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Ten Thousand Miles Away

On Sapphire Seas Part 1 of 12

It’s all of a brave and a gallant ship with a fair and fav’rin breeze / A bully good crew and a captain too to carry me over the seas - Joseph B. Geoghegan, "Ten Thousand Miles Away"

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Pirate AU)

Summary: After fleeing your home, you thought perhaps you would be free from fear. Until black sails appear on the horizon.

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: Mature/18+

Warnings: death, gore/blood, there are guns in this AU, language, referenced alcohol abuse, reference to physical and verbal abuse though none of it is explicitly depicted, mention of vomit

A/N: all I can say is: just wait until we REALLY get going

enjoy bbys <3

dividers by @firefly-graphics

The thin panes of the window separating the captain’s cabin from the outside elements are speckled with sea spray, clouding the view of the endless ocean. You might have thought it was raining outside had you not known any better.

You peer through it, looking down at the ocean below, gray and choppy, the dark swells of the waves lapping at the wooden sides of the ship, seeming to try with all their might to peel back the boards and sink you. For a moment, you wonder what it would feel like to surrender yourself to the sea and let it take you in its frigid embrace. To pull you down to unknown depths, places where the light of day could never reach. 

“Martyn!” the sharp, clipped tone of the Captain’s voice, calling the false name you’d given when you boarded in Braavos, shakes you from your head, and you snap to attention, eyes wide. 

It has been two long months at sea, sailing from port to port in Essos before beginning the voyage west across the Narrow Sea. You thought you might have grown tired of it by now, but you had not. You adored it all–the salt spray that stung your cheeks, the rolling rhythm of the waves, propelling the boat forward, even the ever-terse demands of Captain Simon Strong.

“Sir,” you speak with a respectful nod of your head, taking care to lower the natural timbre of your voice as much as possible. It was a narrow line you walked, living in secret like this. Every time you opened your mouth, there was a chance you would raise suspicion, be discovered, and be sent back to your uncle.

“Go below deck and fetch a bottle of Dornish Red, would you?” he requests idly, his eyes locked on the papers before him, scarcely sparing you a second look. 

“Yes, Captain,” you nod again, turning on your heel to leave his cabin at once. The sea breeze bites at your face the second you step outside, cool and sharp against you. You breathe it in deeply, relishing the smell of salt and tar before you make your way below deck, eyes lowered. 

It was in this manner you spent most of your days–quiet, meeting no one's gaze for fear that they might see something in your eyes that would inform them of the truth: that you are a woman. 

You managed to keep your identity a secret these last weeks, refraining from speaking when you could and taking care that you were not caught without a shirt or the bandages you used to hide your chest. Still, it was a small price to pay for the freedom your indiscretion afforded you. 

Back in Braavos, you had nothing and no one save for your uncle, whose usually foul temper grew worse when he drank–a nightly occurrence. You bore it with grace as long as you could, for almost twenty years, but eventually, cleaning up his sick and piss and dodging the bottles he threw at you in blind rage grew to be too much. 

In the dead of night, you’d cut off your hair to your chin, suitably short enough to be mistaken for a boy, and fled, securing passage on the first ship that would let you on board.

Anything was better than what you left behind.

Below the deck, you make your way to the hold, passing by the crew's quarters and the galley as you go, giving the cook a tight-lipped smile. The wooden sides of the ship creak and groan, and up above, you hear muffled yells from the crew and thudding footsteps against the deck. 

Inside the hold, it is pitch dark, nearly impossible to see anything even centimeters before your face, and the air smells still and stale. By now, you know your way around well enough not to bother yourself with a lamp, instead extending a hand before you, blindly reaching in the direction you know the bottles of wine are kept. You fetch one from where it is bound to the shelf and tuck it under your arm, humming under your breath to yourself to fill the silence of the hold.

You are moving back towards the door when the yelling above deck changes. 

The muffled, conversational shouts you were accustomed to grow into yelps of panic, then screams, and you hear a cannon shot go off, loud enough to shake the beams of the boat. It nearly makes you drop the bottle of Dornish Red on the floor, and you grip it tighter, sweaty hands squeezing at the cool glass neck of it. 

You scurry out, back up to the galley, intent upon going above deck to see what could have caused the commotion, but as you pass by, you are yanked into the narrow space between the counters, the grasp on your arm pulling a soft scream from you before the cook's hand slaps over your mouth as he drags you to the floor. 

“Quiet, boy,” he hisses, his voice roughened by the pipe he often smoked, colored with fear. “What you heard was a warning shot–if there is one thing to be certain of, there will be pirates coming after.”

Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, almost painfully so, and your breaths become difficult to draw, but you do as you're told, crouching there beside the cook, the bottle cradled in your arms.

You'd heard stories before about the criminals that trawled the seas, stealing from merchant ships such as this one and leaving behind no survivors. Screwing your eyes shut, you try not to think of what horrors could befall you at the hands of pirates, your fingers shaking uncontrollably.

The ship shudders, and again, the shouting changes, the panicked yells of the crew drowned out by the voices of other men, jeering and rough, the thumping footsteps above deck growing louder, though your heartbeat thundering in your ears nearly drowns it out. 

“Easy, lad,” the cook murmurs, squeezing your shoulder, though the gesture holds little reassurance. He doesn't need to tell you that you've been boarded–that much is clear from the clang of steel on steel and the unmistakable popping of gunfire. You squeeze your eyes shut again, fingers gripping the bottle so tightly that your knuckles begin to pale.

When you were a girl, your mother used to play games of hide and seek with you back before the fever took her. She would tell you that she would close her eyes and count all the way up to thirty, and then she would come and find you. It was your favorite game to play then. 

You were always terrible at hiding, but she would humor you, giving you long stretches of time to remain undiscovered, allowing you to think that perhaps you'd won. Believing you'd fooled her, you would giggle to yourself, a palm pressed over your mouth to stifle your mirth.

Now, where you lie on the floor of the galley, you place a hand over your mouth to quiet your breathing and begin to count.

One, two, three, four, five, six–

You don't make it to twenty before the pirates find you. 

It is a large man, broad and gruff, that pulls you from the galley. He is rough with you, tying your wrists tightly together behind your back, the ropes cutting into you, but in your fear, you scarcely notice the pain. 

He drags you above deck, and you squint at the change in lighting, blinking rapidly to let your eyes adjust, fighting the urge to vomit up every scrap you've eaten today, swallowing harshly to choke it down. A massive black warship sits alongside the boat, connected by tethers and wooden planks to provide access to cross from one ship to the other, and all around you, bodies lay dead and bloody, scarcely recognizable from the men you knew they had been.

A raggedly dressed man, thin and leering, grins as you pass by, showcasing several missing teeth as he yanks his sword from the corpse below him. Blood bubbles thickly from the wound, pooling around the body, staining the deck dark red, and you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to look any longer as bile rises in your throat.

Your captor shoves you to your knees, lining you up with the other men on the deck carelessly. Your kneecaps bang against the wood below them, pain lancing up your legs from the point of impact, and you whimper, earning yourself a smack in the back of your head that nearly sends you tumbling forward onto your face.

“Shut up, boy,” the large pirate growls behind you. “Keep that mouth closed, and maybe the captain will spare you.”

You kneel between the cook and Captain Strong, your hands shaking where they're bound behind your back, breaths labored as they puff from your chest.

“Gentlemen,” the narrowly-built pirate that smiled at you moves to stand before the line, a sick sort of glee contorting his thin face. “Today is a lucky day for you all indeed–you've been boarded by the honorable crew of the Three-Headed Dragon.”

Captain Strong is the only one who dares to meet his gaze. He sneers up at the pirate from beside you, eyes icy and unyielding, and the pirate notices, striding toward him with a wolfish grin. 

“You do not seem pleased, Captain,” he snickers, grabbing the older man's chin and angling his gaze up toward him. “You ought to rejoice–it is a privilege you've been given.”

“A privilege?” Captain Strong snorts dismissively. “We have been apprehended by filthy fucking fools–layabouts who couldn't concern themselves with honest employment–”

With a snarl, the pirate goes for his knife, seizing the captain by the hair, the blade pressed to his throat. You close your eyes, preparing yourself for the warm, sticky spray against your face and the horrible gurgling sound of Captain Strong choking on his blood, but then comes another voice.

“Wait.”

Hesitantly, you crack open an eye, searching for the source, your throat tightening at what you see. 

A tall, slender man dressed in leather and well-made linens stands before the prisoners now, arms clasped behind him, his shoulders rolled back comfortably. He looks at ease, his limbs relaxed as if he were standing in his own home rather than raiding a merchant ship. 

If not for having known otherwise, you might have thought he was a Lord or a wealthy merchant, given his state of dress. On his hip rests a large sword, and pale white hair spills over his shoulders, all but glowing, even with the grayed skies overhead, but none of that is what catches your attention. 

No, what grabs your focus is the leather eyepatch he wears, stretched across his face, covering his left eye. The ends of a thin scar protrude from beneath the cover, pink against his pale skin, though the injury does nothing to diminish how handsome he is. 

You'd heard rumors of the one-eyed pirate–the terror of the seas, ruthless and black-hearted, killing indiscriminately for his monetary gain–but you'd barely allowed yourself to believe them until now. 

“Remove your knife from the good captain's neck, Ulf,” he commands dryly, pursing his lips, his single eye trailing over the rest of you in a disinterested fashion. 

“But he–”

“That was not a question,” the one-eyed man drawls, irritation flickering over his face, his eye narrowed, an unspoken threat simmering behind it. 

“Yes, Captain,” the other man– “Ulf”, if the one-eyed pirate was to be believed –releases Captain Strong, stowing his knife back in his belt and stepping away as the pale-haired man steps closer. 

“What is your name?” the pirate asks the captain, a cold, indifferent smile curling over his lips. 

“Captain Simon Strong,” he replies, voice unwavering. 

“Strong…” the pirate muses. “How wonderful. And do you know who I am?” 

The captain stares up at him, his jaw set before he answers, his tone dripping with mockery and disdain, “There is no seafaring man alive who does not know of the great Kinslayer.”

The pirate’s smile broadens, and for a beat, he looks almost amused, but before you can blink, there is a sharp bang beside you, and a warm, sticky substance splatters over your shirt, and what skin of yours is exposed. You scream, cowering into the side of the cook, away from Captain Strong’s body as it collapses to the deck, thick, dark blood spilling from the clean hole in the center of his skull.

The cook is quick to shove you upright, and when you dare open your eyes again, the pirate now looks upon you, pinning you in place with a deadly stare. A smoking gun hangs from his pale hand, and he steps toward you next, tucking a finger under your chin. 

“And who might you be boy?” he asks, his tone terrifyingly measured and steady, given that he'd just killed a man with not so much as a blink of his eye. 

You can feel Captain Strong’s blood soaking through the knees of your trousers, and you can do nothing but stare, eyes wide in fear. 

“I asked you a question,” the one-eyed man warns, squeezing your chin between his thumb and forefinger painfully, his jaw ticking in mild aggravation.

“Martyn, sir,” you manage to choke out, exhaling sharply when he releases your chin. 

“What a sweet little voice,” he mocks, “Are your stones still in your stomach, Martyn?” he quips, raising a dubious brow. 

His comment elicits a laugh from his crew at the expense of the higher pitch at which you talk. You pray to any gods that are listening that he cannot see down your shirt to your chest, bound in bandages to hide it, and you swallow hard. 

“My voice has always been this way, sir,” you whisper, your voice wavering. “An unfortunate defect, I am afraid.”

“Hm,” he considers you with amusement, tilting his head and taking a step backward, “unfortunate indeed.”

“I am Captain Aemond One-Eye,” he barks to the rest of the crew, his voice louder than before. “You are all, for now, my prisoners. Once we have relieved you of all of your possessions, we will be off, of that you can be assured. I leave you a few moments to ponder a decision: surrender and return to your employers in disgrace, where you will be punished for aiding and abetting pirates, swear your fealty to my cause and join us, or die an honorable death.”

With that, he turns on his heel, nodding to the broad man who'd first found you in the galley as he passes, stepping back onto one of the planks connecting the ships and walking across.

“Right,” the large man grumbles, striding forward on measured, firm steps. “We're going to do this real nice like–if you surrender, lay down on your stomachs and stay there like the yellow-bellied dogs you are. If you choose fealty, stand. If death is what you prefer, remain on your knees.”

Your heart thunders in your throat, watching from the side of your eye as the cook and several other men lay down as they are bidden. The cook glances up at you, his gaze tinged with panic when he sees you still kneeling.

“Boy! Lie down!” he hisses intently, an edge of fear creeping into his voice. “There's no shame in living to see another day.”

You look back down at him, and the prospect of surrendering and returning to Braavos, to your uncle, looms in your mind like an evil specter, heavy and dark.

“I know,” you answer, breathing in unsteadily.

Then, you stand. 

Aboard the Three-Headed Dragon, you stand alone, wrists still bound, back pressed to the main mast. 

Of the entire crew you'd left behind, you were the only one to rise to your feet, moving as though possessed toward the big pirate who fixed you with an amused look but took you on board nonetheless.

Aemond One-Eye is nowhere to be found, and you are instead surrounded by his crew, all leering at you, half-interested, half-cruel. You try to keep from shaking, curling your hands into fists to steady them, your eyes darting from face to sun-aged face, not daring to stare at any one person for too long. 

“You lot, to your posts,” the broad pirate growls to the rest of them, shoving through the loose circle and grabbing you by your upper arm. “We're to be at Driftmark within the month–Captain's orders.”

He drags you off without a word, down the deck and up the narrow wooden stairs to the captain's quarters. The large man doesn't speak to you, just stares straight ahead as he walks, coming to a stop before the door and rapping on it with his massive fist. 

“Come.”

The burly pirate pushes the door open and pulls you through it behind him, shoving you in front of him. You stumble, nearly colliding with the polished desk in the middle of the room, and when you regain your balance, you look up to make dead eye contact with Captain One-Eye himself. 

He flicks his gaze over you carelessly, cutting his eye toward the man behind you, “Thank you, Hugh. You may go.”

Hugh does as bidden, the thick door scraping shut behind him as he swiftly exits the cabin, moving with surprising grace for someone of his size. 

You stand before the captain, privately cursing your knees for the way they tremble, trying in vain to steady yourself so as not to look weak. The captain doesn't speak for a long moment but rises from his desk, circling to the front, considering you.

“Martyn, was it?” he questions, leaning back against the desk with a lazy elegance, long fingers drumming on the table. You nod wordlessly, and his eye narrows.

“When you are spoken to, speak back,” he commands tersely, his displeasure sending a hot bolt of embarrassment and fear through you as you trip over your words to reply.

“Yes sir, I am sorry sir,” you spit out. “That is correct; my name is Martyn.”

“How old are you, Martyn?”

“Eight and ten years old, sir,” your voice trembles, but you manage a reply, lying about your age–there was every reason to do so. 

The truth of the matter was that you were three and twenty, but it would do you no good to tell him you were as old as you are–that would only raise more questions about your lack of hair upon your face and the already too-high pitch of your voice. 

“Eight and ten?” he repeats, eyebrows pinching together, fingers stilling against the table. “And still not a hair upon your chest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm,” he tilts his head, lips twitching slightly at your formality. “Can you read and write?”

You pause, considering your answer–the truth was, you could, but displaying too much in the way of your abilities could be just as much of a danger as having nothing to say for yourself. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you nod. 

“Yes, yes, sir,” you reply, “I can.”

“Good,” he says, unsheathing his knife from his belt and reaching for your hands, sawing at the ropes that bind them. “You shall work by my side as a scribe and as my cupbearer. As long as you remain of use to me, you shall have safety and protection while aboard the Dragon. In time, should you prove yourself loyal, you will be taught our trade. Learn to fight and sail and to earn your keep.”

“Thank you, sir,” you breathe as the ropes come free, rubbing at your wrists where your binds cut into your skin, soothing the angry indentations. He rakes his eye over your frame and the clothes you wear, still covered in a thick splatter of Captain Strong’s blood. You sincerely doubt they are the kinds of stains that will wash away. 

“See to it that one of my men gives you new clothing,” he comments, eyeing the dark red blotches with distaste and moving back around the table to sit once more. “Return to me when you are done. You will sleep here tonight, on the floor. I may require your services as a scribe and have no desire to waste time looking for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have set course for Driftmark,” he twirls his dagger in his fingers, testing the weight of the handle in his palm and running the thumb on his opposite hand down the flat of the blade. “You need not know anything more at present,” he decides.

“Yes, sir,” you repeat, remaining rooted before him, uncertain whether or not you are dismissed, rocking nervously on your toes. His lips quirk upward, almost amused, the soft pink curve of his mouth curling at the edges.

“Go now,” he bids you with a flick of his wrist, shooing you away. 

You waste no time doing as you're told, scrambling from the room with great haste. Part of you cursed your decision to come aboard the Dragon, but you push those regrets down–they would do you no favors now. 

What was already a dangerous game had become infinitely more so, and the hiding of your true identity was now a matter of survival. 

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Heave Away

On Sapphire Seas Part 2 of 12

Aemond Targaryen x Reader (Pirate AU)

The day was fine when we set sail, the wind was blowin’ free / But soon afresh it blew a gale and we were far at sea. - traditional arr. Emma Beecham, "Heave Away"

Summary: You learn more about your captain, and at Driftmark, Aemond does not find who he is looking for.

< Previous Part

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.8k

Rating: Explicit/18+/Minors DNI (warnings below the cut)

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mentions of death, language, sex work, oral (m receiving), kind of exhibitionism/voyeurism?

A/N: girl here's part two. now that we've got the set up, we can start getting silly. you know the vibes.

As always, reblogs and comments are HIGHLY appreciated 🫶🏻

dividers by @firefly-graphics

In the weeks that follow, you work tirelessly to make yourself indispensable–always at the captain's beck and call at any odd hours, always with wine in hand to fill his glass should he so desire it. 

Captain Aemond One-Eye was quiet, you learned, with a shockingly refined way about him and the air of someone of high birth. The longer you spend by his side, the more puzzling you find him. 

He is not unkind to you, as you'd expected him to be, and despite his ruthless demeanor in battle, he is soft-spoken and internally preoccupied in private. 

Although you still find yourself frightened by him to a degree, that fear has slowly begun to fade, replaced by an odd sort of curiosity. You have to force yourself not to stare at him, keeping your eyes fixed on your parchment and quill as you write what he dictates to you so as not to be distracted.

The captain seems pleased with your work, or at least has not made any complaint to the contrary, and when he is able, he has taken to teaching you how to wield both dagger and sword. 

As precarious as your position is, you find yourself growing accustomed to living amongst pirates, and with each day that passes, you rue your decision to join the crew of the Dragon less and less.

Somehow, you have kept your identity a secret from the captain and his men. You only changed clothing when you knew everyone was out of your way or asleep and took care not to be caught bathing. If the captain was suspicious of you, he was good at hiding it–he told you little about himself, but through the work you'd done as a scribe, you'd learned fragments of information. 

You have learned from Aemond's correspondence that his brother, Aegon, is being held prisoner on the prison island of Dragonstone and sentenced to death by hanging for his crimes of piracy against the crown. To lay siege to the island, the Dragon would need better guns and more weapons. Aemond hid it well from the rest of the crew, but he was on edge, his shoulders drawn taut, his face seemingly unreadable, with emotions teeming directly beneath the surface.

You'd grown to anticipate his poor moods quite well–he never took them out on you, never even raised his voice, but he was quick to anger and paranoia, which you tempered and assuaged.

When he is restless, his hands twitch by his sides. His long, slim fingers never ceased in their movements, but it was worse when he was under pressure. They flit from the pommel of his sword to his knife, the collar of his shirt, and the edge of his vest, never staying in one place for long.

It is a month since you came aboard the Dragon when you finally arrive at Driftmark. Even from on the deck of the ship, you can see a thick haze of pipe and gun smoke, softening the edges of the structures, elevated on stilts above the ground to prevent them from getting washed away in tropical storm season. 

You marvel at the town as you trail behind Aemond up the pier and deep into the village, heading for a tavern with a large wooden sign hanging outside of it, identifying it as the High Tide.

Aemond had not told you much about why you were here besides that you were to meet another pirate here, a formidable sailor called the Sea Snake, Corlys Velaryon. Vague as he was, Aemond did tell you that the Sea Snake held great power on the seas and was in possession of a whole fleet of ships and controlled several shipping lanes between Essos and Westeros. A few of the Sea Snake’s men and a good set of cannons added to the Dragon would be an invaluable asset in the rescue of Aemond’s brother.

The inside of High Tide is dimly lit, with several lanterns sputtering, and pale beams of sunlight spilling through the windows, though the corners of the room remain dark and shadowy. Aemond's gaze sweeps the tavern once, twice, his brow furrowed in confusion, his fingers drumming against the front of his thigh. 

“Are you looking for the Sea Snake?” a woman's voice calls from the darkened corner of the room, drawing both you and Aemond’s attention.

She rises from her seat, a faint swagger in her step as she moves toward you, and under the faint light, you are struck by how lovely she is. Her brown skin seems to glow under the lamplight, and her dark hair is knotted back against her neck, and you have to force yourself to look at the ground, embarrassed by your staring. 

“Yes,” Aemond answers steadily, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will you bring me to him?”

“He's not here,” the woman shrugs, offering no more explanation, taking a seat at the bar, tapping on it to get the bartender's attention. 

“What do you mean he's not here?” Aemond asks, his voice tight with irritation, fingers twitching behind him. “Where is he then?”

“He is in the Stepstones,” the woman receives her mug from the bartender. “Reinforcing his control of the shipping lane there. He's a busy man, my grandfather,” she comments, raising her eyebrows over the rim of her glass. 

Aemond barks an incredulous laugh, “Your grandfather?”

“Indeed,” She grins. “And, as a matter of fact, he has left me here, acting in his stead, so any business with him now goes through me. Baela Velaryon, at your service.”

“Marvelous,” Aemond comments dryly, looking thoroughly unamused. “Then I bring my petition to you, the lovely Lady Baela,” an edge of flattery, perhaps even to the point of flirtation, decorates his tone, though she seems thoroughly unimpressed by his efforts.

“I appreciate you giving it a go, Aemond, really, I do, but you would do well not to waste your time on flattering me–I prefer a body with a lot more chest and arse than you've got,” Baela snickers, taking a deep drink from her glass. “So let us remain focused on business. Unless you suddenly grow tits, you ought not to waste your time trying to get on with me.”

Aemond looks genuinely amused at that, his shoulders relaxing noticeably, “Noted.”

“So,” Baela begins, her gaze flicking briefly to you where you stood a few feet behind Aemond, keeping a respectful distance. Her eyebrows scrunch together for the tiniest of moments, regarding you curiously before she hides the expression behind a stoic expression, turning her full attention back to Aemond. “What do you want, then?” 

“Assistance in the way of gunnery and arms for every man aboard my ship. They will need more for raiding,” Aemond lists his requests out with an air of simplicity, so confident of himself that the request doesn't sound half as ridiculous as it is.

“And why would we give you that?” Baela’s eyebrows raise skeptically. 

“My brother is to be hanged before the year is done,” Aemond replies stiffly. “It brings me no pleasure to request your assistance, but we cannot lay siege to Dragonstone without more arms than are currently in our possession.”

“I see. And what will Driftmark gain from this, One-Eye? Why is this worth my while?”

“I understand that you have a history with the Lord Larys Strong?”  Aemond answers her question with a question, and her mouth turns down, her eyes darkening at the mere mention of the name. 

“That is a way of putting it,” she mutters after a moment, taking another deep swig of her drink. “Although I prefer to think of him less as a Lord and more so as a corpse that is not yet dead.”

Aemond grins faintly, “A sentiment shared by many,” he chuckles. “He is the one responsible for my brother Aegon’s death sentence, tasked with personally overseeing the hanging,” he continues. “He was to blame for taking much from the Sea Snake as well–from you.”

Baela presses her lips together, considering what he has told her.

“So I am to receive revenge in exchange for men and arms?” she summarizes. “I cannot help but think the trade is a bit unbalanced.”

“What would you propose to make it more equitable?” Aemond asks, not missing a beat. 

“I would also ask for all that your men plunder from Dragonstone when we attack,” she replies smoothly, a grin twitching in the corner of her mouth. 

“Not a chance,” he snorts in response. “I will not make my men work for no pay. I can promise you a quarter of what we…remove from the island.”

“A quarter that I shall handpick?” she proposes, biting back an obvious grin when Aemond's eye narrows at the added stipulation.

“Very well.” he decides after a pregnant pause. “You will provide us with what we need, and we will provide you the opportunity for access to Lord Larys, upon which you can dispatch him however you wish, as well as a quarter of the spoils from the island to be chosen by you.”

Baela stares at him intently, pondering what he said to her, the stiff line of her lips relaxing ever so slightly. She nods, then looks over his shoulder, directly at you.

“I wish to speak to your cabin boy,” Baela demands abruptly, flicking her gaze between you and Aemond. “Alone. I have a few questions for him before I make my decision.”

Aemond glances between you and Baela, his expression blank, “For the cabin boy?” he nearly scoffs. “He is a scribe and a cupbearer to me--there is nothing more to it. He knows little of my affairs.”

“That's alright,” Baela looks only at you now, and the back of your neck prickles, though not unpleasantly. “If the rest of you would step outside, I would like to talk to him. If I have to repeat myself again, the deal is off.”

Aemond clenches his jaw but does as he's bidden, stalking out of the establishment, the rest of the small group he'd brought with you close behind. The other patrons stand shortly afterward and make their exit as well, leaving the pub empty, save for the bartender, who nods at the two of you before disappearing into the back room behind the bar. 

Your breath catches in your chest, surprised by how quickly it happens. You hadn't even witnessed the order being given, but as the other patrons file by, you notice little seahorse pins in various places on their clothing, matching the one Baela had fastened at her neck. 

They were all her men.

Since the crew walked in here, you'd been surrounded and hadn't even noticed. A sting of fear shoots up your spine at the realization, and you breathe in deeply to steady yourself.

You stare at her, the silence of the now empty bar ringing as she rakes her gaze over you, eyes narrowed. 

When at last only you remain behind, she doesn't speak for a moment but beckons you closer, and you obey, knees trembling. 

“Sit,” she bids you, gesturing to the stool beside her, “you needn't be afraid. I will not hurt you.”

Only when you are seated does she speak again, speaking plainly and without artifice:

“Does the captain know you are a woman, or is he truly so thick-headed that he cannot tell?” she asks, leaning her elbow on the counter. She watches in amusement as your eyes widen, shocked to have your bluff called so directly.

“I–” your words seem to stick in your throat, your mind racing, trying desperately to think of a story, an excuse to get yourself out of this.

“Do not lie to me,” Baela warns, the corner of her mouth twitching. “As I said, I prefer the company of the gentler sex. The truth of your identity angers me not, but further falsehoods will.”

You press your lips together tightly and answer her, your voice wavering, “He does not know,” you reply, “or if he does, he has not deemed it a necessary subject to broach.”

Baela looks thoroughly entertained by the whole affair, tilting her head slightly, considering you with curious eyes. 

“Why do you sail with these men?” she asks next, sipping from her glass, not once removing her gaze from your face. “Surely it is not because of the riveting company they provide you?”

“It was join them, die, or be sent back to port,” you reply softly, dropping your gaze. 

“Returning to port was just as bad a choice as death, then?” she asks, eyebrows pinching together curiously. 

“Yes,” you say, keeping your voice steady, even as the memory of what awaits you if you return seeps into your mind like poison, turning your blood cold in your veins. Baela studies you without a word, remaining quiet for a long moment before speaking again. 

“I am sorry that is the case,” she says simply, rising to her feet, downing the rest of her glass in one go. She sets the cup back on the counter with a soft thump that echoes with a sense of finality. 

“I would be careful if I were you,” she tells you. “These types of men are not as foolish as they seem.” You nod, and she considers you for another brief moment until her face hardens with resolve, and she takes a deep breath.

“Come,” she sighs, turning to the door, “let us tell your captain the happy news of my persuasion to your cause.”

Captain One-Eye looks nothing short of perplexed when you trail out of the tavern behind Baela, standing awkwardly by her side as she promises herself and ten of her men to his cause, along with enough weaponry to arm all of his men to the teeth, and two new cannons. 

Still, he accepts without question, and the two of them spit on their palms, shaking hands to seal their promises to one another. His gaze darts to you repeatedly, colored with a new level of interest than you'd seen him wear before, curious and watchful. You cannot read his mood on his face, but you are all too aware of him watching you more closely now than he had before.

Baela tells him nothing about your conversation, for which you are grateful, and strides away, clicking her fingers at two well-muscled bearded blond men who seem to be twins based on how similar they are in appearance. The men follow behind her closely, faces stoic as she mutters orders at them, leaving you with the envoy from the Dragon behind. 

Aemond gives a noncommittal grunt before turning back to the rest of you, his eye lingering on you a bit longer than the others. You drop your gaze to the ground, staring at the worn toes of your boots instead.

“All of you, rest, drink, eat,” Aemond orders after a beat. “The evening is yours. We leave tomorrow at first light. You,” he beckons to you, “will stay with me for now.”

You nod obediently, trailing behind him down the road to a larger, rowdier tavern. Women lean on the railings, their breasts all but spilling from their bodices, grinning at you and Aemond eagerly. Other men, all in varying states of grime and inebriation, occupy the tables or drape themselves over any woman that would let them touch them. 

At the bar, Aemond speaks quietly to the innkeeper before the two of you are led to a quiet back room with a desk and a velveteen couch, secluded from the rest of the bar. 

“So,” Aemond says lowly, seating himself on the sofa, as stiff and polite as ever, “What did you say to Baela to sway her to our cause, Martyn?”

You'd known such a question was inevitable, but your stomach flips in panic nonetheless. Clearing your throat awkwardly, you force yourself to speak. 

“Nothing of consequence, sir,” you reply. “She only asked me who I was, and I answered her.”

“Did you?” he hums. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth, sir.”

You're walking on a razor-thin edge with your half-truths and omitted details. Any deeper probing on his end and you could easily be found out. You brace yourself for him to ask a question too specific for you to wriggle out of, but instead, he nods, leaning back against the cushions behind him with a sigh, although he looks unsatisfied with your answer.

“The truth…” he muses dryly, eyeing you with clear disbelief. “How novel.”

Standing in thick silence, you stare at the floor, praying to be dismissed, that he won't question you further. He lets the quiet hang heavily over both of you, weighing on your shoulders until he decides to speak again. 

“Very well then,” he decides, flicking a hand at you, “Go, fetch me a bottle of wine and be off with you for the night.”

“Yes, sir.”

You leave immediately, scarcely daring to breathe until the door is shut tightly behind you, your heart thundering wildly in your chest. For a moment, you stand there, leaning back against the door, but you cannot afford much time to recover–your captain has made an order, and it is your duty to obey it.

Down the hall, the bar is even more crowded than before, patrons elbow to elbow, sweating and guffawing, making it nearly impossible for you to reach the barmaid. When you, at last, reach her and request the wine you were sent for, you're not sure how much time has passed, only that too much of it has certainly gone by for Aemond's preferences. 

It is with this in mind that you scurry back to the back room as quickly as you can and throw open the door. 

You do not knock.

You always knock. 

Realizing your mistake a beat too late, you freeze, your eyes wide at what you see.

Aemond, sprawled out across the sofa, his coat discarded on the floor. His vest is undone, and his shirt is unbuttoned halfway, his pale, heaving chest exposed. One large hand grips the back of the couch, his fingers denting the fabric, while the other sits curled atop a dark-haired woman's head. 

You stare for a long moment, not quite making sense of what you are seeing, your lips parted in shock. 

The woman is on her knees, her head buried between his thighs, bobbing her head against his long, thick cock. You watch, transfixed, as his length disappears between her lips, the red stain she wore on her mouth leaving a ring at the base. 

She moans every time she takes him in her mouth fully, pausing for a second to catch her breath, trailing her tongue up and down his shaft before taking him all the way down her throat again, a sharp curse tumbling from his lips.

You wonder how that thick, pretty cock would feel inside your mouth instead of hers.

Inside your cunt. 

He is very well endowed, and thoughts of it stretching you out, filling you, makes you inhale sharply, a pang of desire curling through you and creating an ache between your legs.

“That's it–take it–” he snarls, his lip curling as he bucks his hips up, fucking her face, his breathing ragged. 

Then he looks up, staring dead at you, his pale blue eye boring into your head, dark with lust. 

He doesn't yell, or throw anything, or even try to cover himself. Instead, his eye locks with yours, his fingers curling tightly in the woman's hair as he thrusts into her mouth with a growl.

“I want you,” he rasps, his gaze on you, heated and hungry, “to swallow every fucking drop of my seed. Be a good girl and do that, hm?”

Between your legs, there is another rush of heat at his words and the rough tone he employs when he says them. Your little pearl atop your sex throbs, and you feel arousal, warm and wet, pooling at the apex of your thighs, which should embarrass you, but it doesn't. 

You want him.

Want him to touch you the way he's touching her. To swallow his spend the way he commands her to.

You can't pull your attention away from his body and the rolling of his slim hips, even though you know you should, and you unconsciously bite your lip, watching him greedily, rooted to the spot beneath his gaze. 

The woman between his knees whines in the affirmative, redoubling her efforts to make him reach his peak. He does not remove his eye from you, even as his jaw slacks and his eyebrows draw together, his hips jolting against the woman's face, making her gag slightly.

His breathing quickens, and then with one low grunt, he thrusts up into her mouth one more time, his head lolling back a fraction, though he takes care to keep his eye on your face as he spills himself down the woman's throat. 

When his body finally relaxes, he grins at you lazily, that smile somehow jerking you out of your stupor at last.

You turn and close the door behind you as quickly and quietly as you can, abandoning the bottle of wine outside.

There is no hesitation from you now as you vacate the premises as fast as your feet will take you, not daring even to look over your shoulder as you make for the ship once more.

That night, he returns to the ship, and you lie there in your spot on the floor in his cabin, immobile, the apex of your thighs dampened, your pearl aching at the memory of the sounds he’d made as the woman swallowed his length greedily. How his cock glistened with her spit and a few pearly drops of his spend. The half-crazed look in his eye when he spilled himself into her mouth. 

For a moment, you think he might say something or try to wake you to ask why you stood there and watched a woman get him off. 

He does not bother you, undressing himself in silence. Under the guise of being asleep, you shift, rolling to your side to peer at him through nearly closed eyes. His shirt is gone, the lithe planes of his body visible to you in the shards of moonlight that spills through the window, rippling slightly when he moves. 

You are still until his breathing evens out, signaling that he has fallen asleep. The deep rhythm of his breath had become a comfort to you as of late, steady and capable of lulling you to sleep most nights, but now you can only think of the way his chest heaved as he watched his cock disappearing down the woman's throat. 

Your cunt aches, throbbing for him. It would be so easy to stand up, to walk to him and wake him, and sink down onto his length, inch by glorious inch. 

Biting your lip to distract yourself, you roll over again, turning your back. 

It is quite simple, insultingly so: you desire him.

It is depraved and disgusting, but even as you fall asleep, you cannot shake the echoes of his pleasured grunts nor the image of his satisfied grin from your head. 

The smile he'd given you.

It had been almost knowing.

As though he was privy to a secret that you were not. 

Like he knew the truth. 

Baela's warning rings in your head insistently: 

“I would be careful if I were you. These types of men are not as foolish as they seem.”

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ITS NOT A WANT ITS A NEED

FUCK, my religious guilt/kink ahhh!!!! And rosary used as a choker, my beloved🥰🥵🥵🥵

"The Possession" - Modern Priest!Osferth x Reader

a/n: a request from my beloved @ewanmitchellcrumbs for modern stalker osferth (did i add religion kink into this? damn right i did), hope you enjoy, mon ange, ily ❤️

Summary: Osferth exorcises the demon that plagues you.

Word Count: 4,535

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: DUBCON, afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, stalking, perving, dark!osferth, dumb/innocent reader, religion k*nk, hieroph*lia, priest k*nk, corruption k*nk, bond*ge, face f*cking, oral f and m receiving, finger sucking, tiddy succin, choking, f*ngering, an*l f*ngering, overstim, p in v s*x, unprotected s*x, dacryph*ilia, breeding k*nk, BAD PARENTING

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the The Last Kingdom characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️

Osferth remembers you from his school days. You were sweet and quiet, shy really, much like him. You kept to yourself and your small circle of friends, studying hard and keeping out of trouble. He wouldn’t go as far as to have called the two of you friends, but you were certainly friendly with each other. You were a few years behind him, so you didn’t have very many classes together, but that didn’t stop him from taking notice of you. You, with your sweet smile, the way you were unable to hold his gaze for too long, averting your eyes or turning away. He’d always found you absolutely adorable.

However, when Osferth came back from seminary school several years later to be the priest for your hometown’s little church, he was shocked to find what a beauty you’d grown into. Your figure filled out into the body of a woman, your hair slightly longer than he remembers it, a few inches taller though he still towers over you like he does nearly everyone.

He’s ecstatic when you stay behind after his first Sunday service to greet him, welcoming him back. You look so gorgeous, he thinks, the stained glass windows allowing the sunlight to filter into the church in a way that makes you look almost ethereal. His eyes are trained on your lips as you speak to him, so pretty and plump and so very kissable. You seem to have grown out of your shyness, handing him a plate with an absolutely delicious looking cherry pie on it, stating that you and your mother baked it together as a welcome home gift for him. You mention that you’re in your last year of university and that you’re living with your parents to save on expenses. Osferth likes that. It means that you still live only a stone’s throw from the church.

The good book mentions “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife”, but what about thy neighbor’s daughter?

Osferth watches as you leave the church, the way your hips move as you walk, the skirt of your dress swaying in the breeze. He moves his attention to the sweet treat you’ve brought him, wondering if this is meant to entice him. After all, he’s a man, and everyone knows what the double entendre behind cherry pie is. He wonders if you’ve had a boyfriend in the time he’s been away from you. Though you seem more talkative now, you don’t really seem like the flirtatious type. For his own selfish reasons, he hopes that you’ve had little luck in the dating department.

It starts off small. The first time he bumps into you outside of church, it’s a complete coincidence. You’re there, wearing a pair of denim shorts and a cropped tee shirt, normal attire considering it’s the middle of summer and the heat can get quite intense. But as he eyes the exposed flesh of your thighs, the small of your back as you reach up and try to grab the cereal you want, it awakens something primal inside of him, a desire to possess you fully and completely, mind, body, and soul. He shakes off the feeling and walks toward you, grabbing the cereal and handing it to you, a soft, deceptively gentle smile on his face that does precious little to betray his inner turmoil at seeing such temptation set before him.

“Oh, thank you, Father Osferth,” you chirp in that sweet voice of yours, smiling at him, joking a bit, “Do I need to call you ‘Father’ outside of church?”

The way you say it… Father Osferth, has him thinking the most depraved, unholy thoughts, unbefitting a man of the cloth. He feels pants get tighter and clears his throat, still managing to keep that kind smile on his face.

“Just Osferth is fine when we’re not in church,” he replies, eyeing your shopping cart with interest, “Doing some shopping for your parents?”

You nod, “They let me stay rent free. It’s the least I can do, running some errands for them.”

“You’re such a good girl,” he compliments, taking notice of how you shy away under his gaze slightly when he says that.

So you like to be praised. He’s going to remember that for later.

The two of you end up chatting for a little bit while doing your groceries, and Osferth smiles when the two of you reach the pet food aisle, “Your family still have your two Frenchies?”

“Georgie and Alfie,” you grin, “How did you remember?”

“I dog-sat for you all once when you went on vacation,” Osferth says, “Cutest puppies ever in my opinion.”

“Oh, right, I totally remember now,” you exclaim, “They loved you and I was so shocked because they’re such grumpy little guys.”

“They seemed like perfect little angels to me,” Osferth jokes.

“Well,” you sigh, “My parents have a free dog-sitter in me now. They’re out till Saturday on their ‘second honeymoon’ or whatever,” you roll your eyes.

He nods sympathetically, “And you’re stuck at home.”

“Pretty much.”

Soon enough, the two of you go your separate ways after an awkward little goodbye where you wonder if the socially acceptable thing to do is to hug him, shake his hand, or just not touch him at all. You settle on a quick wave as you head back out to your car, loading it up and heading home. Osferth leans against his own car, watching you drive away and turn the corner, out of his view.

That night, Osferth goes out on a walk, and somehow, perhaps by subconscious desire, he finds himself in front of your home. He knows it’s wrong, what he’s doing. He knows he’s acting in a way completely unbefitting of a priest. But with the way your silhouette shows through your window, the outline of your curves as you change into your pajamas, he can’t help but stop and stare. He stands there, in your parents’ prized garden, gazing up at your bedroom window, jaw slightly dropped and his eyes dancing with excitement. He can nearly make out the shape of your breasts through the sheer curtains you use, but not quite. He thinks that makes it all the more exciting.

He waits till all of the lights in your home are off, and then, using the spare key he remembers your parents keep in the fake rock by your front door, he enters your home. Osferth nearly panics when Georgie and Alfie come bounding up to him, but he’s pleasantly surprised when all they do is wag their tails and insist on some belly rubs before prancing off. He muses that if these are meant to be your guard dogs, they’re not doing a very good job. He slowly makes his way up to your bedroom, careful to avoid the creaky spot on the third step, skipping it deftly, before slowly opening your door.

You look like an angel, Osferth muses, your hair fanned out on your pillow, lips slightly parted as you cuddle a very well-loved looking teddy bear. He finds it completely adorable that you still keep one. Your blanket clings to the curves of your body, hiding you from Osferth’s view. He slowly pulls it off of you, revealing the silk nightgown you sleep in, a pretty pale pink, your gorgeous skin bathed in moonlight. He can’t help himself and rests a hand against your cheek, so soft against his palm. And then? You nuzzle into his touch, like you want him there, which is impossible since you’re asleep, but in that moment? He isn’t thinking clearly. He runs the back of his hand along the smooth skin of your upper arm, barely holding in the moan that threatens to pass his lips. He pushes the hem of your nightgown up ever so slightly and is delighted to be greeted by the sight of you, sans any underwear, your curves on display for him.

This becomes his nightly routine. He stays for as long as he can, then returns to his small lodgings within the church, fucking his fist to the thought of you. Osferth knows it’s wrong, what he’s doing. But he can’t bring himself to care. Not when you sit between your parents at Sunday mass. Not when you approach him to take your sacrament, those pretty lips of yours parting, your pink tongue darting out to accept his blessing. God, he wonders what that tongue would feel like, moving along his-

Osferth is shaken from his reverie when you begin walking away, the last in line to have received the Eucharist. He sighs, watching your retreating form. And again, that night, he tugs at his length, imagining how it would feel to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours, to see you on your knees at the altar of worship, gazing up at him with big teary eyes… It’s almost too perfect a thought to bear.

His whole world nearly implodes on itself, however, when he hears you talking to a couple of friends at a church-sponsored ice cream social (Osferth’s idea, of course) about your upcoming date with one Sigtryggr Ivarsson. Osferth’s heard of Sigtryggr. He’s part of a biker group in town, and he believes the man to be bad news, that he should be nowhere near an angel like you. His blood boils at the thought of Sigtryggr touching you, holding your hand, kissing your lips, his hands caressing your body…

Osferth should feel guilty about what he’s done when your parents drag you into his church, wearing that pretty white sundress he so loves, the one that shows off the curve of your thighs and your cleavage. But he can’t get distracted right now. He sees your ankles and wrists bound by the rosaries he provided your parents with.

Perhaps when they came to him for guidance about finding you kissing, to their horror, an atheist in your bedroom, it might have been a bit of an extreme reaction to suggest to them that some unclean spirit has possessed you. That you need to come to him for an exorcism, for the purification of your soul. He watches as they push you down onto your knees in front of him, growing hard when you look up at him with big teary eyes while he dismisses your parents, stating that his work needs to be done in privacy. When the door to the church slams shut, you speak.

“Father Osferth,” your lower lip trembles slightly, “I’m not possessed.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” he murmurs, holding your chin in his hand, his mind filled with thoughts that could put the most lustful of men to shame.

“It was only a kiss, Father Osferth, I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t know about that, little one,” he sighs, “Your parents are concerned for you. For your very soul. You want to be a good girl for them, don’t you? To be a good girl for me?”

You nod slowly, “Y-yes.”

“Then I must cleanse your soul,” Osferth says, feigning sadness, “I must exorcise this demon from your innocent body. First,” he toys with the strap of your dress, “You must bare yourself before Him. You must prostrate yourself before Our Lord, completely bare before His eyes so He may judge your sins.”

You gasp as he gives a quick tug at the front tie of your dress, causing it to open with little effort. Osferth gazes at the lacy white underwear that adorns your body, your breasts heaving against the fabric of your bra, the skimpy lace panties doing precious little to hide you from his licentious gaze. He licks his lips, his mouth going dry at the absolutely delicious sight before him, such a pretty, innocent little thing. He removes the dress fully, leaving you in just your underwear, barely holding back a chuckle at the ashamed expression on your face as you avert your gaze. His eyes drink in every inch of skin that’s been bared, every curve, every part of you, imagining kissing you from head to toe, tasting you.

Osferth’s gaze moves to your chest, watching you inhale and exhale, your pert nipples visible through the lace of your bra. He can already imagine how responsive you’ll be when he runs his tongue over them, when he suckles at them, squeezes them.

“Do you feel repentant, little one? Now that you’ve been exposed before the eyes of God?”

“Father, please, I’m not possessed-”

“Oh, but you are,” he chides, “You are possessed by lust and desire. That is what has led you astray, so far from His light,” Osferth pulls you to your feet, one hand against the small of your back, holding you against him, “I am the only one who can save your soul, who can rid you of this demon.”

You gasp slightly as you feel his fingers caressing the bare skin of your back, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, “Please…”

The sound spurs Osferth on and he presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, “Do you wish to be cleansed, little one?”

Osferth takes your silence and nearly imperceptible nod as a yes. He removes his robe, leaving him in his clerical collar, a plain black dress shirt, and his black trousers. You watch in silence as he undoes the button on his pants, the noise of the zip being undone sending a strange sort of thrill through you. Why are you so curious as to what Osferth looks like beneath those robes? You scrunch your eyes shut as he moves to grasp at his length, turning your face away, your breathing growing more and more shallow. Though, you can’t resist peeking from the corner of your eye. You’ve been quite sheltered all your life, and while you’ve certainly seen a naked man in the context of your science textbooks, that would never have been able to prepare you for the, dare you say it, divine sight before you now. Osferth holds his rather impressive cock in one of his hands, so girthy that you don’t think your own hand would be able to encircle it completely. The tip is already an angry red, white beads of precum at the head. You don’t understand why, assuming it’s the demon within you speaking, but you have the intrusive thought that you want nothing more than to take him into your mouth right this minute, to taste him.

You must have licked your lips because as Osferth approaches you, a smirk dances upon his own face. He keeps one hand on his cock, while the other moves to your chin, tilting it up so that you’re forced to meet his gaze.

“This is the first part of your exorcism, my child,” he informs you, his thumb tracing your lower lip, pressing down slightly, admiring the way it puffs up again as he removes his finger, “You must take your sacrament so we may cleanse your soul.”

“Sacrament?” you repeat, your eyes flickering to his cock, “Yes, Father.”

He runs his length along your lips, smearing the evidence of his arousal there, before uttering one command, “Open and accept the Body of Christ.”

You part your lips and are shocked when his hand knots itself in your hair and he sheathes himself in your warm, wet mouth, the sensation causing him to let out a low, guttural groan. He holds your head in place, bucking his hips against your mouth, watching as you gaze up at him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though you make no effort to stop him. Osferth ruts against your mouth, admiring the sight of your plush lips wrapped around him, so pretty and soft, like that’s where they were meant to be. He feels his release approaching as he fucks your mouth, his balls growing tighter and tighter with every snap of his hips until he finally spills himself on your tongue, pulling out of your mouth after a moment.

“Swallow your sacrament, my child.”

You do as he says, swallowing his spend obediently before asking, “Is the demon gone?”

“Oh, no, little one,” his voice is a low purr as he lifts you into his arms, placing you on the altar, a downright wicked gleam in his eyes, “That was only the beginning. Now the real battle begins. To banish this evil from your body.”

Osferth’s hands find your thighs, kneading at your supple flesh before sliding your white lacy panties down your legs. You feel self-conscious at the way he stares at your exposed core, attempting to press your thighs together to hide from him, but he’s having none of that.

“I need to test how much this demon has corrupted you,” he murmurs, greedily eyeing your bare cunt.

Osferth traces his fingers along your inner thigh, moving higher and higher, closer to where you feel that now nearly unbearable ache, the need to be touched. And then, he pushes two long fingers inside you, causing you to whimper at the intrusion, squirming against his touch as you gaze at him, a thin sheen of sweat covering your body as he hooks his fingers, working them against you in a come hither motion.

He should feel guilty for touching you like this inside the church. He’s meant to be cleansing your soul, not taking liberties with you like this, not enjoying the way you buck your hips against his hand, so soft and pliant beneath him.

“I have to save you from this demon’s grasp,” Osferth murmurs as his fingers brush against that rough patch inside of you that has you crying out his name, pleading for him to slow down, that it’s too much, but all he says in response is, “That means the exorcism is working.”

His fingers move faster and faster, his thumb circling your sensitive pearl until you reach your release, spilling yourself all over his fingers. You feel as though your soul has left your body and all you can think about is him. His lips, his fingers, his cock… You gaze up at Osferth, gasping when he begins working his fingers against you again, giving you no reprieve, a determined look on his face as he moves faster than before, the wet noises that come from his fingers moving against you drowned out by your moans of pleasure.

With your hands still tied behind your back, feeling slightly numb from the loss of circulation, all you can do is rut your hips against his fingers, desperately chasing that same feeling of release as Osferth stares at you.

“Repeat Galatians 5:16,” he orders as he moves his fingers in and out of you, biting back a smirk at the whimpers you let out at his touch.

“I don’t remember it,” you admit, tears pricking your eyes as you reach your peak yet again at his hands, feeling as though your body can take no more, “Please, Father-”

“You can’t remember your scripture?” he scolds, pushing his fingers between your lips in a silent demand for you to lick them clean, which you do, “That means this demon has not yet left you. I must resort to the next phase of the exorcism.”

You think you might faint when you feel his tongue move against your cunt, crying out, “Oh God-”

You’re cut off by a swift slap between your legs that makes you whine in response at the sting as Osferth chides, “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain. Besides,” he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “It is not God who is making you feel like this. It’s me. Only cry my name.”

“Father Osferth,” you moan breathily as he resumes his task of exorcising the demon from you.

He gives you another harsh slap that nearly has you screaming his name before he pushes his tongue back inside you, tasting you, moaning all the while. Your thighs tremble from the pleasure he’s giving you and despite wanting more, you find yourself squirming away from him, trying to close your legs and push him out. But Osferth, more determined than ever, pulls your knees apart, using his forearms to keep your thighs spread, continues his task, his tongue moving against your most intimate areas, the noises he makes, the way he moans driving you wild with desire. You’re hyper aware of his every movement, but especially the way his nose nestles against your pearl as he moves his face side to side with an almost violent intensity. You reach your peak again on his tongue and absently wonder if that means the demon has been expelled from your body.

But Osferth continues, enjoying the sound of your little mewls, your whimpers, as he laps at your sensitive folds, over and over, his tongue moving in and out of you before he flattens it against your pearl, focusing his attention there for a moment. The way he rolls his tongue against your most intimate spot makes you reach your peak once more, tears streaming down your eyes from how overstimulated you feel from his tongue, his fingers, everything.

“Please, Father Osferth, no more,” you nearly wail, your chest heaving as he gazes up at you, your pupils dilated as you look at him, “I can’t…”

He bites down gently on the flesh of your inner thigh as a warning, glaring up at you, “You’ll take what I give you. This is for your own good, little one. I must expel this unclean spirit.”

And then his mouth finds your pearl and he begins suckling at it, his fingers driving into your cunt once more, the wet squelching sound they make making you scrunch your eyes shut with embarrassment. You can feel your fifth climax building, mewling his name as his lips work against your sensitive clit, driving you over the edge not once, but twice, leaving you a sweaty panting mess as you fall backward on the altar, staring up at the ceiling of the church, wondering if this beautiful torture is finally over.

But judging by the sound of him undoing his trousers again, it doesn’t seem to be the case. You stare at him curiously and Osferth opens his mouth to speak.

“Now it’s time for the final part of the exorcism, my child,” he murmurs, reaching for a small, ornate bottle that sits on the altar, making you knit your brows together in confusion, “I shall take your sins upon myself and use my body to cleanse your own.”

He brushes your hair off your face, admiring how vulnerable, how soft and sweet you look in this moment. His hands find themselves to your breasts, squeezing them over the lacy fabric of your bra. He notes that the fastening is on the front, much to his delight, and deftly undoes it, watching your tits fall free. His hands are on them right away, rolling his thumb over your pert nipples, kneading your breasts with his hands, so hard he’s moaning. You watch as he moves one hand to grab that tiny bottle again and when he pours it between your thighs, you realize it’s holy oil. Osferth pushes his fingers into you again, making sure the oil takes before giving his cock one long stroke.

“Father Osferth,” you whisper, “What are you doing?”

He sheathes himself inside you with one quick thrust. The sudden intrusion stings for but a moment, but with how much he prepared you for this? You’re not entirely surprised at how quickly the sting turns to pleasure. Osferth pushes you down against the altar as he begins to snap his hips against yours at a nearly animalistic pace, desperate and feverish, his cock bullying against your walls, over and over. He stares down at you as you gaze up at him, wide-eyed, your lips parted in a silent gasp.

“Ask the Lord for His forgiveness,” he growls in your ear as he fucks into you relentlessly, your body laid bare before him on the altar.”

“Heavenly Father, forgive me for my transgressions,” you whimper as the tip of his cock brushes against your sweet spot with every thrust, “Father Osferth…”

“That’s right,” he murmurs, his lips finding your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses in a trail down from your neck to your tits, taking one of your nipples in his mouth, suckling at it, nipping at your soft flesh, causing you to whine as he continues moving his hips against yours, “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You’re completely speechless as he continues rutting against you, moving his lips to your other breast, laving attention on your other nipple before finally capturing your lips with his in a hot, searing kiss. You’ve never been kissed like this in your entire life. It’s intense and it feels as though he wishes to consume you whole. And maybe, you think, he does.

“Open your mouth, my child,” he urges, gripping your chin in one of his large hands.

And when you do as he asks, you’re shocked that he spits in your mouth, staring at you expectantly. His saliva feels strange on your tongue, and yet you obey his orders without question, swallowing his spit, earning a low groan of pleasure from the man.

Osferth lets out a low hiss of pleasure as he feels you squeezing around his cock impossibly tight, your warmth enveloping him as you spill yourself once more. You’re shocked when he pulls out to turn you on your stomach, bending you over the altar and pounding into you from behind, his balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. He undoes the rosary that binds your wrists, instead, wrapping it around your neck, restricting your airflow ever so slightly, making the feeling of him fucking you all the more intense.

Osferth feels his own end approaching, landing a heavy handed slap against your plump ass, admiring the way the flesh jiggles against his ministrations, before trailing a finger down to your puckered little hole, easing it in there. You cry out his name, a silent plea for mercy, but he has none left to give, working his finger against your tight ring of muscles, promising you that next time, he’ll take that too.

Your climax triggers his own and he spills his seed deep inside you, the thought of you growing fat with his child being nearly enough to make him want to go another round, but at this point? He decides to let you have a moment’s reprieve. He turns you over, admiring how pretty and breathless you look on the altar, splayed out before him, his cum leaking out from between your legs.

“Is the demon gone?” you ask as you rub at your sore wrists, while he undoes the bindings on your ankles, “Father Osferth?”

“No, my child,” he murmurs, “I’m afraid this type of exorcism needs to be repeated many many times until the demon is fully vanquished.”

You find yourself thinking that you don’t mind the idea of him exorcising you again…

And Osferth? He has no intention of letting you go.

Shameless reblog for...no reason in particular😊

Debt To Be Paid - Aemond Targaryen

i thought, what if I was in this situation what would I do? I thought, maybe if I had balls of steel I could give Aemond what he wanted. That sprouted this fucked up piece of fiction. Basically Reader replaced Lucerys

Warnings: body horror, mutilation, eye loss, sadism, blood, pain kink, knife kink, incest, noncon grinding, think that's it? If it wasn't obvious, MINORS DNI. There's not really smut but it's still very explicit.

1.7K Words🤙🏻

part two can be found here

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wait!”

You froze as you heard that familiar low voice call out, a fearful chill running down your spine that made you hesitant to turn back around to face him.

You knew this had all been a mistake, ever since you arrived. As soon as you saw the she-dragon, Vhagar, sitting outside the walls of Storm’s End, you knew that you should’ve hopped back onto your hatchling of a dragon and went back home to Dragonstone. But you couldn’t do that, not when your mother counted on you for your support. You had to see this through.

But the Lord Borros had all but humiliated you, insulting you and your mother, the rightful Queen. And your uncle, the prince, decided that your failure in gaining an ally for your mother wasn’t embarrassing enough. No, he saw this chance for revenge right there in front of him and couldn’t help himself but to take it. So, reluctantly, you turned back to face your uncle to anxiously await whatever he now had in store for you.

Your uncle as always looked at you in something akin to disgust, like you were a bug that needed to be squashed underneath his boot. But there was always a rage right behind that disgust, just below the surface, almost invisible to an untrained eye. Ever since you took his eye all those years ago, you had become well accustomed to his gaze fixed on you whenever you both were in the same vicinity. You hadn’t seen him since that last feast with the late King, clearly still sore and vengeful, insulting you and your brothers calling you bastards. Something was different then, an expression on his face that you couldn’t quite place even when you tried. A look he had given you, especially when you tried fighting back after he pushed your older brother to the floor that night. You had quickly given up trying to understand your uncle, he was too mysterious and aloof to understand.

“Princess Strong.” Prince Aemond spoke with a ghost of a smirk on his lips, keeping his predatory gaze fixed on you as you took a couple steps forward with a scowl. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

You scoffed quietly, your heart hammering in your chest before you spoke your mind foolishly. “The throne was already stolen, my prince,” Usurper, “by your family. If you are looking for a fight, I’m afraid I must decline. I came here as a messenger only.”

Prince Aemond sneered, a growl bubbling in his throat at your insolence, also amused that you think you would last even a second into a fight. You probably wouldn’t even be able to unsheathe your sword in time. “No,” His voice boomed, reaching up and removing his eyepatch, revealing the bright blue sapphire in his empty eye socket. “I want you to put out your eye, as payment for mine.”

You inhaled sharply, your eyes almost immediately glazing over in fear, but you didn’t allow anyone to see it. You held your head up high as your uncle removed his dagger from his sheath, tossing to the floor that slid halfway to where you stood. “One will serve. I would not blind you.” He hummed in amusement at your shocked expression. “I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

You looked down at the knife in terror, your hands shaking at the thought of going through with it. You had prayed to the gods every night that this wouldn’t be your penance. You had hoped your guilt and broken nose that night would have been enough. The Queen Alicent had almost had her justice that night as well if it weren’t for your mother protecting you. Maybe this was always meant to happen, maybe this was the gods telling you that it was finally time to pay the price for seriously harming a member of your family. You knew you couldn’t hide from your guilt forever, you knew you couldn’t keep getting away with it. What would happen if you ran away yet again? It would just keep prolonging the inevitable.

“I will have your eye or your life, dear niece.” Aemond growled dangerously.

You took a deep breath as you made your decision, trying to clear your mind as you took the short steps it took to reach the dagger on the concrete flooring. With shaking hands, you picked up the weapon, seeing your fearful expression reflecting back at you through the steel, mocking you. You pressed your fingertip to the pointed edge, gasping as the edge easily pierced through your skin, letting you know just how sharp it was. In theory, it might’ve been relatively easy…

You looked back up at your uncle, eagerly watching your every move in anticipation, his expression almost in shock that you were actually considering it. Growing up, you were taught how to fight, how to build up your pain tolerance, but holding the heavy blade in your hand, you didn’t know if you could actually go through with it by yourself. Before you could think over it any longer, you held the dagger outstretched to prince Aemond, holding the blade part in your hand. “I took your eye, uncle, it would only be fair if…” You shuddered, tears coming to your eyes, “if you were to take mine yourself as well.” You felt like you were going to throw up. You couldn’t believe you were about to allow this to happen.

Aemond’s eye lit up, his sapphire glimmering in the candle light and occasional lighting strike, and you swore you could almost see a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

You fought the urge to step back and run away as your uncle stalked towards you, looking at you as though he could easily devour you whole. You shivered as he took the blade from your hand, his skin very briefly brushing against yours. He looked at the blade for a moment with a small smirk. “Although I would’ve rather been entertained seeing you take your own eye, I imagine this would be more cathartic. As you said, niece, it’s only fair.”

You almost let out a scream as prince Aemond grabbed a hold of your shoulder tightly, pulling you close to him, almost touching your chest to his, his eye looking down at you menacingly, savoring your expression and saving it to memory. “As I am a man of mercy, I will allow you the choice of which eye you would prefer to lose, princess.”

“Whichever may please you, uncle.” You stuttered tearfully, not having the strength to be ashamed of crying in front of him.

“You took my left eye, so I shall take yours as well.”

You took hold of Aemond’s arm that was holding onto your shoulder tightly, the other grabbing onto his thick coat, attempting to brace yourself for the oncoming pain you were going to feel at your uncle’s hand. You must’ve surprised him because he stared down at your hands for a moment before looking back into your eyes, his gaze heavy lidded and almost sultry. You would’ve felt the stiff tent in his pants pressing against you if it weren’t for the coolness of the sharp steel lightly pressing against your cheek.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since that night, dear niece. Forgive me for wanting to savor this as long as I can.” Aemond couldn’t keep in the low groan as he stared at your tearstained face; the whole world falling away and leaving just the two of you together, uncle and niece, enemies, and a debt to be paid.

Aemond’s hand on your shoulder traveled up to hold the side of your face, his thumb gently rubbing away a fallen tear, lifting his dagger up to the corner of your lower lid, licking his lips before pressing in harshly.

As you stared in the face of destiny, there was a moment where you thought you would try your best to hold in your screams, but as soon as you felt the blade press into your eye, all those thoughts went out the window and were crushed by the excruciating pain you were now experiencing. Aemond grinned as you didn’t hold back, screaming and sobbing as he cut into your eye socket, careful and not wanting to completely ruin the eye itself. 

Your hands were holding on and digging into Aemond’s coat with a vice grip, unable to control yourself, your body going into fight or flight survival mode and trying its best to get away from the danger. But Aemond was strong, much stronger than you, and it almost seemed like he had no difficulty keeping your head in place to continue mutilating you. It was the most pain you’ve ever felt in your entire life, nothing could compare. Nothing. It was searing, blinding. You couldn’t see anything, even the eye that was still intact wasn’t retaining its vision. You couldn’t even feel anything else. You couldn’t feel the thick, hot blood running down your face. You couldn’t feel Aemond’s hand on your face. You couldn’t feel the rest of your body, your hands were numb and tingling from how hard they were holding on to your uncle. You couldn’t feel Aemond’s hard on that was subtly grinding against you as you screamed and cried. You were thankful you didn’t eat anything before flying to Storm’s End or else it would definitely be coming up.

You heard Aemond let out a prolonged groan then a short breathy laugh as your eye finally came free, slimy blood coating the tiny organ that was cupped gently in his palm. Even when it was over, you felt no relief, all that was left was pure white hot pain. You didn’t even register that you were being held up by your uncle with one hand after the deed was done, your legs entirely gave out from underneath you and you craved the sweet release of death just to be rid of the pain. You weren’t even holding onto Aemond anymore, your arms hanging loosely by your sides.

Only then your vision came back, but now only half of it.

You saw Aemond holding up your left eye in pride, staring at your blood and sweat covered face with an almost impressed expression. “Are…” You tried to speak, but it came out mumbled and shaky, “are you pleased now, u-uncle?”

Prince Aemond smiled. “Oh, my dear niece, more than you could ever know.”

~~~~~~~~~~

my first thought was: Storm's End but make it romantic cause I'm mentally ill...if you can even call what I wrote romantic🙈 (it was to me cause like i said, i'm mentally ill)

reading this while listening to Wasp by MIW...fuck, peak horniness🥵

"Ravenous" - Aemond x Hightower Cousin!Reader

a/n: request from @ewanmitchellcrumbs 😈 reader is described as having hightower features (dark curly hair + dark eyes)

Summary: When Aemond said that once the two of you are wed he won't let you leave your marital bed for a week, he meant it.

TW: canon typical incest, profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, loss of v*rginity, mild religion k*nk, purity culture, overstim, oral f receiving, f*ngering, p in v sex, breeding k*nk, size k*nk if you squint, corruption k*nk

Word Count: 5,000 words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️

When Prince Aemond Targaryen is betrothed to the young Lady Hightower, the daughter of his uncle, Ser Gwayne, he is less than enthused. He has heard of you, a meek, shy little thing who clings to your mother’s skirts and can always be found praying in some sept or the other. The idea of being married to you sounds, to him, like an utter and absolute bore. He hopes, as your carriage arrives at the entrance of the Red Keep, that you at least are not as unattractive as he has pictured you in his mind’s eye. He watches as your father disembarks from the carriage first, greeting Queen Alicent and Lord Otto first, and then the rest of the rest of the family. Your mother, Lady Hightower, exits next, her head held high. She is a stern-looking woman, Aemond muses, and thinks that this does not bode well for him as far as you are concerned.

And then, he sees you.

You move out of the carriage, a cloak draped around your shoulders, hiding from his view until you remove the hood, revealing your gorgeous dark curly hair, your gorgeous doe eyes, your full lips that look so very kissable. Gods, he can’t stop looking at those lips, unable to utter so much as a greeting, just imagining how wonderful they’d look wrapped around his-

“Good day, cousin,” you speak in a soft, sweet voice, barely above a whisper as your lady’s maid takes your cloak, revealing your form to him.

Aemond’s throat goes dry and he does not reply for a long moment, eyeing you with a lustful gaze, admiring the way your gown is cut, allowing him to admire the swell of your breasts as you breathe, the curve of your hips as you approach him and bend into a curtsy, giving him an even better view. Your Seven Pointed Star necklace is nestled in your cleavage and he watches as you take it between your delicate fingers, fiddling with it, something he assumes is a nervous habit.

“Are you well, Your Grace?” you ask in that same dulcet voice, your tone now displaying some concern due to his lack of response.

He keeps looking at you, biting his lip as he imagines all the things he wishes to do with you right in this moment, before finally answering, his voice low and smooth, “I am well, my lady. And you? I trust your journey was pleasant.”

“I am well, cousin, and the journey went smoothly by the Seven’s grace, though I am quite tired,” you pause before speaking, “Since it is well past suppertime, I was just going to visit the royal sept to say my evening prayers before retiring for the evening.”

Aemond doesn’t bother to tear his lascivious gaze from your chest, watching it rise and fall with your every breath, straining against the confines of your bodice, “I am happy to hear that, my lady. Might I accompany you for your prayers?”

You meet his eye for a moment before averting your gaze, bowing your head, “As you wish, my prince.”

Aemond offers you his arm, watching as you turn to your parents as if seeking their approval. Your mother frowns slightly but your father nods, smiling at you and urging you on. You take Aemond’s arm and he begins leading you to the sept.

You startle slightly when he turns to you, his face startlingly close to yours as he asks, “Are you a devout servant of the Seven, my lady?”

You nod, answering him quietly, “Yes, my prince. I had considered becoming a septa before our betrothal was announced.”

Aemond gives you a wry smile, the thought of you as a septa being somewhat erotic to him in some strange way, “If such a beautiful woman became a septa, it would be a true loss for the realm. The men would weep, or at least I would.”

His words flatter you and you resist the urge to giggle, instead smiling shyly, “Thank you, my prince.”

Aemond gazes at your lips from the corner of his eye. Soft and full and the color just screaming “kiss me”. As if they were made for a man’s kiss, and he is the man to do it. He keeps his eye on you as the two of you walk through the Red Keep, nearing the sept, flickering between your lips and your cleavage. Aemond smirks to himself as he grows hard in his breeches, brushing the evidence of his arousal against you as the two of you enter the sept, reveling in the quiet gasp you let out.

He stares at you intently as the two of you approach the altar and you light a candle, bowing your head in prayer, repeating the names of the Seven. He doesn’t close his eye. He simply stares at you as your lips form the words and thinks of nothing but you and the things he wishes to do to you. You place a gold dragon in the collection box and stand up, waiting for Aemond to escort you to your chambers. He watches the way your hips move as you walk. He takes your arm again and the two of you walk to your chambers in silence.

You turn to him, gazing up at him with those sweet, innocent eyes as you murmur, “Thank you for the escort, my prince. Goodnight.”

Aemond watches as you close the door, standing in front of it for a long moment. He wonders what to do. Should he knock and ask if he can enter? No, he’d be a fool for doing that. He has to play it safe, even if every fiber of his being is crying for him to open the door and make you his. He turns on his heel and leaves, resolved to return to his chambers and relieve himself while imagining it is your soft, petite hand doing the task for him.

The next morning, he sees you at breakfast, seated between his mother and sister, looking the picture of innocence, a sweet maiden ready to be claimed by a hungry dragon. He stares at you, his gaze lingering on your mouth, your bosom-

“Good morrow, my prince,” comes your sweet greeting as you stand, curtsying to greet him.

He doesn’t reply for a moment, wondering if it would be too improper to just bend you over the table and claim you in full view of everyone present, but restrains himself and answers, his voice a low rasp, “Good morrow to you too, my lady.”

After saying a prayer, everyone present begins  to eat. Aemond’s gaze is drawn to you, the way you pick a strawberry up from your plate and begin eating it, the way it disappears between your plump lips, the juices from it dribbling down your fingers. It’s kind of adorable, he thinks. And then? He sees you glance around, to make sure no one’s watching, before you lick your fingers clean. He lets out a low groan, one that luckily goes unheard by the others at the table, and barely manages to make it through breakfast. When the meal is over, he walks to you, offering you his hand.

“My lady,” he murmurs.

You startle slightly, looking like a frightened fawn as he gazes at you with that intense blue eye, “Yes my prince?”

“Would you like to accompany me for a walk in the gardens? I wish to speak with you privately,” he says, taking your hand in his, helping you to your feet.

The two of you walk to the gardens, and he leads you deeper and deeper inside until you’re far from anyone’s wandering eyes. You seem a bit skittish, he thinks, as you glance around.

“Is it appropriate for us to be here without a chaperone?” you ask a bit timidly.

“Do not worry, my lady,” he whispers in your ear as the two of you come to a stop, “I simply wanted to discuss something with you.”

“Oh,” you nod in acknowledgement, gazing up at him with those devastating doe eyes, “As you wish, my prince.”

“Do you recall,” Aemond asks quietly, not letting go of your hand as he stares at your lips, “When we prayed to the Seven in the sept just last night?”

You nod, your free hand moving up to fiddle with your necklace once again, “Yes, my prince, I do.”

Aemond takes a step closer to you, leaving only the slightest bit of room between your bodies, his eye moving to your breasts, “Do you know, sweet girl, what the Seven Pointed Star says about what a man and woman do in their marriage bed?”

He watches as you bite your lip, looking away from him as you respond, “Yes, my prince. The union between a husband and wife is a holy thing. A celebration of the gods’ love for us.”

Aemond’s hands move to your waist, pulling you flush up against him. He revels in the tiny gasp you let out as your chest makes contact with his, the way your breath comes out in soft little pants. You’re simply adorable when you’re nervous, he muses.

“I want us to celebrate that act of love, here and now.”

You freeze, looking up at him, your eyes wide with shock, “Surely, my prince, you do not mean-”

Aemond’s hands move lower, caressing your hips as he barely holds back the moan that threatens to escape his lips, “My lady, I must insist. You are the perfect woman and I believe the gods blessed me the day they betrothed you to me.”

You attempt to reason with him, though his touch has made it quite difficult for you to think straight, “My prince, we are indeed betrothed, but we are not yet wed. To lie together before being married would be a direct affront to the Seven.”

He leans in, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair, like jasmine and roses, before whispering, “I know, my lady, but I cannot control myself. The mere sight of you drives me mad. Can you blame me for succumbing to my desire for you?”

You attempt to step back and keep some distance between yourself and the handsome prince, “Your Grace, please, our wedding ceremony is in only a fortnight, I implore you-”

He presses you up against the pillar behind you, grinding himself against your soft body, so pliant in his hands, “Yes, our wedding is in a fortnight from now,” he whispers in your ear, “But the wedding is not about you and me. Only for the eyes of the king and the court. But what of the feelings I have for you?” Aemond looks at you imploringly, “I cannot control them. Surely, as a good pious woman, you believe that love is a virtue and not meant to be controlled.”

“Yes, but it is our duty to resist our lustful urges-”

Aemond rolls his hips against yours, causing you to cut yourself off with a gasp as he speaks, his lips ghosting along your neck, his breath tickling your skin, “You are a cruel, cruel woman, my lady. Denying me your body. I want, nay, I need to claim you now.”

You shake your head vehemently, ignoring the how good it feels to have him this close to you, how intoxicating his presence is, “You will bring your honor upon both yourself and upon me, my prince,” you gaze up at him softly, “‘Tis only a fortnight more.”

Aemond heaves a deep sigh and nods, resting his forehead against yours, “Very well, my lady. But,” he moves his hand to your chin, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger, your lips nearly touching, your breath intermingling, “The moment you become my bride, I will ravage you like a dragon in a frenzy.”

You feel your face warm at his words, whispering softly, “That is a very vivid description, my prince.”

Aemond nose brushes along your cheek as he moves to whisper in your ear, “I can tell you all about how I’m going to ravage you in vivid detail if you’d like, my lady,” he smirks as your lips part in anticipation of what he is about to say, “I can tell you about how I am going to hold you in my arms and kiss those beautiful pouting lips. I can tell you how I will kiss you for hours, until your lips are swollen. I can describe the way your breasts will heave as I push you against the wall and claim you,” you whimper slightly as he nips at your earlobe before continuing, running his thumb over your plump lower lip, “I shall start by carrying you to our chambers and close the door. I will pin you against the wall and kiss you passionately, moving to your neck, then your chest, then back to your lips. I will move slowly, caressing your thighs and your hips. I shall lift your dress and then I shall taste you,” he smirks at the audible gasp you let out at his words, “I will kiss you where no one has kissed you before. Your body is meant to be mine and mine alone.”

You gaze up at him, leaning into his touch as he cups your face in his hands, “My prince… I…”

Aemond stares at you, his gaze ablaze with passion, “You are as beautiful as the morning spring and you should be treated as such. When you wed me, sweet girl, you will no longer be an innocent lady but my woman. And as your man I intend to taste the sweetness of your body,” he chuckles, turning your face back to him when you attempt to turn away, “Do you want that, sweet girl? Do you want to feel my lips on your body, my tongue buried in your sweet little cunny?” Aemond’s lewd words nearly offend you, but they fascinate you far more, “Do you want to feel yourself in a man’s arms for the first time in your life? The way your heart will pound and your legs will shake, your breath growing heavy in the moment I make you reach your peak? Your first kiss, your first time, all with me.”

You admit, in a soft, breathy voice that drives him mad with want, “Yes…”

“Good,” he all but growls into your ear, “I will be the first to touch your beautiful, soft skin. The one who takes your innocence. I will touch everywhere there is to touch and I will bring you the greatest pleasure you have ever felt, leaving you just as ravenous for my touch as I am for yours. Won’t you grant me,” he leans in, “Just one kiss from those sweet lips of yours?”

You gaze up at him, lips parted as your eyes meet his, entranced, “I…”

Aemond presses his lips against yours, silencing any protests you may have, his mouth hungry for yours. He crushes you to his chest, nipping at your lower lip, snaking his tongue into your mouth when you gasp in surprise, moving it against yours with an almost feverish intensity, moaning against your lips.

The two of you finally part for air, gazing at each other, breathless. You hear your mother calling for you in the distance and immediately pull away from Aemond, knowing the lecture you will receive even for something as seemingly innocent as a kiss.

“We will continue this later,” Aemond promises, running the back of his hand along the bare skin of your arm, “You must go with your mother and I will find mine.”

You part from Aemond, your mind in a daze about all of the words he spoke to you, the promises he made about what he will do to you. You manage to avoid being alone with him for the most part in the days leading up to the wedding, though you can always feel his gaze on you, hungry and wanting, lingering.

When the day of the wedding arrives and you make your way down the aisle, dressed in a fine gown made of white silk that clings to your form, Aemond’s gaze is locked on you. He watches as you walk toward him, the way your gown covers yet accentuates the curves of your body, the sweet look on your face making him want nothing more than to whisk you away to your marriage bed. He can barely contain himself as the septon says his words, the two of you following suit. The two of you keep sneaking glances at each other, locking gazes, a small smile playing on your lips.

“You are all mine, my lady,” he whispers in your ear as he wraps his cloak around you bringing you under his protection.

“Indeed I am, husband,” you smile up at him softly, your fingers intertwining.

As the two of you walk toward the feasting hall, Aemond gazes at your lips, “Shall we retire to our chambers?”

“There is an entire feast we must attend in honor of our wedding, my husband,” you remind him gently.

Aemond nods absently, but he is not thinking about your wedding feast at all. All he can think about is you.

“I cannot wait to claim you in our marriage bed, my pretty wife. When we reach it, I shan’t let you leave it for a week.”

You feel the back of your neck heat up at your husband’s words, “And so you shall, husband, just be a patient a while longer.”

He chuckles darkly as the two of you enter the hall and are applauded, making your way to your seats of honor, “That’s the problem, my lady. I am not a patient man.”

The wedding feast goes on, the tension between you and Aemond growing by the minute. He rests his hand over yours, moving his thumb against the back of your palm, moving to your pulse point every so often, feeling it. At some point, his nephew, Prince Jacaerys, comes to your table and asks you for a dance, considering you have been seated for the entirety of the evening’s festivities. You turn to Aemond, silently asking if he minds. He nods, gesturing for you to dance with Jace. However, the longer the dance goes on, the more he feels like his blood is boiling beneath his skin, Jace’s hands on your waist as the two of you move, the stupid bastard. What right does he have to touch you?

Aemond decides to walk over to the two of you, a curious silence falling over the hall as he takes your hand, “My lady, may I cut in? I wish to have our first dance as husband and wife.”

You nod happily as Aemond takes you into his arms and leads you in a dance, all eyes in the room on the beautiful couple, who look completely enchanted by each other as they spin across the room. 

He scarcely lets you out of his sight the rest of the feast, and soon enough? It is time for the two of you to retire to your chambers. You take a tremulous breath as Aemond lifts you into his arms, just as he promised, and carries you all the way to the room you will now share as man and wife. His arms feel so very strong around you as he holds you, the walk feeling both impossibly long and not long enough with the anxiety and excitement rising inside you.

A lady’s maid waits in the room to disrobe you, but Aemond dismisses her, setting you down so that you may stand, “I shall do it myself. We have no need of you.”

You give the girl a sheepish, apologetic smile as she leaves, seeming scandalized by the whole ordeal. Aemond closes the door, turning to face you once more. He walks toward you with all the grace of an apex predator, stalking its prey. He moves to undo your wedding gown, turning you so that your back is to him. He undoes the laces, one by one, admiring as the skin of your back is revealed to him little by little. He runs the back of his fingers along your spine, reveling in the way you shiver at his touch. The dress falls to the ground in a crumpled heap, leaving you in only your thin slip. Aemond presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, moving your curls aside, then moves his lips along your shoulders, down the length of your arm. He turns you to face him and removes his tunic, revealing his well-muscled chest and torso.

You decide to move your hands to undo his breeches and Aemond admires the way your hands look as they deftly undo the laces. His pants fall to the ground, leaving him fully bare before you. It is your first time ever seeing a man like this, and the size of his length is intimidating. You absently wonder how that is meant to fit inside you, with how long and thick he is. Aemond moves toward you, moving his hands to the thin straps that hold your slip up, unfastening them and watching as your bare form is finally revealed to him. Your breasts, so full and round, meant to be caressed by his hands, your stomach, your shoulders, your thighs… He does not know what he did to deserve such a beautiful wife, but he will not question it.

“Lie back on the bed,” he instructs you, removing his eyepatch and setting it on the nightstand.

You admire the way his sapphire glows in the candlelight and Aemond delights in the fact that you do not shrink away from him in disgust after he bares himself to you. It makes him feel like a man worthy of you.

You heed his directions and lay back on the bed, watching as he crawls over you, his hands moving up your calves, squeezing the supple flesh of your thighs as he parts your legs, revealing you to him fully. He takes your foot in his hand, pressing a kiss to your ankle, leaving a trail of kisses along the inside of your leg, up your thigh, before he tastes you, just as he promised. You nearly cry out with surprise as you feel his tongue licking a stripe along your entrance. It feels almost unbearably pleasurable and you find yourself moving away from him, unsure what to do with yourself. But, again, your husband surprises you by moving your thighs so that they rest on his shoulders as he moves his mouth against you. You feel his tongue delve inside you as he lets out a low moan at your taste, the vibration from it driving you even more mad with want. With one hand you grasp at the sheets, desperately trying to find purchase, while your other hand tangles itself in his hair.

You feel the pleasure building in your stomach, like a dam getting ready to burst, and when it does, you all but scream Aemond’s name as your body writhes in the throes of ecstasy. Aemond, however, is not done tasting you, it would seem, and he moves to take your swollen pearl between his lips, suckling at it. Aemond smirks at the sound of your mewls as you try to squirm away from him, but to no avail. He makes you peak not once, but twice more by playing with your pearl alone.

When his lips finally part from your cunny, he kisses you, a searing hot kiss full of passion as his hand wraps in your hair, pulling you close to him, kissing you as though he wishes to consume your very being. Your chest is pressed flush against his and he moves his lips to your neck, biting down, his tongue laving attention over the abused skin, soothing it. Aemond’s lips move to your breasts, squeezing them in his hands, caressing your nipples with the pads of his thumbs, smirking as they pebble under his touch. He moves his lips to take one in his mouth, causing you to let out a soft moan at the sensation, your eyes meeting his as he gazes up at you, a smirk clearly playing at the corner of his lips as he suckles at your breast. He switches to your neglected breast, before tracing his fingers along the inside of your thighs, up to your core. 

You whimper slightly as he pushes one finger inside you. The sensation is so very foreign but incredible as you feel him teasing your cunt. Then, he adds a second finger, preparing you to take his cock no doubt, moving them in and out of you in a crooked motion, rubbing against a spot deep inside of you that you, in your inexperience, have never quite been able to reach. The pleasure he’s giving you is intense, especially as he adds a third finger, and you feel something inside you is about to burst.

His thumb moves to press down on your still sensitized pearl and with a cry of his name, you soak his fingers with your arousal, watching as it spills on his fingers. At first you panic, thinking that something else has happened, but Aemond moves his fingers to his lips, moaning at the taste as he licks at them before pushing them between your own lips. You taste yourself on him, your tongue moving along his fingers, curious and almost kitten-like.

Aemond chuckles, “Your lips will look so beautiful wrapped around my cock, sweet girl. But tonight is about you, my wife.”

He pushes you back to lay down on the bed, positioning himself between your legs. You know the moment has come for him to take your maidenhead, at least figuratively. The septa confirmed that you shall not bleed since you broke it riding, like many noble ladies do. You watch as Aemond gives his cock a quick stroke before slowly pressing the head against your core. You close your eyes as he fills you, moving slowly, inch by glorious inch of his cock entering you, the pain minimal due to the lengths he went to prepare you. You feel his every vein, every ridge, as he pushes into you, bottoming out inside of you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand resting on your cheek.

“Are you hurting?” he asks you seriously, his silver hair falling like a curtain around the two of you, shading you from the world in this little room you call your own, your own little world of sorts, “Tell me if I can move, sweet girl.”

After a moment, you nod, “Yes, husband. Please.”

He grins at you devilishly before snapping his hips against yours, watching as you throw your head back against your pillow and cry out his name, pleading for more. Gods, you make the prettiest sounds, he muses, and your cunt is so wet and tight and perfect around him.

“Feels like you were made just for me,” he growls as he slams his hips into you, over and over, his stones growing tight and heavy as they slap against your ass with each thrust, “Gods, I could stay buried inside this perfect little cunt forever. Would you like that, my love?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly sobbing with pleasure as your legs wrap around his hips, allowing him to pound into you deeper, hitting that spot inside of you that makes you feel as though you’ve ascended to the Seven Heavens themselves.

“My perfect little wife,” Aemond hisses, feeling you squeezing around him, “I’m going to fill you with my seed, over and over, breed you the way a good husband should. Watch you grow fat with my child, watch your tits swell with milk for our babe. You want that, don’t you? For me to breed you? For my spend to leak out from your tight little cunt?”

His words are downright filthy, but you cannot bring yourself to care as he continues fucking you, “Yes, husband, please fill me with your seed, Gods, Aemond, please-”

Aemond feels you tighten around him, knowing you will soon reach your peak and picks up his pace, enjoying the way your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips, the way your eyes are glazed over with desire as they gaze up at him, and your sweet lips parted as you moan out his name. You reach your peak, your walls hugging his cock tightly, prompting him to spill his seed deep inside you, filling you up just as he promised. He stays like that for a moment, sheathed inside you until he begins to soften and pulls out. He hears the way you pant for breath and pulls you into his embrace, holding you tightly.

“That was incredible,” you say softly as he tucks you under his chin.

“It was indeed, my sweet girl,” Aemond purrs, “And there will be more of it,” he pauses before looking at you, his gaze earnest, “I love you, my beautiful wife. I may not be the most gentle of men, but I will care for you and protect you as a dragon does.”

“I would ask for nothing less, my husband,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his chest, “I love you too.”

When you wake the next morning, Aemond is still asleep. Choosing not to wake your husband, you crawl out of bed and call for a maidservant to run you a bath. While you stand and wait, you’re shocked when you’re pushed up against the wall, your bare breasts pressed against the wood of the door.

“I promised you that you wouldn’t be leaving our bed for a week, my love,” Aemond purrs seductively, “And I assure you I meant it.”

You let out a contented sigh as he keeps his promise.