Ultraintrovertedgryffindor - Raven

𝐀 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

Haha...so...I wrote this in one sitting on my phone, which is unlike me. I prefer working on my computer but oh well, I couldn't stop. I'm insatiable and there was not enough Tom in season 2.

Summary: You and Tom take a nice walk through the park...until the rain starts pouring.

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), public sex, rough oral (m!receiving), kinda mean!dom Tom, implied subspace, teasing, dacryphilia, slapping, daddy kink, degradation, orgasm denial/control, and fluff cause I couldn't help myself🤷🏻‍♀️

word count | 2.2k🤙🏻

It had been a few weeks since Tom came back home. Tears of joy rarely seemed to leave your eyes, as Tom rarely ever let you leave his bed. But today, you decided it was too lovely outside to stay indoors all day, even though it would’ve been enjoyed regardless. The weather was predicted to be sunny with a nice breeze all afternoon, so you couldn’t possibly let yourself waste such a day.

You managed to convince Tom of the idea, after what seemed like hours of complaining and trying to get you to change your mind. But you weren’t having it, no matter how many times Tom said he’d bring you to a breathtaking release if you’d just allow yourselves to stay home.

You both walked to a local park, hand in hand, basking in the warm glow the sun offered, hearing the birds chirp happily, and glancing around at all the other people who must've had the same idea as you. And Tom, albeit reluctantly, started allowing himself to enjoy it and your company. Although, seeing a kid drop their ice cream cone and immediately bursting into fitful wails brought him enough joy that he started to think it was worth it. 

It wasn't until the skies suddenly darkened, the sun almost disappearing into oblivion, that you and Tom started regretting your decisions. 

It was slow at first, just a few droplets hitting the tops of your heads, then a few droplets turned into an absolute downpour. 

You squealed as you, Tom, and everyone else at the park started to get drenched, most scurrying to their vehicles or shutting themselves in their homes that were somewhat nearby. You and Tom didn't have such luck, as you both walked miles to get to this destination. What a great choice on your part. So all you really could do was take cover along the treeline of the woods that aesthetically encircled the park. 

As you watched the rain come down harder, you heard Tom sigh heavily and you rolled your eyes, already knowing you were about to get an earful...but it never came. You looked up at him in slight curiosity, seeing that a content expression was plastered over his visage, not an annoyed wrinkle or frown in sight. 

Tom glanced towards you, seeing your confused expression. "What?" 

You shook your head, jutting your bottom lip out slightly and shrugging your shoulders. "Thought you'd be...less calm than you are right now. More...mad." 

Tom furrowed his brows, going back to watching the rainfall. "Why would I be mad?" 

You chuckled weakly. "Well, you didn't really wanna come out here in the first place." 

He smirked, gently bumping your shoulder with his. "Ah, I was just pulling your leg, luv. I was happy to come out here, with you. I'm still happy to be here with you...never thought I'd get the chance again." 

You'd think your whole body would turn into a puddle right then and there, mixing with the rain and seeping into the damp soil. But alas, all it did was ignite a burning, consuming fire in the pit of your belly, almost disappointed Tom said such a thing and didn't do anything afterwards. 

You looked at your surroundings. Not a soul in sight, nobody but the two of you. The scarce playground equipment shook and swings swung violently with the wind, creaking and groaning from the force. If you were to scream, most likely no one would be able to hear you through the small storm. Why did the thought turn you on even more? And Tom, he looked so peaceful, the ever permanent curve in his lips deepening every time thunder shook the earth. 

Before you could overthink it, you started to lower yourself to the ground, the muddiness of the dirt that started to stick to your knees and ends of your dress doing nothing to quell the desire that kept on building inside you. 

Gaining his attention immediately, Tom looked down at you in dark intrigue, watching as you settled yourself on your knees. "And what do you think you're doing, sweet girl?" You didn't reply as you reached your hands up to palm his cock through his trousers, hearing him let out a barely audible grunt at your ministrations. "You do realize we're in public?" 

"You want me to stop?" You looked up at him with wide doe eyes, putting on an innocent expression even though you and Tom both knew fully well how debaucherous you really could be. 

You gasped as Tom reached down, grabbing you by the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you into a bruising kiss. "You're a fuckin' vixen, you know that? A whore is what you've turned into since I've been gone, is that it?" 

"Yes...but I'm your whore." 

And with that response, you crossed the point of no return, which is exactly where you wanted to be. 

Tom smirked, his cock instantly responding to your words and actions. "Yeah, you are, baby." He brought you into another passionate kiss, biting your bottom lip before pulling away, making you whimper. "Let's see how your whore mouth can be put to use, hm?" He growled, leaning back and relaxing against a tree, a smug aura surrounding him as he watched and waited for your next move. 

You smiled as you took his cock out, hard and pulsing warmly beneath the weight of your hand, a gush of slick pooling at your entrance at the breathy moan Tom made as you ran your tongue along him from base to tip, weakly suckling on the head to tease him. And you repeated those motions a few times before he stopped you, grabbing onto your hair with a growl. "Fuckin' tease. You gonna suck my cock like a good little slut, or do I have to force you? 'Cause I can force you, luv, you know I can." You involuntarily let out a whimpery moan, clenching your thighs together at his low, threatening voice. "Ah, I see. That's what you want, huh? You want me to use you like the whore you are? I can fuckin' do that." 

"Tom-" You yelped when he slapped you with his cockhead, making you widen your eyes up at him. 

"Nah, sweetheart, whores don't get to use my real name. So, I'm only gonna ask you once: who am I?" 

Your heart hammered in your ribcage, never having felt so frightened and aroused at the same time. "...Daddy." 

Tom grinned evilly, and in pride. "That's my good girl. Now, beg Daddy to fuck your mouth, go on." 

"Daddy," you let out with another pathetic whimper, "please, fuck my mouth. I need to feel your big cock." 

"Open." He prodded the tip of his cock at your lips, coaxing them to part. "Wider. Yeah, that's it." He groaned loudly as he rammed himself inside your hot, wet mouth, hitting the back of your throat immediately and making you gag around him. "Fuck, so good for me." He pulled back and thrusted back in roughly, over and over again, until tears ran down your cheeks and your drool spilt down your chin copiously. "See what happens when you tease your Daddy, hm? You brought this on yourself." 

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him groan loudly, the still pouring rain drowning at any noise. No one would be able to hear you gagging on his dick, or his moans, nor the wet squelching of your cunt as you started to finger yourself to relieve some of the tension building in you. But Tom could hear it. "You better not be touching yourself, girl. Only I get to abuse that pretty pussy of yours." Tom pulled you up from the ground, your lips releasing his dick with a wet pop, your fingers retreating from your quivering form in the process. 

Your eyes were glazed over in a haze, mad with lust and pleasure, unable to focus as Tom brought up your hand by the wrist. He lightly slapped you, bringing your vision back into focus. "Were you touching yourself?" 

He asked so lowly, you were scared, so you mewled out a soft, "No." 

Your response only made him smirk. "Hm. So, if I were to stick your fingers in my mouth, I wouldn't be able to taste you, right?" You didn't even have the chance to respond before he wrapped his lips around your fingers, his tongue swirling around the digits before releasing them with another hum. "A whore and a liar? What am I to do with you?" 

And before you knew it, Tom had you pinned up against the same tree he was leaning on previously, the bark digging into your back uncomfortably. "You know what I do with whores, but what do you think I should do with liars? Surely, I shouldn't reward them for their behavior, right?" 

You stuttered, unable to form words in your lust driven mind. "Tom-" You started to sob out, being interrupted with another slap, much harsher than the last. 

"What did I tell you?" He growled. "Whores aren't allowed to use my real name. Why can't you just do as you're told? You've grown so wild and rebellious since I've been away. I think I need to put you back in your place." 

Tom turned you around, lifting up your dress to reveal your underwear already pushed to the side, giving him access to your needy cunt. "Just a slut." You cried out loudly as he pushed two fingers inside you roughly. "That's all you are." He spat in your ear, curling his fingers to hit your sweet spot, tears springing to your ears as pleasure overtook you all too easily. "So worked up, aren't you? You gonna come so quickly?" 

"Yes!" You sobbed, practically shaking from the cold of the atmosphere and the pleasure Tom was giving you. And he wouldn't fuckin' stop, bringing you right to the precipice before pulling away completely and landing a painful slap to your clit. "Ow!" You whined.

"What? You think I was gonna let you come that easily? No, you have to earn it, girl." 

"Please...please..." You cried softly, completely leaning onto the tree in quiet exhaustion, so desperate for a release that you couldn't possibly notice or care about the wood scratching up your delicate skin. 

"You sound so pretty for me, luv. And using your manners. It's almost enough to make me wanna show you mercy." 

Your body thrummed with hopefulness, your mind going into tunnel vision at the prospect of getting off. "Daddy, please. I'll be a good girl. I won't touch myself, I won't tease you, I promise. I'll behave, Daddy, I swear it." You sobbed, soft hiccups escaping your lips. 

"Hey, hey," Tom cooed, running his hands over your skin gently, gooseflesh rising along where his fingers made their path. "You are a good girl. My good, sweet girl." You preened at his praise, letting out a shuddering sigh as he finally pushed his cock into you. "I believe you've learned your lesson, luv. Now, all you have to do is come for me." He whispered in your ear, a strangled moan brushing past your ears as he sped up his thrusts. "Think you can do that for me?" 

You cried out softly as the tip of his cock kept bullying the rough patch along the front of your walls, your climax already building back up with brutal force. "Yes, Daddy." 

"Tom." He corrected, and you grinned. 

You moaned as Tom reached around to run circles on your clit, pleasure dizzying your senses, making you lightheaded. You were right there. "Please..." You wailed. 

"Say my name when you come, sweet girl. Come for me." 

"Tom!" You chanted his name like a prayer, your velvety walls squeezing around him tightly as your orgasm washed over you in tidal waves, Tom's grip on you the only thing keeping you standing on your own two feet. 

"Fuck, baby!" Tom cursed, rutting against like a wild animal until he came with a loud grunt, almost collapsing against you until he remembered there was only a tree there that couldn't keep the both of you upright in the position you both were in. 

A calming beat until Tom broke the silence first. "I love you." 

And just like that, the skies cleared and the rain stopped. The sun shined brightly once again, the fresh smell of watered earth covering up the stench of sex and sweat. 

"We should, uh, probably be getting home, huh?" Tom smirked, putting his softening cock back inside his pants and helping you fix your dress. To anyone none the wiser, it just looked like you both were drenched with rain water. You were of course, but it mixed with sweat from exertion. "And if anyone asks, you slipped and fell because you're atrociously clumsy."

You faked offense, playfully shoving him off the sidewalk as you walked back home, an easy grin on both your faces. 

You grabbed ahold of Tom's hand, squeezing it gently before leaning to kiss his cheek, the innocent gesture making him blush harder than any sex driven act could. 

"I love you too, Tom Bennett, more than you could ever know.”

sorry it's a bit shorter but i legit don't have time to write long fics all the time anymore. sadge. hope y'all enjoyed regardless. hashtag justice for Tom Bennett.

HYPEEEEEEE

Tag me if ya please👉🏻👈🏻🥰

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. 

SAPPHIRE SEAS TAG LIST:

@moonlightfoxx @chainsawsangel @sophie-looks-at-stuff @svtansdaddyx @helaenaluvr @malfoytargaryen @wheres-mylove @talesofoldandnew @fan-goddess @heimtathurs @officerbrowneyes @dahlias-and-marigolds @travelingmypassion

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"Untouched" - Ettore x Reader

A/N: combining a request for nipple play from @oneeyedvisenya with ettore/reader who comes on to him from @ewanmitchellcrumbs 🤭❤️

Summary: Ettore finds the one person on the ship who doesn't look at him like he's a monster.

Word Count: 1,400

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

TW: ETTORE IS A TRIGGER WARNING IN AND OF HIMSELF, afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, mentions of murder, some dry humping, nipple play, p in v sex, unprotected sex

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the High Life 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 ❤️

You know you’re not a good person. Hell, no one on this ship is. You’re all on death row for a reason. You can try and justify your actions to yourself, to whatever higher power there might be, but there’s no changing the facts. Everyone on this ship is a stone cold killer. And none of them are worse than him.

Ettore.

You have to admit that you’ve had your eye on him ever since you saw him being strapped into his seat when the ship launched. That mop of blond hair, that nose, his tattoos… All of it. You hear that bitch, Dibs, give you all the rundown on how no sexual activity is to be allowed on the ship. She can go fuck herself for all you care. There is nothing that’s going to keep you from getting what you want. And what you want is Ettore.

The first time the two of you have a conversation is when you’re waiting to use the Box and catch him coming out of it, looking entirely pleased with himself. You eye him up and down, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. And of course, Ettore sees it. You’re the first person here who’s looked at him with something other than fear and disgust. If he’s not mistaken, you’re looking at him with lust.

“Not often I catch a pretty little thing like you staring at me,” he murmurs as he approaches you, his gaze laser focused as he stands in front of you, resting his forearm against the wall behind you, “Penny for your thoughts, love?”

“I’m just,” you pause, your eyes moving up and down his body, a smirk tugging at your lips, “Appreciating what I’m seeing,” you pause before adding, your fingers moving up to trace the tattoo on his neck, “I like your ink.”

Ettore doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s been touched, let alone so intimately. Your fingers are soft as they caress his skin and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch, chasing the feeling. He lets out a low, throaty moan, prompting you to giggle at how responsive he is.

When he finally opens his eyes to look at you, he asks, his voice low in his chest, “What are you in for?”

“Just a little murder,” you shrug nonchalantly, letting your hand slide down to rest on his chest, feeling his pecs as he inhales sharply, “Someone works out.”

He smirks, “You’re dangerous, aren’t you?”

You move away from him, brushing past him and giggling as you hear him let out a slight groan of frustration at the loss of contact, “Are you done with the Box? I need it. Been a long day. Have to unwind.”

Ettore trails after you, almost like a dog on a leash. You’ve given him a taste of you, of your touch, and now he wants more, no, he needs more.

“A woman after my own heart,” he grins, “Yeah, Box is all yours. Only wish I could watch you while you unwind.”

“Oh, you’re one of those,” you smirk, “Well, I don’t think it’s possible with the Box, but I have to say I wouldn’t mind you watching me at all.”

“Maybe I can even help you unwind,” Ettore says, his hands moving to grip your hips, almost bruisingly tight, though you don’t mind, “You’re a sly little minx, aren’t you? You’re not like the others on this ship. There’s something dark about you.”

“And you like it,” you purr, your hands resting on his chest.

Ettore chuckles, “I’d watch out before coming onto me so strong. I’ve got a lot of pent up energy, you know. You might regret it.”

“Oooh, is that right?” you give him a mischievous little grin, winking, “You should take that energy out on me, handsome.”

He raises a brow, “You really know how to get a man’s attention. You sure you’re ready for that? You’d have to handle a beast.”

You lean in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear in a way that makes him shiver, “Good thing I like it rough.”

Ettore returns your grin upon hearing your words, “You’re a bad little girl, aren’t you? Always had a thing for bad girls,” his eyes move up and down your body greedily, drinking in your curves, or what little he can see through the stupid uniforms, “I bet you’re a real screamer too.”

“No one’s managed to make me scream yet,” you hum, “Maybe it’ll be you.”

“Oh, now that is a challenge I’d love to accept,” his voice is a near growl, “Don’t be surprised if you can’t walk straight afterwards.”

“I’d rather not be able to walk at all,” you wink at him, sauntering off and closing the door to the Box behind you, leaving Ettore excited for what the two of you are about to get up to tonight.

After lights out, he makes his way to your quarters onboard the ship, Boyse and Mink both sound asleep. He stands there in the darkness, just observing you for a moment. You notice his presence after a few minutes and a coy little smile plays on your lips. You pull back your sheets and beckon Ettore over with one curved finger. He eagerly walks over to you, a predatory gleam in his eyes, thrilled at the idea of finally being able to have you to himself after your teasing earlier today. All he’s been thinking about is burying himself in your cunt, seeing those tits of yours-

He’s taken by surprise when you pull him onto the bed and straddle him, “Fancy seeing you here,” you coo, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Ettore runs his hands along your thighs, squeezing the exposed flesh, moving up to cup your ass, growing impossibly hard in his sleep shorts. He moves to kiss your neck, the anticipation building in his stomach as his lips move over your soft, smooth skin. God, it’s been so long since he’s been able to touch a woman, or be touched by one, he feels like some sort of starved animal. He watches as you grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it off of him in one fluid motion. Ettore lets out a low groan as he feels your nails rake down his chest, loving the way you stare at him, with something akin to greed in your eyes as you push him down onto your bed.

You move your lips to his neck, kissing him, trailing down to his chest, running your tongue over one of his nipples, eliciting a soft moan from his lips. He nearly loses his mind when your lips move to begin sucking on one of his nipples, throwing his head back against your pillow, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he feels you grinding yourself against his achingly hard cock. You smirk up at him, loving the way he shivers at your touch, loving the way his large hands explore your body, ridding you of the flimsy sleeping shirt you wear.

“I knew you worked out,” you purr before moving to focus on his other nipple, nibbling slightly before sucking on it.

“Fucking tease,” he growls, “So good with that fucking mouth-”

“It’s not all I can do with my mouth,” you say before kissing him.

It’s not soft or gentle, the kiss you share with him. It’s almost violent in nature, the way his tongue moves against yours, battling for dominance, his hands moving to tug at your hair, just enough to hurt. You move to rid him of his sleep shorts, sinking down on his cock with a low moan of his name. You begin bouncing up and down on him, urged on by the feeling of his hands holding your hips, helping you go faster and faster, hitting that rough patch inside of you with each thrust as he bucks his hips in tandem with yours.

“Such a perfect fucking pussy,” he growls, kissing your throat, leaving a trail of bite marks along your neck, “And all mine. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you moan as you feel yourself squeezing around him, your climax coming closer and closer, “All yours, Ettore, fuck…”

You may be stuck on this piece of shit ship, but you think you’ve found quite an enjoyable way to pass the time.

THIRSTY🤣🤣🤣

Glad you enjoyed lovely🥰

𝐀 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦

Haha...so...I wrote this in one sitting on my phone, which is unlike me. I prefer working on my computer but oh well, I couldn't stop. I'm insatiable and there was not enough Tom in season 2.

Summary: You and Tom take a nice walk through the park...until the rain starts pouring.

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), public sex, rough oral (m!receiving), kinda mean!dom Tom, implied subspace, teasing, dacryphilia, slapping, daddy kink, degradation, orgasm denial/control, and fluff cause I couldn't help myself🤷🏻‍♀️

word count | 2.2k🤙🏻

It had been a few weeks since Tom came back home. Tears of joy rarely seemed to leave your eyes, as Tom rarely ever let you leave his bed. But today, you decided it was too lovely outside to stay indoors all day, even though it would’ve been enjoyed regardless. The weather was predicted to be sunny with a nice breeze all afternoon, so you couldn’t possibly let yourself waste such a day.

You managed to convince Tom of the idea, after what seemed like hours of complaining and trying to get you to change your mind. But you weren’t having it, no matter how many times Tom said he’d bring you to a breathtaking release if you’d just allow yourselves to stay home.

You both walked to a local park, hand in hand, basking in the warm glow the sun offered, hearing the birds chirp happily, and glancing around at all the other people who must've had the same idea as you. And Tom, albeit reluctantly, started allowing himself to enjoy it and your company. Although, seeing a kid drop their ice cream cone and immediately bursting into fitful wails brought him enough joy that he started to think it was worth it. 

It wasn't until the skies suddenly darkened, the sun almost disappearing into oblivion, that you and Tom started regretting your decisions. 

It was slow at first, just a few droplets hitting the tops of your heads, then a few droplets turned into an absolute downpour. 

You squealed as you, Tom, and everyone else at the park started to get drenched, most scurrying to their vehicles or shutting themselves in their homes that were somewhat nearby. You and Tom didn't have such luck, as you both walked miles to get to this destination. What a great choice on your part. So all you really could do was take cover along the treeline of the woods that aesthetically encircled the park. 

As you watched the rain come down harder, you heard Tom sigh heavily and you rolled your eyes, already knowing you were about to get an earful...but it never came. You looked up at him in slight curiosity, seeing that a content expression was plastered over his visage, not an annoyed wrinkle or frown in sight. 

Tom glanced towards you, seeing your confused expression. "What?" 

You shook your head, jutting your bottom lip out slightly and shrugging your shoulders. "Thought you'd be...less calm than you are right now. More...mad." 

Tom furrowed his brows, going back to watching the rainfall. "Why would I be mad?" 

You chuckled weakly. "Well, you didn't really wanna come out here in the first place." 

He smirked, gently bumping your shoulder with his. "Ah, I was just pulling your leg, luv. I was happy to come out here, with you. I'm still happy to be here with you...never thought I'd get the chance again." 

You'd think your whole body would turn into a puddle right then and there, mixing with the rain and seeping into the damp soil. But alas, all it did was ignite a burning, consuming fire in the pit of your belly, almost disappointed Tom said such a thing and didn't do anything afterwards. 

You looked at your surroundings. Not a soul in sight, nobody but the two of you. The scarce playground equipment shook and swings swung violently with the wind, creaking and groaning from the force. If you were to scream, most likely no one would be able to hear you through the small storm. Why did the thought turn you on even more? And Tom, he looked so peaceful, the ever permanent curve in his lips deepening every time thunder shook the earth. 

Before you could overthink it, you started to lower yourself to the ground, the muddiness of the dirt that started to stick to your knees and ends of your dress doing nothing to quell the desire that kept on building inside you. 

Gaining his attention immediately, Tom looked down at you in dark intrigue, watching as you settled yourself on your knees. "And what do you think you're doing, sweet girl?" You didn't reply as you reached your hands up to palm his cock through his trousers, hearing him let out a barely audible grunt at your ministrations. "You do realize we're in public?" 

"You want me to stop?" You looked up at him with wide doe eyes, putting on an innocent expression even though you and Tom both knew fully well how debaucherous you really could be. 

You gasped as Tom reached down, grabbing you by the roots of your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you into a bruising kiss. "You're a fuckin' vixen, you know that? A whore is what you've turned into since I've been gone, is that it?" 

"Yes...but I'm your whore." 

And with that response, you crossed the point of no return, which is exactly where you wanted to be. 

Tom smirked, his cock instantly responding to your words and actions. "Yeah, you are, baby." He brought you into another passionate kiss, biting your bottom lip before pulling away, making you whimper. "Let's see how your whore mouth can be put to use, hm?" He growled, leaning back and relaxing against a tree, a smug aura surrounding him as he watched and waited for your next move. 

You smiled as you took his cock out, hard and pulsing warmly beneath the weight of your hand, a gush of slick pooling at your entrance at the breathy moan Tom made as you ran your tongue along him from base to tip, weakly suckling on the head to tease him. And you repeated those motions a few times before he stopped you, grabbing onto your hair with a growl. "Fuckin' tease. You gonna suck my cock like a good little slut, or do I have to force you? 'Cause I can force you, luv, you know I can." You involuntarily let out a whimpery moan, clenching your thighs together at his low, threatening voice. "Ah, I see. That's what you want, huh? You want me to use you like the whore you are? I can fuckin' do that." 

"Tom-" You yelped when he slapped you with his cockhead, making you widen your eyes up at him. 

"Nah, sweetheart, whores don't get to use my real name. So, I'm only gonna ask you once: who am I?" 

Your heart hammered in your ribcage, never having felt so frightened and aroused at the same time. "...Daddy." 

Tom grinned evilly, and in pride. "That's my good girl. Now, beg Daddy to fuck your mouth, go on." 

"Daddy," you let out with another pathetic whimper, "please, fuck my mouth. I need to feel your big cock." 

"Open." He prodded the tip of his cock at your lips, coaxing them to part. "Wider. Yeah, that's it." He groaned loudly as he rammed himself inside your hot, wet mouth, hitting the back of your throat immediately and making you gag around him. "Fuck, so good for me." He pulled back and thrusted back in roughly, over and over again, until tears ran down your cheeks and your drool spilt down your chin copiously. "See what happens when you tease your Daddy, hm? You brought this on yourself." 

You moaned around his cock, the vibrations making him groan loudly, the still pouring rain drowning at any noise. No one would be able to hear you gagging on his dick, or his moans, nor the wet squelching of your cunt as you started to finger yourself to relieve some of the tension building in you. But Tom could hear it. "You better not be touching yourself, girl. Only I get to abuse that pretty pussy of yours." Tom pulled you up from the ground, your lips releasing his dick with a wet pop, your fingers retreating from your quivering form in the process. 

Your eyes were glazed over in a haze, mad with lust and pleasure, unable to focus as Tom brought up your hand by the wrist. He lightly slapped you, bringing your vision back into focus. "Were you touching yourself?" 

He asked so lowly, you were scared, so you mewled out a soft, "No." 

Your response only made him smirk. "Hm. So, if I were to stick your fingers in my mouth, I wouldn't be able to taste you, right?" You didn't even have the chance to respond before he wrapped his lips around your fingers, his tongue swirling around the digits before releasing them with another hum. "A whore and a liar? What am I to do with you?" 

And before you knew it, Tom had you pinned up against the same tree he was leaning on previously, the bark digging into your back uncomfortably. "You know what I do with whores, but what do you think I should do with liars? Surely, I shouldn't reward them for their behavior, right?" 

You stuttered, unable to form words in your lust driven mind. "Tom-" You started to sob out, being interrupted with another slap, much harsher than the last. 

"What did I tell you?" He growled. "Whores aren't allowed to use my real name. Why can't you just do as you're told? You've grown so wild and rebellious since I've been away. I think I need to put you back in your place." 

Tom turned you around, lifting up your dress to reveal your underwear already pushed to the side, giving him access to your needy cunt. "Just a slut." You cried out loudly as he pushed two fingers inside you roughly. "That's all you are." He spat in your ear, curling his fingers to hit your sweet spot, tears springing to your ears as pleasure overtook you all too easily. "So worked up, aren't you? You gonna come so quickly?" 

"Yes!" You sobbed, practically shaking from the cold of the atmosphere and the pleasure Tom was giving you. And he wouldn't fuckin' stop, bringing you right to the precipice before pulling away completely and landing a painful slap to your clit. "Ow!" You whined.

"What? You think I was gonna let you come that easily? No, you have to earn it, girl." 

"Please...please..." You cried softly, completely leaning onto the tree in quiet exhaustion, so desperate for a release that you couldn't possibly notice or care about the wood scratching up your delicate skin. 

"You sound so pretty for me, luv. And using your manners. It's almost enough to make me wanna show you mercy." 

Your body thrummed with hopefulness, your mind going into tunnel vision at the prospect of getting off. "Daddy, please. I'll be a good girl. I won't touch myself, I won't tease you, I promise. I'll behave, Daddy, I swear it." You sobbed, soft hiccups escaping your lips. 

"Hey, hey," Tom cooed, running his hands over your skin gently, gooseflesh rising along where his fingers made their path. "You are a good girl. My good, sweet girl." You preened at his praise, letting out a shuddering sigh as he finally pushed his cock into you. "I believe you've learned your lesson, luv. Now, all you have to do is come for me." He whispered in your ear, a strangled moan brushing past your ears as he sped up his thrusts. "Think you can do that for me?" 

You cried out softly as the tip of his cock kept bullying the rough patch along the front of your walls, your climax already building back up with brutal force. "Yes, Daddy." 

"Tom." He corrected, and you grinned. 

You moaned as Tom reached around to run circles on your clit, pleasure dizzying your senses, making you lightheaded. You were right there. "Please..." You wailed. 

"Say my name when you come, sweet girl. Come for me." 

"Tom!" You chanted his name like a prayer, your velvety walls squeezing around him tightly as your orgasm washed over you in tidal waves, Tom's grip on you the only thing keeping you standing on your own two feet. 

"Fuck, baby!" Tom cursed, rutting against like a wild animal until he came with a loud grunt, almost collapsing against you until he remembered there was only a tree there that couldn't keep the both of you upright in the position you both were in. 

A calming beat until Tom broke the silence first. "I love you." 

And just like that, the skies cleared and the rain stopped. The sun shined brightly once again, the fresh smell of watered earth covering up the stench of sex and sweat. 

"We should, uh, probably be getting home, huh?" Tom smirked, putting his softening cock back inside his pants and helping you fix your dress. To anyone none the wiser, it just looked like you both were drenched with rain water. You were of course, but it mixed with sweat from exertion. "And if anyone asks, you slipped and fell because you're atrociously clumsy."

You faked offense, playfully shoving him off the sidewalk as you walked back home, an easy grin on both your faces. 

You grabbed ahold of Tom's hand, squeezing it gently before leaning to kiss his cheek, the innocent gesture making him blush harder than any sex driven act could. 

"I love you too, Tom Bennett, more than you could ever know.”

sorry it's a bit shorter but i legit don't have time to write long fics all the time anymore. sadge. hope y'all enjoyed regardless. hashtag justice for Tom Bennett.

When strangers on the internet look out for you even when they don't have to🥰🥰🥰😍😍😍💕💕💕

PLEASE🥵🥵🥵

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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