#[i make my triumphant return after a fucking month i'm so sorry]
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[Stats have been updated.]
#ew nighted au#ew nighted doors au#ew nighted au plot#[i make my triumphant return after a fucking month i'm so sorry]#[i was kinda Going Through It a bit]#[also tmnt has retaken my soul]#[but look!! blood! :D]
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Reunion | oneshot
Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...
[Part 2]
Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI
Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not).
Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3
TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.
Words count : 7600
Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha
But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever
Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!
Enjoy 🖤
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Haunted by the ghost of you
Oh, take me back to the night we met
The night we met - Lord Huron
The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment.
Ashes.
Fire.
War.
It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss.
It was like a long howl and then sudden silence.
Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.
For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him.
There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side.
The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.
It had been the best solution, you knew.
For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded.
He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight.
He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface.
He had searched and no body had been found.
So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.
The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.
You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair.
But it still hurt.
It sill fucking hurt.
Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation.
A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years.
A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother.
And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges.
And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled.
Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.
Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.
During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever.
Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.
Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.
And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders.
Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.
But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it.
He knew.
He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans.
And the humiliation was all the more bitter.
First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.
And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.
You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed.
When he had become more forgiving.
When he had trusted you.
When he had become gentle.
When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly.
When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.
You loved him.
So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice.
Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.
Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?
Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands.
You felt as if you were losing your mind.
But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.
Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.
It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell.
Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost.
King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.
But above all, it was haunted by him.
The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.
You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you.
Probably glad to see his friend again, too.
Your friend, to both of you.
But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.
Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all.
It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.
On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.
When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.
"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."
You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor.
You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.
"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.
It felt good to be back.
It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family.
It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.
Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.
The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead.
It must have been your imagination.
You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.
Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest.
Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there.
You feel as if you are being followed.
At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed.
In the gardens, with your son.
Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.
But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.
You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep.
All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.
One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.
The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.
And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged.
Fuck.
Fuck.
You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.
"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.
That voice.
It couldn't be.
Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.
It can’t be.
That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.
"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."
The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.
It is impossible.
He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.
Is it a ghost?
Is it a hallucination?
"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.
You have so much to say to him.
So many things to reproach him for.
His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.
The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver.
You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets.
And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.
You want to kiss him.
You want to slap him.
He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.
The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.
"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.
He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.
"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.
He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how.
Why.
He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to.
Who you were married to.
A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.
You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal.
You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.
But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.
"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.
There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.
"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"
"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him.
You've waited three years, what's another moment?
But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be.
You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."
"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.
"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."
The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.
"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you.
You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin.
Not a sound leaves your lips.
"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."
Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall.
Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench.
You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.
"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.
You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again.
You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.
"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him.
A bit of anger, perhaps, too.
"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly.
Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."
Everything is so confused in your mind.
A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy.
Of love too.
You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond.
Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.
"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."
You nod.
Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words.
The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey.
You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.
There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.
His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.
"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."
You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.
"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."
His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.
It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.
You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet.
You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion.
You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts.
All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.
The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know.
But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.
"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.
His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.
Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.
"On your knees then."
The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago.
You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit.
He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.
Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.
Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes.
He doesn't look away from you.
His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.
His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."
You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.
"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder.
Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.
His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.
He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.
" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.
The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.
"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.
The memory was so close and yet so far away.
Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.
"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him.
He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.
"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.
"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence.
You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you.
You have this power over him and it's delicious.
His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.
He doesn't let go of you.
"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him.
It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.
His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.
Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.
You need him to make you feel whole again.
Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him.
You had always burned for him.
In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.
There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.
His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.
He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.
He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other.
Your hands are buried in his long silver hair.
You can feel how wet you are between your thighs.
You need him desperately, right there.
The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.
"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?
Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.
"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.
You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.
"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."
"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."
Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.
You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away.
You grunt in frustration.
You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.
He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.
He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation.
He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.
The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.
" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.
He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.
You feel whole again and you want to cry.
You never want to lose that feeling.
You want to keep him, against you, inside you.
You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.
"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command.
He always has that need to control.
He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.
"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.
You need him.
When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.
Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.
"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."
The praise is sweet music to your ears.
You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.
You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.
"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.
Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him.
Your moans grow louder.
"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."
The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him.
It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse.
It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.
I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.
He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.
The weight of his body on yours is comforting.
For the first time in years, you feel alive.
For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.
When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.
You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.
Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment.
He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.
And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.
You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.
"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."
When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.
He lets out a hm and pauses.
"Is he yours?"
You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth.
You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?
"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.
"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"
Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment.
You should lie.
You know you should lie.
To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years.
You only need one word.
You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.
"No, he's not."
The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.
"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece."
Disappointment.
You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.
You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.
" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."
You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye.
It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.
"What did you say?"
You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words.
You want to bury your face in his chest.
You breath.
"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.
It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.
Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image.
He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.
Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.
"My son," he repeats in awe.
It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity.
Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.
"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.
He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.
And this time, he makes love to you.
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret.
Your hand rests on his.
"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.
It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.
Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.
"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"
The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings.
It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.
"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."
He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.
"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.
You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him.
You know he would have made a good father.
You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.
You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand.
You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.
Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know."
Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence.
He has always suffered from his father's indifference.
You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.
"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.
You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.
But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.
#aemond x reader#aemond targaryen#Aemond Targaryen x reader#aemond x you#aemond fanfiction#aemond targaryen fic#aemond x y/n#aemond x fem!reader#aemond targaryen x you#aemond x niece!reader#aemond targaryen fanfic
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red desert — daniel ricciardo
summary - I'm a slag for boys on dirt bikes and I'm not proud of it.
warnings - mostly fluff with a LOT of swearing (sorry), sexual references, crude language, smut adjacent content, aussie slang. 18+
word count - 2.8k
a/n - This is my first attempt at writing for F1 and it's also my triumphant return to tumblr in like, 10 years so go easy on me!
masterlist
“At first I thought he was in his element but now he’s hooning around like a fucking loose unit.
“He’s a professional driver, mate. Don’t stress.”
Daniel really was in his element. After 8 months of non-stop madness, countless flights and sleepless nights – he was home. Home at last. It had been a day marked in his calendar since December last year when you had boarded the plane with him in Perth and bided farewell to his family who he adored so much. Every goodbye hurting more than the last until every ounce of energy had been sucked from his soul, resulting in him conking out a few minutes into your flight back to your home away from home.
He had been gifted a few extra weeks back in Western Australia over Christmas and New Years now that his schedule and commitments had dwindled down. Although it had been a hard pill to swallow in the aftermath of his new contract, the silver lining was more time with the people who mattered the most. The ones he had been neglecting for the better part of 15 years and counting. He had missed so many family events, so many birthdays, weddings, and even a funeral. Each time he missed out on being apart of those special memories, you could see his big, loving heart breaking from the guilt.
But Daniel was going to be damned if he didn’t make the most of his time at home, savouring those extra hours to start making up for lost time. And he was bloody going for it. Loud yahoos from the neighbourhood kids could be heard all the way from where you were sitting on the porch, cider in hand and a packet of salt and vinegar chips abandoned beside you. It was scorching hot as it always was this time of the year in Australia. 37 degrees Celsius but dropping as the sun slipped behind the large gum trees that lined the Ricciardo’s property. It really was every young country boy or girls dream out there.
Nothing but red dirt and a mouthful of blowflies as far as the naked eye could see. It was glorious.
“Now he’s just taking the piss!” You screeched to Michael who had surrendered to the blazing sun and sought shelter under the veranda beside you. Michael was Daniel’s right hand man and his personal trainer rolled into one. He had also been a dear friend of the Ricciardo family for many, many years and had been invited along for the festivities.
Michael chuckled and shrugged nonchalantly, “Your boyfriend, your problem,” He replied with a knowing look as you quirked an eyebrow and watched Daniel challenging a 12 year old child on a beat up PeeWee 50 that looked like it could’ve been from the 80s.
“Sometimes it feels like you’re the boyfriend and I’m his handler,” You stated as Michael shook his head and took a swig of his beer, “You know that’s not true, mate. That dickhead loves you more than you could ever know.”
You nodded and looked back out at the small crowd gathering to watch the love of your life jump a couple of shoddily built ramps on his revved up dirt bike. He was gonna kill himself, you thought.
“I know he does.”
Daniel’s love for you had never been questioned, not for a second. No matter where he was in the world, it didn't matter the time or place; he was thinking about you. And visa versa. When you were sitting alone in your shared apartment in Monte Carlo, he was on your mind, wondering what he was doing or what insane thing he got to do that day. You were each other’s world but you were also hyper aware that racing came hand in hand with your relationship with Daniel – no matter how much he insisted it didn’t. The proof was in the pudding.
“You know that he finally told Christian that he wouldn’t be at every race next year. Straight up. I didn’t think he would,” You said, fascinated to see if Michael agreed with that decision or not. Daniel’s career was at a crossroads and so was Michael’s if he wasn’t racing every weekend.
“’Bout fuckin’ time. He’s been working like a pack horse for over a decade and deserves some time to breathe and I’m sure that time will be well spent,” Michael nodded and brushed off his shorts as he stood up, “This is all he’s ever wanted, you know? All of this with you,” He pointed out to the man-made red soil racetrack with a wink.
“Make the most of it.”
“Cheers to that,” You smiled as you clinked your bottle with Michael. He got it. And he was the first person to advocate for Daniel when the going got tough, whether that be in the paddock or in the media. It was no secret that Daniel had been through the wringer not knowing if he had a seat next season, or if he’d be involved in the sport at all. It had been a shit-show and you and Michael had front row seats for the better part of 6 months watching it all unfold. The turmoil had nearly broken his seemingly unbreakable spirit but he was stronger than anyone could’ve imagined.
Daniel’s loud, boisterous laugh broke you from your thoughts and you watched as he pulled off the way-too-small helmet he’d borrowed from his brother-in-law. He dropped the dirt bike down on the small patch of lawn that was barely holding on in the sweltering heat and bounded towards you with that infamous shit-eating grin, “Heard you were worried about me up here?” He asked more as a question rather than a statement.
“Course not,” You scoffed, “You’re a big boy who can handle those small, yet extremely unsafe ramps out there.” You were half-joking and he could see the genuine concern behind your eyes. He knew you better than anyone.
“Oh, I know that you know I’m a big boy,” He murmured under his breath as he tried to sit down on your lap, still completely covered in dust and sweat, “Shouldn’t be tellin’ the whole world though, ay?” He teased as you pushed him off, refusing to let him dirty your perfectly clean clothes before dinner.
“Eww, you fuckin’ stink. Get off me,” You laughed, standing up from the rocking chair that you were lounging in and placing your small hands on his chest. “So handsome but so sticky,” You quietly grimaced as you looked up into his playful chestnut eyes and brushed your soft fingertips over the cotton shirt he was jeering you in.
Daniel’s eyebrow rose with intrigue as his tanned, tattooed arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you closer. He was wearing that damn sleeveless shirt that he knew riled you up at the best of times, but the combination of his relaxed demeanour, toothy grin and the way the thin material was sticking to every muscle on his body, it had you hot under the collar. That was the effect he had on you and boy, did he know it. Daniel took advantage of your close proximity and leaned down, pecking your pouting lips.
“I’ll let you join me in the shower if you admit you were a tiiiiny bit scared,” He taunted in a hushed voice, dragging out his words and making your eyes roll.
“Please!” You mocked, “This is a lose-lose for you, Danny. You’ve never been good at blackmailing, darling and it shows,” You gently poked his tummy and spun around on your heel, making your way back inside to enjoy the air-conditioner that was blasting through the house.
“Fuck,” Daniel scolded himself, realising that there was no way you would admit to being scared, “I’m really off my game today. I thought doing those sickass wheelies would’ve reeled you in.”
He was playing with you, although watching him totally dominate a bunch of heckling teenagers did make you squeeze your thighs that little bit closer together. But you couldn’t tell him that.
You chuckled, secretly loving how defeated he must’ve looked sulking behind you like a sad puppy. Daniel’s beast mode was something you admired, craved even, especially during a race weekend or in your bedroom after teasing him with your wandering fingertips. He had a ferociousness that so many people got to witness on TV throughout his career and a level of intensity that was almost hard to believe he had when you got to know the man underneath the helmet. Most of the time Daniel was gentle, caring and an aspiring comedian if you asked him. He was always the life of the party but he was also the light in the life of everyone he knew.
You were one of the lucky ones who got to experience all the different facets of his personality, some you loved more than others. Sulking on Christmas Eve wasn’t one you were particularly fond of but you had a plan to rectify that – one that you knew would perk him up.
Daniel was taken aback when you turned and continued strutting down the hallway before entering the room you were sharing together while you were here. “Lock the door and please don’t make me regret this,” You said before kicking off your slides and turning around to see that cheesy fucking grin again. He was beautiful but insufferable.
“That’s it – I’m out!” You fake shouted and threw your hands up before Daniel surged forward and snaked his arm around you again, his smile dropping into a smirk.
“I’m just fuckin’ with you, baby. Come ‘ere,” He whispered, capturing your curled up bottom lip with his in a sweet kiss, “Let me love you.”
Your hands crawled up and brushed against his warm neck, small grains of dirt snuck under your fingernails as they dragged gently across his glistening skin. Daniel kicked off his Vans and a small whimper slipped from your lips as he slowly nudged you towards the en suite, one eye slightly open so he didn’t ram you against the tiled bathroom wall. Well, at least not yet anyway.
“We’re just showering. No funny business,” You mumbled against his perfect lips as if you could read Daniel's filthy mind, not wanting to break the spine-tingling kiss but needing to put down some ground rules.
“I should be saying that to you, ma’am,” Daniel nuzzled into your neck while skilfully unbuttoning the black denim shorts that were clinging to your hips, “You’re the one who loves getting railed in the shower, remember?”
Of course you did. You had countless memories of being fucked into a state of absolute ecstasy by Daniel either in your shower back in Monaco or that unbelievably lavish hotel shower in Abu Dhabi that was the size of a studio apartment. All of those visions came rushing back as you stood in your future parents-in-law’s spare bedroom, half-naked and wishing for nothing more than for their son to do exactly that. Fuck you.
“Don’t say railed,” You quietly moaned as Daniel focused in on the sweet spot just below your ear and tossed the white shirt you’d stolen from him aside, “So vulgar.” You were smirking and Daniel could tell from the tone in your voice. He also knew how much you loved his dirty talk.
“You fuuucking love it,” He deeply groaned and grasped your face in his large hands, quickly bringing you back to the present so you were looking into those gorgeous brown eyes again. You were a goner.
“I really, really do,” You whispered and reached for the waistband on his shorts, “Feels like you do too.”
Daniel was always just a couple of minutes from being exactly where you needed him in times like this. Hard. It never really took much besides a few sweet nothings whispered into his ear and maybe a touch or two to get the show underway. He had an unimaginable level of self-control but when you needed him, he was right there, standing to attention and desperate for what was to come. Pun-intended.
“Always ready for you, baby',” He whispered as his lips trailed over your chest that was on display and perfectly positioned for him to have his way, “Thank you god,” He playfully teased, praying up at the ceiling with a grin before you shushed him and reached for the shower taps.
“You’re a dork,” You jested sweetly as his fingertips slid your very colourful, polka dot undies down, making him chuckle. “Not as dorky as these knickers though.” He teased but deep down, he thought you looked cute.
“Don’t even try and pretend that this isn’t what you imagine when we’ve been apart for a month and you’re thinking about me in some ridiculously expensive hotel room, god knows where,” You sarcastically replied and posed up against the shower door with an exaggerated pout, “So hot, right?”
Daniel’s bravado dropped for a split second as his eyes glanced over you, taking in the image before him. He was mesmerised by your beauty every single time you stepped into a room, and when you left a room if he was being completely honest with his shameless self. This was what he imagined when he found himself desperately missing you, hand wrapped around his aching cock late at night, wishing it was you squeezing out everything he had to give. He wanted you. He needed you.
“You will forever be my fantasy, baby. And probably the death of me too,” Daniel declared before guiding you under the lukewarm water. He didn't need to say much more because he understood that you knew how much he missed your touch on those lonely nights. And you were always a FaceTime call away if he needed that little extra push across the finish line.
Daniel took the lead. Deep down all he really wanted in this moment was to be close to you. All the teasing and flirting was just a bit of fun to pass the time. He was obsessed with you and god, did he want to do unspeakable things to you but right now, he just needed to feel you there. Physically having you by his side had been a luxury during the season and you both hated being apart but that was how it was. Like it or lump it. But being able to stand under a cascading waterfall and wash off the day you’d spent laughing and living life together was an indulgence that you never took for granted. Especially not now.
“Feel good, honey?” You asked, gently massaging his sun-kissed back. Every muscle contracted as the knots loosed under his taut skin, begging for a release and you delivered. “Feels incredible.”
Daniel closed his eyes and savoured the sensation of your hands moving down his tight back. Everything hurt all of the time with the intense training and relentless race weekends so having you take away all that tension and all that stress for him made him smile. He could feel his mouth tugging upwards as you pressed a firm kiss to his shoulder blade and a softer one to his spine before wrapping your arms around his slim waist, “I’ll wash your hair out before we run out of hot water.”
“Ta,” Daniel quietly mumbled, suddenly lost for words.
But he knew he could be quiet with you. The silence was comfortable as you turned him around to face you so you could run your fingers through his soapy curls, making sure every scarp of dirt, grass and more than likely a bug or two was rinsed down the drain. The water swirling around your feet was tinted orange as it washed away and Daniel couldn’t help but giggle when you gently scratched his scalp with your fingernails. His eyes were closed and an involuntary smile crept across your face as he groaned in pleasure. Scalp massages are the greatest, you thought to yourself.
“You’re such a little grub – look at the water,” You teased, moving your hands from his hair to his jaw, forcing him to look at the mess he’d made.
“That’s pure Aussie blood, sweat and tears right there,” Daniel retorted with his best Bogan accent as he shook his curls and wiped the running water from his eyes, sending droplets flying everywhere.
“Alright, Paul Hogan – let’s get out of here,” You tutted with a smile and gave his chest a light tap, motioning for him to grab you a towel to dry off.
“We could just air dry, you know? Save on laundry and all that,” Daniel winked and you fleetingly saw that naughty glint in his eyes before he stepped forward with a towel open, ready to wrap you up like a burrito.
“I’d be so into that if I didn’t think your niece or nephew could burst in any second,” You reasoned and Daniel wholeheartedly agreed, although still slightly disappointed. “Yeah, probably don’t wanna scar them for life with this rig, ey?” He chuckled and methodically dried off every inch of skin on your body with crude remarks aplenty. Obviously.
"We can have our own little christmas eve celebration later if you can hold off until then," You bargained as Daniel stood up and pushed his wet curls back off his forehead, causing small droplets to slip down his sun-kissed cheeks. His bright smile was back in full force and the fist pump of excitement was a nice touch.
"You know I can't make any promises, babe. Might have to wrap it up early," He winked and you couldn't stop the blush creeping up your neck. That was the effect he had on you from day one and that was how it would always be.
a/n - I have so many ideas for Daniel and a couple of other drivers so let me know if you liked this one or any story ideas you'd like to see written!
#monzamashmasterlist
#daniel ricciardo#daniel ricciardo imagine#daniel ricciardo x you#daniel ricciardo smut#daniel ricciardo x reader#formula 1#formula 1 one shot#monzamash#formula one#daniel ricciardo fluff#monzamashmasterlist
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amma backstory reveal heehee
never knew her father. was abandoned by her mother at the earliest opportunity. taken in by a lolthite cult in the underdark and given the name theodosia. eventually sold to viconia devir along with a dozen or so other children.
viconia "raises" her and the others, trains them to be sneaky, ruthless, all the good traits you want in a killing machine. once of age, they are all "gifted" arcane tattoos that allow them to summon shadow blades and bolstering arcane prowess as well as giving viconia a direct scrying/message line to them wherever they are.
soon they are given their purpose: to be sent off to high elven cities as peace offerings. some are positioned as entertainers, some are advisors, others are arranged marriages. theodosia is given to a counsellor in myth drannor named bonnevance. initially, she is simply one of several mistresses, but after saving him from another assassin, bonnevance becomes quite taken with her and they start a genuine courtship.
within six months they are married. it's a huge scandal. people call her the grey lady behind her back. but, she is truly happy for the first time in her life. she loves her husband and is loved in return. she is eager to learn the art of politics and help negotiate peace between high elves and drow. also, bonnevance happens to have no shortage of enemies, and her favorite pastime is picking them off slowly one by one. he'll make a very fine archduke once they are all dead.
then one night viconia's whispers return:
kill him, she orders. plunge the city into chaos.
theodosia will do no such thing. she confesses her former allegiance to bonnevance, and instead of being horrified, he sees an opportunity: she turns her blades on viconia, he removes the last few folks standing in his way, and they spin the whole thing as their own heroic rescue of the city after a failed coup by lolthites.
so she goes. she digs up viconia's hidey hole, gathers her "family" for dinner, and poisons every cup. then she walks every hall and slashes every throat. she burns everything that will take to flame. with one vial, one knife, and no small amount of smokepowder, viconia's cruel machinations are no more!
she returns to bonnevance, triumphant, ecstatic, hopeful. they'll commission a statue first, she thinks; something big and ostentatious and covered in gold filigree. then a new grand portrait for the foyer. hm, will they keep that foyer? perhaps they'll move into a new palace. someplace high up in the hills, with a huge grand balcony to watch the sunrise every day.
instead, from the gate, she watches every counsellor of myth drannor leave her home. upright. walking. alive. un-poisoned. un-murdered. bonnevance is with them at the door. smiling. laughing.
what the fuck have you done? she says once they are gone.
i couldn't do it, he weeps. i couldn't kill them. they are my friends. i thought you would understand. there has to be another way.
and it is here that she learns the first real lesson of survival-- one surpassing anything she picked up on the street, anything the cruel priestesses beat into her, anything viconia lectured on. it's simple. instinctive, even.
i trusted you, she says.
viconia's cult is dead. many counsellors of myth drannor are dead. those remaining will have questions-- accusations. and theodosia will have blood on her hands. there is no lie bonnevance could weave to cover this one ugly truth.
i'm sorry, he tells her. you never should have.
it is not difficult to draw her blade and run it through his heart. he does not try to stop her. perhaps he understands what she knows now-- that they've orchestrated their own doom, sprung their own trap, and only one of them can make it out alive. there is nothing left for her to do except run, but she can't bring herself to let go of the knife in his chest. they fall to the floor, bloody, weeping, betrayed. she watches for what feels like eternity as his lovely sunlight eyes go dim.
i loved you, are the last words she says to him.
i love you still, are the last words he says to anyone.
she burns the manor down. she destroys the beautiful portrait of them in the foyer. she pawns her wedding jewels to the first knave who'll buy them.
she makes a good life thieving, for a while. she flees all across the sword coast, picks up odd jobs-- larceny, reconnaissance, security-- anything that will put gold in the bartender's pocket. she changes her name. amma theylin is nobody, comes from no house, has had no past, and if she's lucky, no future either.
it's almost a relief when a devir cavalier recognizes her and takes her back to the underdark. she's sent to prison in ched nasad-- a formidable structure of calcified webs suspended over what feels like leagues of nothingness. no escaping there, unless you'd prefer falling to your death to whatever execution was lined up for you.
amma hopes the end comes soon. in one final act of defiance, she convinces another prisoner to carve out viconia's mark, leaving her entire back a raw, skinned, open wound. the wardens stop trying to keep it clean after the fourth time she removes the dressings and tries to garrotte someone with it.
alas, those in power are always bound to fuck everything up for everybody else, and when the stonefire hit, anyone still capable of running was doing that.
amma made her way to the surface again. this time-- this time, she would be free, really, truly free. no spider's eyes in the dark, no whispers in her mind. no one to rely on but herself. she does not regret killing her beloved golden bonnevance. she regrets thinking that she wouldn't have to.
now, all she wants is to do is make enough gold that she can drink herself to death. unfortunately, even that eludes her.
#amma#mine#characters#[record scratch] [freeze frame] [amma voiceover] AND THEN I GOT FUCKING BRAINWORMED#bonus: she does not trust wizards as a rule. too many magic folks experimenting with her tattoo under viconia.#bonus: the undead skeeve her out so bad. it's the closest thing to a phobia she has. if she kills someone they should stay dead wtf#you can imagine how fast she speedran the stages of grief after realizing she's down bad for a fucking vampire. disgusting. unbelievable.#where's the receipt she's returning him to cazador
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❛ RAINY DESERT ❜
with Hank ‘Tranq’ Loza.
Request: HERMANA acabo de ver que estás taking requests for tranq, and maybe is too late pero por si acaso how about tranq x younger reader (25 or so) having a soft day or a nice date, like cuddles, watching films together... Thank youuuuuuu💖💖💖💖
BY @aquamento
Warnings: none.
Word count: about 1.3k
Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!
Gif credits: @angels-reyes
Masterlist.
📱to Bish✨:
“Hey, prez. I was thinking about stealing you my man. It's gonna rain and I already finished at the hospital, so I would like to spend the afternoon on my sofa doing nothing, but cuddling as fuck till it hurts”.
📱 from Bish✨:
“Don't you want to level up to El Presidente? Maybe, adopt me?”
📱 to Bish✨:
“I change you my man, for a delicious lunch tomorrow”.
📱 from Bish✨:
“I already kicked his big ass outta my club, querida. But now that you said so…”
Leaving your phone over the passenger's seat, with a triumphant smile drawn on your lips. You have the window down, with an elbow nailed there and the other over the steering wheel, thanking to have taking the automatic car this morning, because your hands are a little sleepy after a long, long day. But your reward is coming, and you can't ask for anything else. Turning to the left on the main avenue of Santo Padre, you slow down the velocity, as if you had all the time in the world, stopping some minutes after for a red light. Palming your lap following the rhythm of the song playing through the radio, while you sing it so concentrated, the strong buzz of an engine pushes you back to reality. Resting both arms on the door and your chin over them, you can't help but smile like a teen in love with a soft sigh escaping out from your lips.
“You kill me every time you do that”. Stopping his motorbike next to your car, he takes off the sunglasses for a second.
“Hm…” You just say, so absorbed that you can't even talk.
“That smile”. Hank points at it, before poking your nose, making you wrinkle it.
Leaning towards your car, you stick your head out of the window to reach his lips with a smooth kiss that pushes you to heaven. You met him almost four years ago, but it wasn't until two years after that you dared to tell each other about your feelings. Since then, you are inseparable. And his brothers consider you one more of the Mayan family, so you can take some advantage with it sometimes. Like this one.
As soon as you are at the porch of your shared house, you step out from your car taking your phone and your bag, and walking to your boyfriend with both arms raised so it's easier for him to lift you up between his. Wrapping his waist with both legs, you can hear him chuckling while you fill up his face with kisses, leading his steps to the main door. Four years, and you are still falling for him a little more every day. Sometimes you wish to not have been such jerks, hiding what you were feeling because of the fear of the age difference, being almost twenty years between both. But age is just a number, and you couldn't ever regret being together.
In the meantime Hank takes a shower, you change your clothes for one of his big shirts, wrinkling the neckline of it between your fingers to have a soft sniff of the scent. You love to wear them, mostly when he's out of your hometown. Coming back to the kitchen, you tuck in the microwave the popcorn packet to set it for three minutes, putting whilst some beers to get cold in the fridge. Making sure that the big window in the living room is open and the fluffy blanket is already over the back rest, you look for some action movie on Netflix. All you want to do is to lie down on the sofa, and spend the rest of the day and the whole night eating junk food and curled up under Tranq's strong arms.
When the microwave dings, you're careful taking off the popcorn to put them inside a big bowl, grabbing two beers and some chocolate bars, to bring them all to the coffee table close to the sofa. Sitting there, you wait for your boyfriend to join you, hearing the first drops of water falling from the clouds.
“Make me some space”. Hank says then, standing you up to lie down and welcoming you after between his arms, stucking his chest to your back.
Throwing the blanket over you two, accommodating it to cover your bodies, he places a leg above yours sinking his nose into your neck. Moving backwards a hand to his nape, you feel him hugging you tightly leaving some kisses on your shoulder.
“I couldn't ask for a better plan”. He mutters.
“I only have good ideas, baby”. You chuckle, caressing his tattooed forearm with your fingertips.
“Like being my girl”. Sighing then, the mexican leans forward to loudly kiss your cheek, while you press play to start the movie.
Actually, you never focus too much on the tv, getting lost in your thoughts because of his strokes in your hair, neck or belly; always being so gentle and dearly, that you don't care about anything else, ending up falling asleep under his grip. You have needed it since some days ago, when you had to attend a multiple accident with four cars and more than a dozen badly injured people. And he never complains about it, without stopping his caresses to make you feel more relaxed.
Next time you open your eyes, Netflix has paused itself. Raising your sleepy eyes to the huge window, you see how much is raining for the first time in months. Obviously, it's not a common thing living in the middle of the Calexico desert. The smell of wet sand floods your lungs, giving you some nice chills down your backbone, it reminds you of those years studying in Los Angeles and the good moments there. Stretching a hand over the table to check the hour in your phone, you start to feel somewhat hungry. It's almost dinner time and you know that you're not going to sleep too much tonight after such a long nap. Turning under Tranq's arms, you find him peacefully sleeping yet. His warm breath colliding against your face, while you set an arm under his neck, stroking his cheek with your free fingers. You can't help but stare at him for some seconds, before leaning to peck his lips with soft kisses, until he starts to return every one with a smile growing on his face.
“You feel better than earlier?”
“Yes”. You simply reply, non stopping kissing him.
“How is that?” He teases you, slowly opening his eyes.
“My man's arms are my safe place”.
“Oh, really?”
���Yeah, really”. You nod, raising up both eyebrows. He puckers up his lips in concordance, listening to you so convinced of your words. “I was thinking about going to Paco's food truck and taking away some dinner, what do you think?”
You are too lost on the way your forefinger roams his bottom lip, that you don't hear him agreeing until he bites it and repeats what he said.
“I think I'm going to have to drive…” He laughs, feeling your cheeks burning a little. “What's up with rainy days, ah?”.
“They just turn me a little fluffier than normal”.
“Yeah, I see that, and I like it”.
Pressing his lips over yours, tightening his arms around you, he tucks his tongue into your mouth, gently caressing yours for some long seconds until you two are out of air. Resting your head on the cushion, you lean just a little to kiss his forehead, before hugging him. It's true. His arms are your safe place, always making you feel better, always making you feel loved. You don't know a better place to be in, because it doesn't exist.
“I love you, Hank. So, so much”. You whisper then, with your eyes fixed on the dark ones.
“I love you too, mi amor”. He says back without hesitating, holding your chin with one of his hands to push you closer. “I can't explain how much, but I'm going to show it to you every day”.
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#mayans mc x reader#mayans mc#mayans mc imagine#mayans x reader#hank tranq loza#hank tranq loza x reader#tranq loza#tranq loza x reader
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