailed to a cradle with an infant sucking the life out of her. She knows she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last.

Aemond leaves the quill and stands up, circling until he’s close to her. “Your family is fine.” He tells her, lingering behind her. “Daeron spoke to your brother this morning.”

She keeps nodding, keeping her gaze down on the table, all scattered with maps and little dragon-shaped tokens, some black, some green. She frowns, letting warfare soothe her petty spirits. “What is this?”

“Our next move. A defense plan…which happens to be an attack plan too.”

“A pincher?”

She turns just in time to see the little surprise on his face. “My brother talked of nothing else when we were children. He slept with warfare books as pillows.”

“Hmm.” He muses, and takes a step closer, slipping his arm around her waist and resting his chin on her collarbone. “Show me.”

She shudders at his sudden proximity, at his breath blowing on her neck. She shudders at anything these days. A hand on her back, his legs fumbling beneath the covers and casually brushing against hers. She’s tight as a fiddle string.

“A pincher is nothing else but a decoy.” She explains. “You let your enemy believe they have you trapped…” and in saying this, she grabs his hand and moves it across the map. “And then…at the right moment…” she makes him hold a green token between his fingers and brings it near a little division of black ones “you strike on both flanks.” And with a swift flick of her wrist, his hand scatters all the black tokens across the table. To do so, she must lean over the table, accidentally brushing her lower back against his bulge. He’s not hard, yet, but it thrills her to feel the lightning quick effect she has on him.

“Hmm. Good. Very good.” He praises next to her ear as she withdraws her hand; his voice is so low it makes her spine shiver. But she keeps herself grounded and asks “When will this happen?”

“Soon.” he whispers, placing his hand flat on her stomach. “There’s another Small Council shortly but Aegon wanted to be present. They went to fetch him.”

“Well, then I shall retire to my chambers. I feel a bit lightheaded from all the thinking.”

He ignores her jab and keeps her still by the arm when she tries to move. There’s a little sly smirk pulling at his lips. “I have some time to spare.”

“And how do you propose we spend it?”

“Enough with your pantomimes. I can feel your legs squirming.”

Curse him.

He slips the other hand straight into her corset, cupping her breast and humming with delight at how full she is, how it fills his large hand entirely. “Are you wet for me, my love?”

His teeth sink down her lobe, and at the same time, he pinches her nipple between his thumb and index, forcing an indecorous whine out of her. “My, my…” he laughs darkly, torturing her sensitive skin until he feels something wet on his fingertips, probably milk. “I could make you come just by doing this.”

Powerless, she yields, leaning completely against him, rubbing her lower back for some friction. “What if someone enters?”

“We’ll make it quick.”

“But I don’t want it to be quick.” She pants, grabbing his hand on her breast and squeezing; the other crawls behind her back to try to feel him through his breeches.

Hissing, when she starts to palm him, he says “Then we let them watch. They get to see how pretty you look when you come on my fingers, or my cock. Which should it be?”

“Both. Anything.” She answers hastily, pulling at his collar to bring him close enough to kiss him. He hums contentedly when she does, twirling his tongue around hers. It soon gets messy, each of them fighting for dominance, winning and losing in turn, until he spins her around, so he can look at her and with both his hands, he seizes her gowns and pulls up, furiously rummaging through them.

“How many fucking layers have you on?”

“I’m not pregnant anymore.” she points out, unbuckling his belt.

“Pity. Perhaps I should fuck another one into you to keep you in your skimpy robes.”

“Don’t you dare, Aemond—”

“Gods be good, brother! That eager to make another one?”

They both startle like little children caught doing something naughty, turning their heads towards the door, where two servants are carrying King Aegon on a chair. Aemond sighs annoyingly, letting go of her gowns as she does with his belt, trying to compose herself.

“My King.” She says, greeting her good brother with a tight little smile.

Aegon’s appearance has improved since Rook’s Rest, just as the burnings, but he carries with him the smell of Milk of the Poppy and rotting skin everywhere he goes.

“Good-sister. What are you doing here? Apart from being ravished by my brother... should you not be breastfeeding?”

Aemond gives him a level stare and then looks at her, hoping she will not take the bait. Aegon and his wife never got along well, to say the least. Things had only escalated with time, to the point that whenever they found themselves in the same room, one of them would wisely leave, his wife most of the times, lest they start to hiss at each other like two cats fighting for territory.

“What if I intend to stay and attend the council?”

Aegon giggles, as the servants put down the chair, and after a quick glance below her neck he says “I’m afraid you would be a little distracting. And my brother is not one for sharing.”

Before she can ask what in the Seven he is blabbing about, Aemond takes her arm and makes her turn, shielding her from his brother and the Lords coming through the door.

“You should retire.” He curtly says.

“Are you taking his side again?” she asks, wriggling her arm to free herself from his hold.

“You’re leaking.” He informs her, flatly.

At that, she frowns and dips her chin down, watching the front of her dress practically soaked in milk. “Oh.”

“I shall join you when I’m done here.” He tells her, and lets her out through the side doors.

Aemond did not join her.

The council lasted until the evening, a recurring thing when Aegon attended. Aemond was stern and concise in his decisions. Aegon liked to laze around, enjoying the wine in his cup, rattling his younger brother’s nerves. Deep down, she was convinced that Aegon did not really want to attend the Council because really interested in what to do, but only to remind his brother that he was still breathing and that the Conqueror's Crown on Aemond's head was a temporary measure.

But it didn’t matter. She would join him for the banquet in honor of Prince Daeron.

She was thrilled to go. It was not a proper feast. Since Helaena had fallen into grief, the atmosphere within the walls of the Keep had become rather austere. But a banquet still meant an occasion for conviviality, and after weeks and weeks spent locked up within four walls, the Princess was eager to spend some time outside her chambers. She had felt like a terrible mother at the mere thought. She loved Aenar, how could she not? But she also loved herself, her family, her marriage, Aemond. Especially Aemond.

Once she had put the baby to sleep, she had ordered her maid to prepare one of her favorite dresses, a green one, and to tie her hair in an elegant braided bun. When she had looked in the mirror, she had almost grunted. The scarce and troubled hours of sleep were all evident in the dark circles under her eyes, but it was nothing a little egg-white couldn't temper.

When she arrived at the banquet, Aemond was already there, standing in his usual soldierly stance, intent on talking to his mother. She approached them from the side, Aemond's blind side precisely, so that when she announced herself, he had to turn his shoulder to look at her. He cast a glance at her hair, ran his eye over her entire figure. She wasn’t expecting any kind of sappy words, and certainly not in front of his mother, nor did she desire them. She could feast on that look alone.

Queen Alicent excused herself to give order about the banquet, and they were left alone, while some musicians gathered in a corner of the hall.

“You said you would join me. I thought they abducted you.”

“More or less.”

“Ah. Yes, I'm sure it must have been so hard for you to listen to the lords snapping like little soldiers at your command.”

“It pains me to acknowledge how little you know me, when you think I'd rather talk war with those wimps who can't even hold a sword than fuck my wife till dawn.”

“That was your plan?”

“We have some unfinished business, don’t we? And don’t play dumb. You’re wearing green. You’re not as subtle as you think you are either.”

“Good. I’m sick of subtleties. So, are you going to ask me to dance?”

Aemond rolled his eye and gave her a stare that told her he’d preferred to walk barefoot on lava.

“Still not fond of dancing, eh?”

Prince Daeron suddenly appeared between them, with his cheerful manner and his head of silver curls, dressed in dark green just like his older brother. “Strange. You were the only one listening to the lessons when we were children.”

“Yes, because you and Aegon acted as court jesters the whole time.”

“I’ll have you know, brother, I have refined my dancing skills in Oldtown. So…may I dance with my good sister?”

Aemond gave him a simple nod, and Daeron bowed to her gallantly, raising his palm up.

She kindly accepted the invitation and placed her hand on his. “Don’t sulk too much.” She whispered to her husband before following his brother.

Aemond watched closely as they started to dance, stealing all the attention, and despite that little primitive tug at the sight of his woman dancing with another man, even though that was his brother and there was absolutely nothing malicious in his or her intentions, he was glad to see her like this, spinning and twisting around instead of lying still in the cold with dread eating her alive.

When the dance ended, Daeron escorted the Princess back to Aemond and took his leave. “Remind me again,” she asked as she watched the young Prince leave “How is it that your brother is still unmarried?”

Aemond sighed deeply and took her arm to escort her to the table. “I’d give you one week before you’d get bored of him.”

While they waited for dinner, the lords and ladies of the court were obviously very eager to hear Prince Daeron. Alicent in the first place, after so much despair, and after being separated from her youngest son for years, seemed to smile with her eyes every time she heard him speak.

“Hear, hear!” one of the lords cheered after listening to Prince Daeron’s retelling of the Battle of the Honeywine. “A brave soldier and a brave dragon rider! I propose a toast.”

At once, everybody stood up, raising their glasses. “To Prince Daeron, to House Targaryen!”

“And to House Hightower.” The Prince proudly stated, raising his glass towards his mother.

As they sat back, the Queen ordered the servants to serve the dinner. The table was gradually filled with a great variety of dishes, many of them Prince Daeron's favourites, specifically ordered by his mother to make him feel at home. It had been weeks and weeks since such a banquet had been seen at King's Landing. Prince Daeron seemed very pleased and grateful, as did all those present who watched the rich dishes crowd the table, and lastly, the huge tray of fresh fruit that a servant laid in the middle.

“I can’t quite believe my eyes. Blackberries? This far in the season?” said Lady Bracken.

“I’m afraid that is entirely my fault.” The Princess chirped, catching Aemond’s attention from across the table.

“I had a sudden craving, while I was carrying Aenar.”

“I had one too with my first.” Lady Redwyne joined in. “Plums, specifically.”

“Did you find them agreeable, Princess?”

“Oh, very much indeed.” She stated, casting an innocent glance around, but lingering for just a moment longer on her husband. “I devoured so many…I still feel the taste on my tongue.”

Devious woman, he thought, fighting back his cursed smirk. He had half a mind to excuse themselves and retire to their chambers, if he managed to endure it all the way and not take her in the middle of a hallway.

She seemed able to read his mind, judging by the way she was looking at him, unfurling a napkin on her lap. He knew her well enough to foresee when she was in a teasing spirit, and he was all in for it.

But then, just when they were about to start eating, her trusted maid came in, going straight to the Princess. “Apologies your Grace.” she said to her ear “but the Princeling is awake.”

Aemond saw the concern instantly widening her eyes and then a shadow passing over her face. “Yes…” she said, and stood up talking to all the present. “My apologies. I must retire.”

“See?” said Lady Bracken as Aemond watched his wife leave the hall. “This is why I refused to breastfeed. No matter how my second would scream…”

By the time she had done breastfeeding, her chest hurt so much that the maid had to place some rags soaked in cold water directly on her nipples; the instant relief had made the Princess close her eyes and almost moan. She had planned to go back to the banquet as soon as Aenar had had his fill but as she gained relief by pressing those wet rags to her breasts, she realised her son wouldn’t let her get away that easily.

As soon as the maid had taken him, trying to put him to sleep, he had begun to fuss and wriggle, whining in what she knew would soon turn into a high-pitched, deaf inducing crying.

Perhaps he’s cursed too. She had thought exhaustingly, promptly kissing his silver little head.

She gave up on her plan to go back to the banquet and rocked the baby herself, pacing before the windows while whispering sweet soothing words.

As soon as he had dozed off, she put him in his crib and absent-mindedly grabbed a book from Aemond's desk, lazily leafing through it while rocking the cradle with the other hand.

Aemond finds her like this when he opens the door on his way back from the banquet. She looks up from the page and sees him striding purposefully towards her, snatching the little book in her hands and throwing it on the bed.

She’s shocked, to say the least. One might say he treats books far better than his subjects.

“What—“ she tries to say but he takes her hand and pulls, forcing her to stand up and follow his steady gait.

“Aemond?” she asks down the corridor, a girlish grin climbing on her lips. “Where are you taking me?”

He doesn’t bother to answer but she doesn’t have to wait long to find out. They stop before a door down the corridor opposite to their chambers, Aemond pushes her inside without so much grace and shuts the door behind them.

She looks around briefly; the room is warm, the fire in the hearth is lit, as the candles scattered all around. This is all familiar. “These are my old chambers…” she says with a little frown, turning to him.

“Quite the observer, wife.” He drawls, and takes a few steps. His stride is different now. Slow, contemplating, as his gaze raking over her, as if he in the first place doesn’t know why he brought her here and he’s assessing what to do. A war map, and he knows where all the faults lie.

“I thought we could spend some time together” he starts, walking past her to go sit near the fire “Alone.” he adds once he leisurely sits down, crossing his long legs and resting his hands on the armrests. “What better place than a vacant room? No one will come looking for us here.”

She tries as hard as she can to stop the little smirk at the corner of her lips; she walks closer, stopping right in front of him, staring down. “They might hear.”

“Hmm. And that is much of a trouble for you, isn’t it?” he asks with the most fake genuine tone, taking a cup from the nearby table, and then “You sucked my cock on a terrace and begged me to fuck you in the Small Council…I thought I told you to quit your act.”

She smiles openly now, watching the wine pouring in the cup, his eye fixed on the liquid as his eyebrow shots up. “Besides, I know exactly what to do to muffle your noises.”

“You should be proud of my noises.”

“I am.” He says, taking a sip of wine, his eye piercing through her above the cup’s brim. “But for once, Aegon is right. I’m not one for sharing.”

His arm moves to put the wine aside but she takes it, only to feel his hand pulling the cup away from her. “You cannot drink.”

“Fine.” She concedes, leaning on him. “I’ll have it my way.”

She holds his face and with her left hand she glides her fingers on the left side of his face, delicately but with purpose, pushing the eyepatch off. And then she kisses him, eagerly, licking his lips and then breaching inside to taste the wine on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth.

She sighs deeply when he locks his tongue with hers, and feels his lips curling.

“Did you hear it?” He says breaking the kiss, breathing into her mouth. “That one is my favorite.”

“Your favorite what?” She asks mindlessly, chasing his lips but to no use, because he tilts his head back, his cursed smirk ghosting.

“Noise. It’s a little thing…” he tells her, locking one hand around her neck “in the back of your throat, close to a sigh but not quite…” his fingers trails against her throat, chasing her swallowing “It tells me you’re dying to.”

“To do what?”

“Fall on your knees for me. Be a supplicant.”

She grabs the back of his neck, driving his head close and looks down at his arched mouth “You cannot live without God, can you?” She looks up, her mouth open to breathe “Seven of them seem to have cursed me. I had to find my own.”

His eye widens at that. He looks straight into her eyes, so devoted, so raw. She’s right. The Gods would curse her some more if they saw she looks at him the way she should look at the Gods.

“Then do it.”

“What?”

“Flatteries don’t work on me, sweetling. You should know that.” With his hand on her neck, he slightly pushes her away, making some distance between them. “You will have to show me.”

“What would you have me do?”

His hands let go of her completely, resting on the armchair. The gemstone glints blue, and yet it’s nowhere near the bright cursed thing in his eye. “Get on your knees for me. Now.”

She should be ashamed of the pull in her bones, the muscles willing to move on their own accord and fall to the ground. But why, why does it have to be sin? Why can it not be religion?

When her knees hit the ground, she sees his chest rise, his long fingers spreading flat on the armchair. But her eyes fly back to his face as soon as he speaks, as soon as he commands. “Take off your dress.”

His eye sinks down, watching her hands work the corset, steadily. It’s the only sound in the room, this tugging, at the dress. But she tugs at his cock too. She tugs between her own legs.

When the dress is nothing but a pool of green on the ground, she goes to pull down her white chemise, but she suddenly stops. Aemond uncrosses his legs and the air hitches in her throat as his hands go straight to his belt, unbuckling it.

He revels in the little lump in her throat. Perhaps later he will let her have what she’s craving, but not so soon. “Give me your wrists.”

“My—”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

Swallowing, she keeps her eyes on him and raises her hands, like an offering. Aemond takes off his belt and leans forward, enough to take her hands and cross her wrists. She shudders at the sharp tug when he wraps the leather around, tying them tight.

“On your feet.”

And up she goes, testing her hands briefly but finding soon that she cannot move them, at all.

“Come.”

It takes one swift movement of his leg, bending the knee while the other rests loosely on the ground, for her to get the gist and walk closer, sitting on his knee, sideways.

“No. Like this.” Quite harshly, he grabs her hips and turns her so that she’s straddling his thigh. He can hear her little gasp when he pushes his thigh firmly against her core. He can feel her warmth through the fabric, stirring his cock. But he pays it no mind, for now.

“What now?” She asks, poised precariously on his thigh.

Aemond tilts his head, and he just looks at her. In the spur of a moment, a boyish one that doesn’t sit well with how he’s built, he thinks he might be quite contented by merely looking at her. Because she’s beautiful and mine, mine, mine.

But his hands are burning, they might fray and wither if he doesn’t touch her. He unties her hair, running his fingers through them as they fall around her shoulders. The Maiden. The Mother. And yet something better, something worse. Because her eyes are hungry, her mouth is starving for air, for his flesh.

“You must toil to find God.” He says, and then he grins. A savage thing, full of promise. “Bring yourself to come.”

A flash of thrill lights up her face, darkens her eyes and Aemond tilts his head again, biding all the time in the world, for he knows she will.

Tentatively, she pushes her body down, against his thigh, feeling a timid shot of pleasure traveling up from her core, ending in a short, labored breath.

That noise, that might be his second favorite.

Soon, her hips start to move back and forth, each time trying to push herself down as hard as she can, making little breathless cries each time she fails to give herself the friction she needs. She has little balance due to her tied wrists, so she rests her palms on his chest to gain some leverage. And that seems to do the trick.

She tilts her head back, moving faster, doing little jumps on his thigh, panting harshly as sweat lumps on her forehead and pleasure coils in her belly.

Aemond hikes up her chemise, watches her cunt brushing back and forth against his leg, leaving a trail of wetness on the fabric of his breeches. He has to choke down a growl. “Gods, you’re soaking me…”

She looks down at him, her cheeks pink, her lips open in a little o. He can’t help himself. He sticks two fingers inside and how relishing it is that she waits for no invitation or order. She laps, twirls her tongue around his fingertips, sucks them.

“Look at you…” he croons, taking his fingers out, leaving a trail of saliva down her chin. “But you can’t, can you? Perhaps I should fuck you before a mirror, so you see. You see how pretty you are when you’re desperate for me.”

His hand travels down her neck, tossing her hair back and then grasping the strap of her chemise, pulling it down, revealing her swollen, turgid breast. He leans forward immediately, cupping it in his hand, and takes the nipple into his mouth, crooning contentedly and then some more when he feels her wince and cry out loud.

Her tied wrists writhe in their merciless hold and he stops her, gripping both her hands with one of his own, keeping her still, lapping and sucking at her nipple until he feels something wet and saccharine on his tongue, humming all the better. He grazes his teeth over the sensitive bud, and she cries out again, bucking violently against him, turning sloppy and frenzy as she feels the fall close.

He feels it too, feels her thighs trembling around him, and that’s when he takes her hips in a tight hold and forces her to stop altogether.

“Did you think I would make it so easy?” he asks spitefully, seeing her dazed expression. Wasting no time, he holds her firmly close to him and stands up. It takes him only two of his long steps to reach the bed and place her above. In a moment of illusive freedom, her tied wrists fly to his breeches, to his evident hardness, but he’s quick to stop her, bringing her arms above her head, keeping them there with a firm hold. “Stay still.”

“Aemond—“ she pleads.

“Hush. Spread your legs.”

She obliges, eager for him to do something, anything to stop the aching. Aemond wets his fingers on his tongue and brings them down, breaching inside her with two of them, watching her gasp, arch her back and twist her wrists in his hold, uselessly. “Easy…” he cruelly laughs “I have just started.”

But she hasn’t. She’s a few steps away from the precipice of her previous denied peak, it would take him so little to push her over the edge. Instead, his torture is so slow that the whole coiling in her belly falls apart and she must climb her peak again.

His two fingers slip in and out ever so easily, their wet sounds echoing through the room, mixed with her panted breaths and his own. He aches for her to touch him, he aches so much that his cock is pulsing, painfully, but this is just too thrilling. Now he knows exactly how she felt in Harrenhal, when she had him chained up to a chaise.

Her hips rock frantically against his hand, trying to speed him, to get there faster. Mumbling nonsense, her legs tense like iron, her cunt clenches and sucks his fingers in like a vice. “Yes…yes, please…Aemond…please don’t stop—‘m so close…”

And just like that, he slips his fingers out; a dark pleasure dances on his candle-lit features as she writhes and whines for the loss of his fingers, swinging her lower back and forth, desperate for the barest friction that would end her misery.

“Aemond, please…” she says, and even with only one eye, he can’t mistake the tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes.

“What, my love?”

“Plea—” she’s cut off by his hand, pushing his sticky fingers inside to make her clean up her mess.

“We said enough with subtleties, did we not? Speak. Tell me…what you need me to do?”

“Let me come please…please…”

At that, he finally lets her wrists go, and she almost winces in pain, for the time she had them tensed above her head. He stalls for a moment, unsure, running his eye over her whole body, sweating and feverish, and so beautifully plump because of motherhood. He unbuttons his doublet, and then his shirt, his breeches. He bares himself completely, catching her eyes following his deft hands everywhere, breathing heavily.

He kneels between her legs, spreading them. And it’s embarrassing, really, the way she tumbles as soon as he puts his tongue flat against her drenched folds. If only she cared.

It takes only a couple of twirls of his tongue around her lips, and she comes undone, shaking all over, canting her slit against his face. He helps her ride out her climax, by not stopping at all. Instead, he doubles his efforts like a man possessed, pushing his mouth open against her cunt as if he wished to devour it, sucking harshly until she whimpers hard, choking on a loud sob. “Aemond—wait—I can’t—”

She cannot take more so soon. But he’s utterly deaf to her complaints.

He feasts on her, lapping and dipping his tongue in, parting her folds to go as deep as he can, humming while drinking all of her; his voice reverberates through her flesh, it makes her bones rattle.

His long nose rubs against her bud and he looks up: she trashes about the sheets, cutting herself as the belt leather scratches her skin. She tries to push him away with her tied wrists, to no use. She clamps her legs around his head, in a desperate attempt to chase him away, sobbing for the unbearable stimulation. And yet…and yet her hips move on their own whim, bucking with sharp jolts until the wave starts to rise, higher and higher, and she drowns in it, letting go a high-pitched cry, clutching his scalp with both her tied hands, scraping, pushing him against her as she rides her peak against his face.

He swallows everything, licking her clean, moaning softly at feeling her pulsing on his tongue.

“Enough…I—Aemond you have to stop…” she rasps breathlessly.

“Why?” he asks, finally rising from where he had perched himself; he climbs on her, until he speaks to her face. “I am only making up to you. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

She can smell herself on him, she can see herself, glistening on his mouth, chin, even his cheekbones.

“Answer me.” His hand grips her jaw “You said you wanted everything.”

She chokes down a whimper when he leans completely on her, feeling his cock against her cooling flesh, while he’s hot and hard and heavy.

“I will give you more.” He says, brushing a strand of her sweat-soaked hair from her temple. “I will give you another child. Keep you all aching and wet for me while you swell with my child. Do you think I don’t know? How you ached for me? D’you think I didn’t?” he presses himself down, so she can feel it thoroughly, furrowing her brow as her body already answers to his call.

“I can feel you in our bed…” he keeps rasping “rubbing your legs together. And you know how much that bothers me. Your pleasure is mine to take…and to give.”

Her lips part, gasping roughly. She was so hung on his lips that she hadn’t even registered that he had taken hold of himself, bending her knee on his left hip, and guided himself in.

She arches against him while he slowly sheathes himself all the way in, moaning with long-awaited relief. He stays still for a moment, adjusting, but also because he takes her wrists and sets her hands free.

Thrilling as it was, he wants her hands on him, he craves her touch.

He wants her to cling to his shoulders as she always does, digging her nails down.

He wants her to clamp her fingers on the back of his neck, scraping and pulling his hair to keep him close enough to moan into his mouth.

He wants her hands on his back, sliding down, to push him even deeper while rutting inside her.

And she does all of that. She finds God.

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fangirl-dot-com · 4 months

Text

🧠Fake Amnesia

*part of the reverse trope series*

Pairing: Lando Norris x Fan!Reader Genre: Fluff/Humor/SMAU Summary: There was a saying that if you knew a celebrity existed, your chances of meeting them out and about decreased significantly. Is it true? No clue. But, you weren't about to let that stop you from finding Lando Norris in Imola.

*I am so so sorry for the very late and delayed chapter. I hope you all like it! I switched out this one to write it before the next as "Love Triangle" was supposed to come out first, but we've had a lot of Lestappen for now! But here we go!"

TAG LIST IS CLOSED

Were you a bit stupid?

Yes. Yes you were. Did you more money than your budget allowed just to get to Imola a few days early to possibly not even find Lando? You didn’t want to talk about it.

But right now as you perused through the local shopping area, you didn’t take the time to really dwell on your past choices. Only finding Lando could save you now. Which that seemed like a faraway dream.

Whatever that one reddit post said about having a higher chance of meeting a celebrity if you didn’t know them was absolute bullshit. You couldn’t go back in time to stop yourself from liking a thirst trap of Lando on TikTok. And now because of that, your chances of meeting the British driver seriously decreased.

How on earth were you supposed to find one of the most popular men alive, on a race weekend, where everyone was already looking to spot the driver in a more relaxed setting? You had no clue. But the shopping center felt like a good idea.

You had been drawn in by one of the jewelry sections, eyes glazing over the number of zeros that followed every first number. Your heart winced at the thought of even buying one. To be honest, you didn’t even know how you got into this mall in the first place. Everyone around you was dressed in the highest European fashion.

Your outfit wasn’t terrible per say, but it didn’t reflect the Italian area either. You were wearing some cream baggy linen pants that matched the light orange top that you had thrown on after scrambling to find a shirt. You didn’t really know exactly what shirt you were wearing, except that it was comfortable and went well with the pants. The giant number 4 on the back went completely unnoticed. Sandals adorned your feet and sunglass sat as though a crown on your head. Your cross-body bag dangled a bit against your side.

You had just cringed once again at a price tag when your eyes landed on some brown curly hair. Your eyes followed the coils down to the face and you wanted to scream (but held it in because you were not about to get kicked out).

There was no way that Lando Norris was standing about 10 feet away from you.

There was no way.

Except your hands automatically opened your phone and the twitter app popped up. You were too busy looking down at your phone, fingers moving at the speed of light, to notice that some hazel eyes had landed on your figure.

Lando, on the other hand, wanted to sigh. Could he go one day without having to get stopped by fans? The giant 4 on your shirt seemed to mock him. Internally, he was wishing that the girl was a Max or Charles fan.

But, he was going to be the bigger person and approach the nice looking girl before she could bring more attention to him. He decreased the space between them and tapped her shoulder, getting her attention.

You were not expecting a tap on the shoulder. And you were definitely not expecting that tap to come from Lando Norris’s finger.

“Can I sign something for you?” he asked. The sound of his voice must have put some type of spell on you since you felt as though you couldn’t speak.

Lando huffed. “Please? I don’t need other people finding out that I’m here and then I’ll have to leave.”

You blinked twice at him before you finally found your voice. “I’m sorry. Who are you exactly?”

Stupid reddit post.

The McLaren driver wanted to smack himself. Were you a fan? Or maybe you were wearing a papaya colored shirt that supported another person, who happened to have the same number? Or maybe if was your friend’s shirt? Or one you thrifted?

He winced. “I am so sorry. I thought. . . ”

You shifted on your feet, brain trying to come up with an idea for what happens next. You were standing in front of thee Lando Norris. You couldn’t miss this opportunity.

Lando watched your eyes widen and he wanted to hide. Maybe you were just shocked that it was him?

Your eyes then squinted. “You look really familiar. Oh, I know where you’re from.”

The Briton wanted to run and hide. This was it, you were going to start squealing, and then other people will look that way, see Lando, cause a giant crowd, and then he wouldn’t be able to do anything for the rest of the weekend.

He was doomed.

“You’re that actor right? From Spiderman.”

This time, Lando blinked while staying silent.

“No, I believe that’s Tom Holland.”

“Oh.”

Now it was getting awkward with the two of you just looking at each other. Which, this gave you the perfect opportunity to memorize the different shades of blue, green, and brown in his eyes. You looked to the side and chewed on you bottom lip.

Lando looked stuck.

“I am so sorry for interrupting your shopping,” he started out.

You waved your hands, trying to act nonchalant. “It’s fine. Wasn’t like I could buy anything here. Way too many zeros for my liking.”

Lando giggled at that and you internally melted.

Time to add “got Lando Norris to giggle like a schoolgirl” on your resume.

“Yeah. Bit too posh for me as well.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? You look like you fit in a bit more than I do.”

He rolled his eyes before huffing. “I’d rather spend time playing video games at my house instead.”

Now this is what you could get behind. When you first started following Lando, gaming started to interest you. Because of him, you were able to meet a bunch of friends through gaming. Your notifications were specifically set up to let you know when Lando was streaming.

Your eyes lit up with some excitement, which Lando thought was adorable.

“I like to game too! It’s fun playing weird simulator games. Me and my friends tried this goat game one time and we couldn’t stop laughing.”

This time, Lando’s eyes sparkled.

“I’ve played goat simulator too with my friends! Charles . . .” he caught himself, not wanting to give out more names. “Uh my friends Carl, Alec, and Jord really liked it during the pandemic. And then we got Dax in on it too.”

You wanted to absolutely start laughing, since you actually watched that stream live back in 2020. The cute names he gave to Charles, Alex, George, and Max were adorable. Your friends, although knowing you were watching the stream, had sent you the link and asked if you’d want to play the same simulator. Let’s just say, your laugh rivaled teapot-Charles.

“They sound like fun,” you said, a warm tone in your voice that had Lando melting like chocolate under a hot summer’s sun.

There was a bit of silence before Lando spoke up again. “Do you maybe, this sounds so weird, but there’s a game store farther down, would you want to join me?”

There was no way in hell that you’d tell him no.

You smiled up at him. “Sure! Lead the way! By the way, I’m Y/n.”

Lando went to say something but stopped. You could tell he almost said his name, and you’d bet money on the name that was about to come out of his mouth.

“I’m Bob.”

Bingo.

You snorted. “You don’t look like a Bob. But what would I know?”

The two of you laughed as you started walking farther into the shopping center. You exchanged laughs here and there, sharing stories about your lives with Lando being very vague about his day job.

“I work as an Uber driver,” he had said after you confessed that you were now working as a part-time gamer and then part-time relator. The work was hard, but that job allowed you to spend your hard-earned money on fun things like: coming to Imola early to try to find Lando.

Low-and-behold, you did.

Spending the afternoon with him felt so comfortable, as if you had known each other your entire lives. And Lando, to his surprise, felt the same. After the gaming store, he even invited you to lunch.

“You know you don’t have to do that,” you told him, but kept stride alongside him as he walked toward the small restaurants.

He shrugged. “I know. But I like spending time with you.”

A deep blush formed on your face as you kept walking. The bright red caused Lando to smirk just a bit.

As you ate and made conversation, you suddenly felt the urge to use the bathroom. You quickly excused yourself and left, leaving Lando at the table along.

He hadn’t meant to look, but your phone kept going off and his eyes just barely looked at your screen. They widened with he noticed his exact points in the season along with McLaren’s and the race schedule. And the picture of him from Miami after his first win as your lockscreen.

The Box-Box app.

He pursed his lips for a moment, briefly feeling played. But as he sat and thought about the past few hours that he spent with you, he felt content. At any point, you could have screamed his name, asked for a picture, and ruin his shopping trip. You could have tweeted his location and hordes of people would have shown up.

But you didn’t.

The McLaren driver was so caught up in his head that he didn’t heard you coming. Thankfully, your screen had gone dark, still giving the effect that you “didn’t know” who he really way.

“Everything ok Bob?” you asked as you sat back down, stealing one of his French fries from his tray.

Lando shook his head, ridding the “betrayal” from his thoughts.

“Just perfect. Trying to figure out who might win the Formula 1 race this weekend.”

He wanted to smirk at you froze for just a second before leaning back just a bit, arms crossed over your chest.

“What is that? Some type of NASCAR thing?”

Oh, so you knew how to play.

Luckily for Lando, so did he.

“It’s a bit different,” he said as he took a sip of his drink.

You were internally freaking out.

Did he know? If he knew then he might say something. And then he’ll call his security team and get you a ban from the paddock. And you might even go to jail for stalking. Could you even go to Italian jail for that? You didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.

However, Lando kept silent as the two of you finished your lunches. Easy conversation did flow once again when you steered it back to gaming. You had a giant smile as the two of you walked out of the shopping area.

However, your heart dropped when you realized that the time with the Briton was coming to a quick end. Lando was feeling the same.

You let out a sigh as you turned to look him in the eyes. “Thank you for today. I had a lot of fun! Like I said, you didn’t have to.”

Lando scoffed. “Of course I did. I interrupted your shopping. It was the least I could do.”

There was a lingering silence before you broke it.

“I guess this is the end then Bob.” You held out a hand for him to shake, but he rolled his eyes and brought you into a hug. You parted after a bit and started to walk toward the little Fiat you had rented for the weekend.

Lando felt torn until he realized he could definitely see you again.

“Y/n! Wait!”

You turned around to see Lando running up to you, phone out.

“Can I have your number?”

Yep, this is how you were going to die. Y/n L/n found dead in a parking lot after Lando Norris asked for her number. What an amazing way to go out in the end.

You didn’t say anything, but quickly opened your phone and handed it to him, new contact ready to be filled out. The driver was smirking to himself as he filled out his information. He handed your phone back to you, only to lean down and kiss your cheek.

The familiar bright red once again filled them in as he leaned back.

“I had a lot of fun today. Maybe I’ll see you soon?” he quietly said as he started to walk away.

“Maybe,” you said back, biting your bottom lip after.

Lando swore that if the two of you weren’t in the parking lot, he’d bite it for you.

When he was a bit away, he turned back and waved at you, happy to see that you were still staring at him. But who wouldn’t stare at Lando Norris though. Definitely not you, you could stare all day long if you could.

“Bye Y/n!”

“Bye Lando!”

Your hands clapped over your mouth as you watched him lean back in a full laugh. You even had him hunching over in a fit of giggles. You still watched as his shoulders shake as he got into what looked to be an Uber.

Your phone buzzed, causing you to look down at it. There was an email and a text message. One from McLaren and one from “Lando 🧡”

“Maybe next time I can sign your shirt. I think it’s cute that you follow my points :)”

You turned around quickly, trying to see the back of your shirt in the reflection of your rental car. There it was, in all it’s glory.

The giant-ass “4.”

“Shit.”

y/n_l/n has posted

y/n_y/n kinda confused about 20 guys driving around in circles. someone know what this is called?

also ran into this really cute guy. says he drives for a living. didn't know uber drivers could be hot

liked by friend1, bestie, landonorris, maxverstappen1, and 3,204 others

friend1 ayo is that the guy that you will not shut up about?

landonorris awww you don't shut up about me??

y/n_l/n STOP EXPOSING ME

bestie ok I see the appeal, can you ask someone for that brunet in the red's number??

maxverstappen1 🤺🤺🤺

y/n_l/n i think he's taken

charles_leclerc I am??

maxverstappen1 ☹️

charles_leclerc I AM TAKEN

friend2 so luckyyyyyyy

friend4 glad you had fun!

oscarpiastri I think it's called Formula 1

y/n_l/n finally someone who knows something @.landonorris you've been replaced

landonorris osc, we've talked about this

fan1 what the heck is going on

TAG LIST: @fionaschicken @myxticmoon @cherry-piee @blueberry64857959 @glitterquadricorn @lizzypiastri @sam-is-lost @spilled-coffee-cup @ilove-tswizzle @the-untamed-soul @allenajade-ite @starssfall @torchbearerkyle @judespoision @halfdeadsage @juniper-july19 @severewobblerlightdragon @thatgirlmj @gods-menace @ineedafictionalman @namgification @dark-night-sky-99 @samantha-chicago @2pagenumb @treehouse-mouse @fangirl125reader @megatrilss1885 @kagatinkita @itsjustkhaos @nikfigueiredo @awekbachira @vellicora @skepvids @sunrizef1 @stan-josie @fanficweasley @hiireadstuff @barcelonaloverf1life @c-losur3 @graciewrote @bruhhhhhhhhehhhhhhh @tallrock35 @ashy-kit @kat-s2 @minkyungseokie @lozzamez3 @leslieis-crying @adventuresofrose @lighttsoutlewis

3K notes · View notes

too-deviant · 5 months

Text

strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art.

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really — you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else.

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway.

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire.

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis.

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks.

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa.

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for.

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning.

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits.

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art.

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel.

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation.

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in.

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out.

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready.

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together.

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her.

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left.

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back.

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married.

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave.

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one.

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned.

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night.

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble.

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.”

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out.

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing.

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.”

“Tashi likes you.”

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths.

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?”

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.”

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.”

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.”

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it.

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car.

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal.

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things…

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards.

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now.

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face.

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth.

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you.

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes.

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning.

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far.

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own.

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair.

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches.

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it.

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared.

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up.

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours.

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.”

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

#art donaldson #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x reader #art challengers #art donaldson smut #babysitter!reader #challengers #challengers movie #@lia’s works #tashi duncan

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