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lola-writes · 2 months

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Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said.

The council erupted in uproar.

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.

It was palpable.

It was mine for the taking.

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.

I cast my gaze on her.

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.

None of it mattered.

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.

It wasn’t Alicent.

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement.

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells.

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.

And the crown needed heirs.

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat.

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle.

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince.

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful.

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly.

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells.

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.

Thunder rolled overhead.

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

4K notes · View notes

diejager · 10 months

Text

Saccharine and Monstrosity pt.1

Pairing: Eldritch Horror!König x mermaid!reader

Cw: kidnapping, manipulation, DARK FIC, trap, luring, mention of breeding kink, protective König, mention of partial nudity, hunting, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 4K

I got inspired by @konigsblog ‘s post.

You enjoyed the sun as much as any other betta fish mermaid, laying on the warm rocks and bathing under the bright, yellow sun. You lived in a school of fish that moved near the shores of a tropical island a few generations before, building houses under the coral reef and rocks where newly placed branches would grow and work as a natural shield. The world you lived in - the part of the ocean you called your home - was bright and colourful, the shallow waters clear and gleaming under the warming sun.

You liked all things bright and colourful, either big or small, you decorated your part of the cave with things you found while swimming around your territory. Be it a golden coin shining on the ocean floor, or a shard of coloured glass, you picked it all up and stuck it around your room. Sometimes, you found pretty things near the limits of your home, and other times, you ventured closer to the edge of the darkness when something shiny caught your attention.

Over the ridge of sand that drew the start of the darkness, that deep and menacing slope down to the deepest part of your ocean, where darker, meaner and cruel beings born of cruelty and madness lived. It was somewhere all mers were warned of, to stay far away from the darkness and never stray from the light that fed and protected you. You thrived in the light, your body absorbing the warmth from the sun that made your scales vibrant and feeding from the fauna and flora that lived beside you: seaweeds and small fishes.

Your kind grew up with stories of horrifying monsters and cruel creatures that lived in that abyss, lingering near the shallow to catch a pretty, little mer for their hoard. Whatever became of the taken was still unknown, once a mer was taken by One, no one would hear from them from then on. Your parents had warned you about straying too close from the shallow, daring fate when you swam over the ridge to collect those pretty gems you fancied so much.

“Don’t worry,” you’d grin at her, fins flickering behind you. “I’m a fast swimmer, mom!”

You were a fast swimmer, slipping between rocks and corals, hands cradling your little shells while you fled from the dark, twisting over the ridge and vanishing between the corals. That’s what you did most days, picking up people’s trash to make it your treasure, fingers cleaning the sand off the holes and crevasses before sticking them to your walls. You also tinkered with metal creations you found, a silver fork or a rusted-looking instrument.

Granted, you joined in hunts, catching sardines and herrings, claws digging into its scaled bodies and teeth ripping into its flesh, the only other taste being sea salt, or bathed under the sun, but you preferred scavenging for loot. Although mers hunted alone, most found it easier to do it in groups, swarming shoals of fish and catching in a group of a dozen at a time for your little colony. So when you were fed and rested, you were back out, treading the line between the shallow and the abyss.

You swam slowly, head turning left and right for anything that would catch your attention, for that small glint hidden under a thin veil of sand or a long metallic object sticking out from the ground. You already had a few things in your arms, a few shells, human objects thrown overboard or floated into the sea, and small treasures: white pearls. You picked things up from both sides, mind in a comfortable and pleasant space, prideful of your catch so far that you were oblivious of the eyes following your colourful body.

His pale eyes wandered over your puffy cheeks and sweet lips, those squinted eyes in mirth as you searched for more. He went down the curve of your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, perky nipples covered by pretty shells, over your soft stomach and that bright, colourful tail of yours that first caught his attention. Every scale glistened under the sun, reflecting the light on the sand while you swam, your fins curving with the twist of your tail.

You were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, an angel collecting treasure, just like he did. He saw the batch in your arms, clutched between your breasts when you dove to pick something up on his side. You were as adorable and innocent as you were pretty, your action oblivious of his predatory eyes, dipping into his territory without fear of retribution on his part. He liked that bold and daring attitude of yours, fitting for someone so courageously bright and flashing your bold colours to him.

If he were to drop something closer to him, would you still swim towards it or ignore it for something closer to the ridge? If he hid until you were close enough, would he be able to wrap his limb around you? To feel your soft skin and coarse scales under his slimy arm. He was glad he decided to hunt today, searching for both prey - mer or fish, he isn’t picky about what he ate - and treasure. Hidden under a couple of tentacles, he dropped a golden coin a few feet away from him, his veil and the darkness helping him hide from your sight.

His heart soared when he saw your eyes widen, a smile curling at the corners of your lips when you saw his little coin, diving towards him with enthusiasm. You were so close to him, hand stretching to grab the object with small, clawed fingers. When you held it in your hand, appraising it, he felt pride bubble in his chest, rising to his mind as he took this occasion to get his arm around you. You flinched when he wrapped the tip of his tentacle around your tail, squirming around in terror. In a panicked struggle to escape him, you dropped everything you’d collected and fled from him with a cry.

He watched you swim away from him through saddened eyes, hearing the thudding from the things you dropped, even the coin he gifted you. His eyes never left your fleeing body until you jumped over the edge, your tail the last thing he saw in that moment of self-deprivation and sadness. He hoped you’d come back, forgetting the fear of his sudden attention and daring fate once more.

He came the next day and the day after that, but you weren’t there, your precious smile and happy eyes were a memory in his mind, a fleeting moment in his gloomy world. He came back every day, hiding in the darkness, on the line between pitch darkness and light shading. He wished you were there every day, his eyes bleeding with optimism and hope for a single smidgen of bright colours.

He hadn’t seen you in the following week. His shoulders slumped and caved into himself in sadness every time he came by, his blue eyes dulling bit by bit, that hopeful thinking drowning under realistic thinking and a pessimistic mind. Then he caught a glimpse of colour against the white sand. Before long, he saw arms filled with shiny items, trailing nearer to your side than his, but still chasing for treasures.

If he wanted to approach you, to touch your soft-looking skin and run his arms over your scaled tail, he’d have to find a way to lure you in. He watched you the first few days, his tentacles curling on itself and burying himself in the sand, the hundreds of suckers searching for buried treasures to leave for you. When you turned your back to him, his unwinding arm left the things he found near the ridge for you to find and take. Little gifts for you, courting gifts he left and gifted you in an attempt to woo you.

You were skittish and fleeing but took all his gifts with shaky smiles and grateful eyes, you knew he gave them to you. Of course, you did, you were his brave and smart little mermaid, approaching his offerings with apprehension - he felt hurt you feared and got nervous around him, but he understood you, his kind ate yours - and scanned the sand around you for any danger before crossing the line. He felt giddy when you added them to your stack, his mind-blowing with dreams and thoughts of you decorating your little cave with the things he gave you. On the ceiling, against the wall and on the ground or surfaces, you would use the things he gave you for your home.

It sent him up the walls of his caves with joy and excitement, his limbs curling to rearrange his home to prepare for you, to accommodate your arrival to his big, lonely home.

It took a week or two - or so he thought, his perception of time was and had always been warped in some way - before you became comfortable enough to approach him, to let him curl his slimy tentacle around your tail and up your body. He could finally feel you and it made him ecstatic - he was over the moon every time he got to touch you. Little pokes, fleeting squeezes and feathery bites from his suckers on your flesh, all things he let himself taste before your coupling. A coupling between the prettiest and the cruellest beings in the ocean would unwind the seams that made your worlds, pulling the string that separated the beauty and the beast in this cursed universe.

Granted, you hesitated to cross into the pitch darkness of the abyss, dancing just a few inches from his abode with an armful of trinkets from König. Your slow and steady breath, words you blessed him with when you muttered to him, calling out to know if he was there and your grateful grin were a common, yet welcome sight in his daily swim. While a bit reluctant to join him on the other side, you eventually swam across, your eyes melting into the black before you. You were unseeing as much as you were blind, if not for the guiding palm of the Eldritch creature that you befriended and the shine of treasure you saw around him.

You wished you could see anything but the gleam of treasure and the black mist of the abyss, your hand wandered over his, searching for his body, to feel the one who’s been gifting you treasures. Your fingers trailed upwards, feeling the tightness of his muscles, the curves and hardness of his arms were sinful. You truly wished you could see him at this moment, but you kept at your advance, clawed fingers moving slowly with unbridled curiosity. When you reached his broad shoulders and well-pronounced chest, it rumbled, a purr coming from König. Its deep sound shook you with need, your tail enthusiastically moving back and forth as you listened to him.

“Are you happy, Schatz?”

His voice was even better than his soft purrs, in a way that made you want to melt into his arms and never bother moving if he kept talking to you, the sound of the creature that gave you gifts and affection. König’s spine-chilling voice seemed like a mix of many voices, both soft and raspy, and both deep and smooth, but it was something you enjoyed, that you found yourself liking a bit too much.

“Yes,” you breathed, eyes travelling skyward, towards the source of his voice.

Your breath caught in your throat, choking a gasp at the prettiest blues you’d seen staring down at you. They were majestic, gem-like with a pretty sheen that made them glow like a beacon of light. You wondered why you’d never seen them, seeing how bright his eyes were. They lit up his face, or the veil he wore over his face, showing the pale streak of makeshift tears down the incision he made for his eyes. You shamelessly admired him, unbothered by the lost puppy-like stare you gave him in your glowing beauty.

You’d crossed a threshold, where a creature of light never dared to cross, stepping into the arms of an Old One and embracing their madness. Although you were oblivious to his intentions, the loud proclamation of his courting rituals and attempts of crying out his love - the Old One’s rituals and cultures were much of a mystery to those who didn’t study them, much of a taboo for anyone outside of delusion and greed - he hadn’t refrained from his deliberate show that would be nearly shameful and embarrassing to others of his kind.

Some wouldn’t bother with such frivolous acts: confessions from the deepest part of their dark soul, proclamation of love and undying adoration, or having to scavenge for gifts - offerings - to the subject of their attention. His kind took and took, reaching for that small glimmer of hope and beauty and corrupted it, bending it to their liking and building something from the ashes. It wouldn’t - would never - be the same as they were before, but that was how the Old Ones liked it: control, corruption, ruin, madness and power.

König wouldn’t do that, he wanted to cherish you, add to what you were and watch it bloom like those bioluminescent creatures in the abyss; even against his creator’s wishes. He’ll put you on the highest pedestal he has, eternally imprinting the image of you as his most precious treasure into his mind. You’ll be a thing of miracles, a thing of blessings, a thing of new beginnings. He wanted all and everything with you, but he’d have to take it slow, to coax you into this redundant pattern that ensured your trust and comfort and have you follow him of your own volition.

He doesn’t mind waiting, he’s had hundreds of years of sitting and waiting, patience was a virtue he grew to learn, to hold in his giant palm and clutch like a gift from the ever-growing, chaotic universe. He can wait and plan, so he will, König will lay down his plan and wait until he can bring it to reality.

Wait he did, for you to grow comfortable enough to follow him deeper and let him pull you in from your side. It took you a month of back and forth, squirming around your infatuation with König and exchanging trinkets, words and fleeting kisses with him. He adored your little giggles when he traced your sides with a bolt tentacle, curling under your plush tits and the tip sliding under your strap. He loved the pretty shells you gave him, cleaned from sand and any barnacles, it showed him how much time you spent on it for him. His heart bloomed and swelled to impossible heights when you pecked his lips, giving him shy and gentle kisses that he grew addicted to.

You were so sweet and so soft, your lips the taste of heaven for a creature of madness. Your hands were gentle like a cool balm over a burn, soothing his wild thoughts. Your little gifts for him - reciprocating his affection - were currently the most important things in his cave, a sign of your love and devotion. It made him wonder what would you let him do once you gave yourself to him. Would you succumb to the everlasting pleasures he could give you, or would you demand to help him take care of his own in a mutual haze? He couldn’t help himself, letting his chaotic mind conjure the most absurd and erotic dreams, his body vibrating with excitement; and now, at the peak of your trust in him, he watched his plan - a well-placed trap - come to fruition.

“Come, Schatz,” he beckoned you forward, his burly arm stretching to coax you to follow him, holding out his open palm to you. “I have something I want to show you. Pretty things.”

Without a thought, to question his intentions or to ask why he couldn’t have bought them for you like he usually did, you took his hand and let his fingers curl over yours, intertwining your smaller digits to his as he pulled you to his chest. His embrace was as safe and pleasant as the last one - yesterday - and caused a flurry of emotions to erupt in your chest, he was warm in the cool darkness, loving in all the ways you could think. You could close your eyes and imagine a smile rippling across his face with joyfully squinted eyes peering down at you.

Held against his chest, his other arm wrapped around your waist with a firm squeeze of his hand where your skin turned to scales. He whispered sweet promises, words of encouragement to see the way to his home and excited explanations of what awaited you. Pretty things, he said, you knew what he meant - at least you think you did - you shared much in common, and pretty things were something you both agreed on: shiny metals, interesting trinkets, shimmering shells or finely-minted coins. All things humans valued before throwing away; one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

How unfortunate that you couldn’t see in the dark, yet how fortunate you wouldn’t know the way back, it was something he relied on heavily to keep you, if you didn’t know how to navigate in this utter blindness, there were no risks of you trying to escape his caring hand. You were smart, you wouldn’t simply venture off without knowing where to go and how to see, especially with how vast his territory was and how dangerous it was. He shared his home with other simple-minded animals, sharks, fishes, eels and any other abyssal creature that lived and depended on the dark to live.

Your innocent curiosity about the things he deemed pretty enough to hoard made his heartbeat, that addicting feeling he got from touching you, kissing you and speaking to you. Even if the deeper he went, the colder it became, you never once complained, your wide eyes and grinning face were the only thing you gave him. He was truly relieved to know that you were patient and understanding of his home, not one hiss or pout while you shook and clung to him, depending on him for warmth. He liked that, to see you rely on him so much.

“We’re here, mein Liebling,” he hushed, cradling your face as he dove down, through the entrance of his cave. He shielded your fragile body with his many arms, protecting you from the rush of water current flowing against him. He chose this one to build his nest, using the strong current as a natural barrier against weaker creatures.

When the waters calmed to a still, he loosened his hold on you, unravelling his arms to let you explore the many passages and alcoves in his home. To accommodate you, he strung up bioluminescent flora, using them as light to find your way around, with silken algae over a few rocks to mimic the beds mers slept in and a few other things that he thought you’d need: a mirror, a few floating plants to add to its mystical beauty and clusters of soft materials in nearly every room.

He let you wander, your tail flapping back and forth to lead you down the long hall and explore the many rooms. He used a room to sleep, one as a pantry and storage, and another one to hold his hoard, but he had a lot of empty and unused space, more than enough for you and your children to thrive. He wanted to let you roam at your own pace, but he had something to show you, something he was proud of making.

He pulled you from your little cloud of joy, wrapping an arm around you, his sticky suckers latching onto you as he coaxed you his way. Only then had you taken the time to admire König under blue light, cheeks warm with a burning flush and doe-like eyes staring at the naked expense of his hard abdomen, stomach sculpted to perfection that had Adonis shying away. His arms were big and round, muscles straining the scarred skin with delicious appeal.

Downwards, following the sharp dip of his navel, were dozens of dark tentacles lined with round, pulsing suckers. Like an octopus, they were covered in a slimy sheen, every limb flexible and able to move independently. The lower ones were thick and soft, acting as a cover for whatever he hid beneath them, while some were thinner, whose source came from under his veil. Those, however, were a mix of normal and horrific tentacles, some had eyes replacing the usual suckers, tinted in the same colour as his irises, that glowing, pale blue.

It made your body heat up, fingers tingling with nerves - or was it? When faced with something you found appealing, it’d be natural to feel flustered, no? König thought so, that’s how he spent the first days reacting to you, heating up to a bothersome flush to everything you did. He watched your awed stare, that daydreaming haze in your eyes when you looked him over, his whole body clear under the gentle light in his cave.

“This way.”

Without making your gaze leave his figure, he drew you in, heading towards his biggest room where he caught and strung everything to fit his pleasure and mood. It was somewhere deeper into the system with walls strong and sturdy, and the round ceiling higher than the other rooms. On one side was a pile of golden objects of all shades, light yellow to a darkish gold, nearly bronze; on the other was a mix of pretty silver things and metallic black objects, rusted by age and the salty ocean; and on another, the smallest of them all, comprised of a few dozens of colourful shells and corals frozen in time that you’d given him.

He saw your chest expand, your smile growing brighter and brighter at the pile of gifts you gave him, your bubbly laugh as you swam towards it, twirling around it proudly. You looked around the room, admiring his large collection and how it seemed to spill down every pile in an attempt to reach the other one, forming a protective ring around your presents, but always coming back to the bright pink, blue and yellow shells. You were happy and appreciative of the time he spent working and arranging his hoard. If he could, he’d preen and purr to you, to show just how much your proud smile meant to him, watching you appraise his work was satisfying.

He already felt like things were falling into place perfectly, he could see the life he had envisioned with you coming to life, the little intricacies that popped into his mind seeming too appealing. His dreams were slowly becoming a reality, the things that he could only imagine were now tangible to his hands, and the future he salivated at was so, so close that he could sink his teeth into its flesh.

He knew it. He knew it when he watched you swim to him with that big, adorable smile on your face, that it was in his hands. He could see it now, how his lonely cave would be filled with life and laughter, children with a mix of your beauty and his madness chasing one another between the many openings and your round, swollen stomach welcoming another of your children to the world. That was all he could think of while he cradled you in his arms, his tentacles latching to your tail and back.

“You’re happy, ja?”

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