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starlady66 · 1 year

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omg okay reblogging to read later!

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing | Day 21: Wedding

modern!obi-wan kenobi (‘ben’) x f!reader

Rated E | 5.1k

Tags: semi-fake-dating, chronic semi-platonic wedding dates, mutual yearning and pining, implied use of the force, jealousy, brief misunderstanding, fingering, hickies, PiV, smut and lots of feelings

Heartfelt thank you to @obiknights for lending an ear! ❄️💕

On paper, it sounds perfect. You’ll be his date, as long as he’ll be yours. Never having to be alone, no awkward moments with a stranger.

It’s just too bad that you are hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with him.

Until a year or so ago, you found weddings near unbearable.

You’d go - of course you would. It meant so to support your friends and family, you’d never miss it. But there was something to be said about the traveling, the long line of introductions, the feeling of being so alone as you watched loved ones express their feelings - for always and forever.

That changed - when you made the agreement.

Ben was an acquaintance, friendly enough when you bumped into him. Never someone you’d invite out on your own - far too nervous to do so, too afraid of the rejection.

So when he had overheard you - sighing to your roommate about your coworkers wedding, how you’re always going to them by yourself - it had come as a surprise. The way he had leaned against the high top of the table, his easy smile.

“I’ll go with you.”

You had though he was joking. Looking at him with a scoff of a laugh, eyes flicking to your roommate’s.

But he had insisted. Saying he had always enjoyed weddings and why not? They were always better with a friend.

And so, small agreement had been made.

He’d be your date, and you’d be his. Shaking hands on it, so it would be official.

Now - you find you don’t mind weddings, all that much.

You think you might even like them.

———

So far, tonight had been one you’ll remember for a long time. An energy sparking throughout, beginning even before you even arrived.

No traffic on the drive down - one long enough that you had to book hotel rooms. Ending up with connecting ones, just enough time for you to slip into your dress, touch up your hair, before he was knocking on your door, sighing for you to hurry up.

Managing to slide in with the last of the guests, finding a seat together towards the back. The room almost too warm with the tight pack of people, but the ceremony that went on for a little too long was bearable with the way his legs spread in the pew, his thigh tucked against yours.

Letting your mind wander during the sermon - you’d pay attention for the actual vows - thinking about the dance videos he had texted you. Trying to remember the moves, because you were damned if you were going to let anyone else try them out with him.

You don’t tear up the dance floor or anything, but you have fun.

Everything seems to be, with him.

Not noticing you had been drumming out the internal beat against your knee, until he’s grasping your wrist - a sharp, warning exhale of breath from his nose as he side-eyes you.

Remembering how Ben said he liked this part, how he said he could feel the love in the room.

You thought he was full of it, as your own nose wrinkled in response to his silent disapproval. Until his fingers slid down to wrap around yours, holding them tight. Pulling them, entwined, until they rested against his thigh.

Yes, that had been nice.

Now, dinner is clearing up, the dishes whisked away from under your nose - as he charms the older couple that still sits across from you with his tales of being a middle school teacher.

“Yes, thirty-seven. And all angels of course, when they aren’t driving me mad.” Ben says with a mock sigh, leaning back in his chair, “But they aren’t the biggest source of my grief.”

“What could be more stressful than that?” The woman asks, and he smiles.

“Two godchildren learning how to drive. Twins. It’s enough to turn me old and grey.” Fingers stroke at the edge of his beard, tugging on a patch for emphasis.

It makes you smile, as there’s the squeal of a microphone, the best man inviting everyone back out to the dance floor.

You glance at Ben, where he’s dipping his head in goodbye - the mic too loud for them to hear his words from across the table. The legs of his chair scraping against the tile as he pushes back, uncrossing his legs to stand.

“Old and grey, huh?” You tease, as his hand extends. “Think you can keep up tonight?”

He tugs you out of your chair, his other hand on your elbow to steady you, “Funny.”

Out of everything, you still liked this part the best.

When everyone had eaten, tears and joy and laughter bouncing over the walls, soaking into your skin. When the lights die back down, and the music starts, again.

How he’ll pull you out to the dance floor, then.

Bright eyes, his hand warm and strong in yours. Sleeves rolled up, a button on his shirt popped for every hour that has gone by. His jacket slung neatly over his seat where it sat tucked next to yours.

You’ll hunt down his tie before you leave, finding it curled somewhere safe - in the sleeve of your coat, tucked into your purse.

Until then, you treasure this.

When it’s dark and the food and fun are fueling the floor, when the DJ reads the room and picks the perfect songs.

One moment facing him, all smiles as he spins you in his arms. The next, when his hands are on your hips as you move together. His front pressed against your back, the rough exhale of his breath in your ear just audible over the thud of the music.

It does something to you, an ache in your chest and then much lower.

Each evening together leaving you feeling like Cinderella, dancing with the Prince. Until the clock is striking midnight, and the magic and music has come to and end, and you’re just you again.

Alone, and pining.

Because this is just a fun, ongoing favor.

It won’t be anything more, even if you wish for it.

———

As the songs swirl around you, you realize how easy it is. How the two of you move, just how much you like dancing with Ben.

Nudging you, leading you effortlessly - not shying away from tugging you flush against him when you drift too far away, or get off-beat. Always watching, making sure you’re having a much fun as he is - the bright shine of his smile when he does a move that makes you laugh.

It’s slow - the way you have mapped out each others bodies in such a gradual, intimate way.

Hands that would hover in the beginning, the ghost of his hand against your shoulder, now grip on. With the comfort comes the familiarity - the thigh that slides between yours when it gets late and the songs turn dirty.

Your hands grasping at his waist, before raising above your head, encouraging his to wander. Spinning you around, a broad hand splaying under your breasts, pressing you back against his chest as the twist of your hips turns into a grind.

When everything seems to narrow down to just the two of you, that brief point of connection as his hips move with yours.

It’s a moment you crave, but for now - it’s still early.

Each song bleeding into the next. The last verse slowing as his fingers press against the curve of your hip - sliding down your thigh to hike it up against his as he dips you. Your hand splayed against the back of his neck, holding on.

Trusting him to pull you back up, his palm resting on the small of your back. Your heels sliding against the floor when he does, a squeak as you lose your balance - but you were never in any danger.

With a low laugh, his hand raising to the space between your shoulders as he tugs you flush against him.

Your fingers still scramble, clutching at the back of his neck, the other splaying across his chest.

His bare chest - your palm accidentally sliding where his shirt has become unbuttoned over the course of the evening, hanging loose and open down to his abdomen.

Steadied, you snatch your hand away, heat in your cheeks as you smile with embarrassment, as you apologize.

Even if you don’t mean it - for slipping, or for touching him.

His hand on your thigh moves, his fingers catching your own. Those pretty blue eyes under thick, lowered lashes watching as he draws it back, pressing your palm against him again.

Your fingers spreading out, against the coarse, auburn hair and hot, sticky skin - just above his thudding heart.

Lately, at the past few weddings, there had been a different kind of dance.

Ones that you didn’t know the steps to, carefully feelings the moves out on your own.

Like now - the lightest press of your palm against his neck, the way his head dips as if he can read your thoughts. The point of his nose brushing your cheek, followed by the lightest scratch of his beard.

The arm still curled around you shifting, raising higher, nudging you just a little bit closer as he sways.

If you just moved your mouth, you think your lips could brush. You feel your hand tremble against him, nerves and hope and longing as your fingers press into skin.

The music fades. The sultry tone shifting into something cheerful, a whoop from a group of men nearby as they recognize the line dance.

And just like that - the magic is broken.

You step back, blinking - your hand still warm as it smoothes down your dress, as his fingers trail after you.

Trying to think of something to say, so he doesn’t realize just how head-over-heels you are. Missing the way his lips stay parted, the way he’d drag you right back if you’d let him.

“Cake?” You manage, finally meeting his gaze, and he smiles.

A hand taking through his hair, pushing the long strands back from his forehead, “Yes, please. Vanilla, unless-”

“-unless they have strawberry.” You interrupt with a smile, “I know.”

Leaving him, the back of your hand pressed against a burning cheek as you make your way to the dessert table.

Waiting in line to grab your two pieces, making chit-chat with friends and faces you recognize. Smiling, when they have what he wants, wanting to watch the way his eyes light up when he sees.

But, he’s not at your table when you return. You frown as you set the plates down, glancing back to where you left him. Scanning the crowd, the messy lines of dancers copying each others moves, until you see it.

See him, his head thrown back as he laughs - a hand braced on his thigh as he tugs the arm of his partner, getting her back on beat. The flash of skin you can see from here as he moves - the peek of his chest that you had just had your hands on.

You feel frozen in place as you watch, a jolt of something sharp and scorching hot arcing through you. Burning up in a new kind of way when she clutches at his shoulders, as the rhythm of the dance turns in them in a new direction.

Facing you - where his eyes meet yours in the crowd. Where he can see how your lips press together, the blinking of your eyes as you process.

You know you’re holding him back.

He’s a good dancer. You can see the looks, the way people watch him. Sometimes they made you feel like you did now, but sometimes you felt… guilty.

Worried that he felt a noble obligation to indulge you, worried that your agreement meant he wasn’t bringing a real date like he’d prefer.

Sometimes you can smile and push those thoughts down. Ignoring them, as you’ve learned to do so well.

But tonight, it feels like too big of a burden to bear.

The grin slipping from his face as he watches you abandon the desserts on the nearest table - the forks clattering against the plastic plates as they drop.

As you turn on your heel, setting off for just about anywhere else.

Eyes focusing on the wide set of double-doors in the back, the hallway leading to the bathrooms.

He’s catching up with you - the touch of his fingers against your arm, sliding down until they wrap around your wrist. Its electric, in spite of everything, your stomach still flipping from the contact.

You turn, and Ben is looking at you curiously, and that feels like another betrayal. A confirmation that he doesn’t see you that way, and your throat is feeling tight as you shake your head, tugging away from his grasp.

“What’s going on?” He persists, a crease deepening between his brows, a tilt to his head.

You’re still in the middle of the room, lost in the islands of tables and skewed chairs. Not about to get into here, so instead you’re tugging him now - fingers catching the rolled edge of a sleeve as you steer him towards one of the carved out alcoves set along the walls.

“You can’t tell me it’s nothing, I’ve never seen you abandon a dessert like that.” He’s smiling, lacing his concern with jokes to ease you.

It almost works, the familiarity, the closeness, but then you’re looking at him and remembering - your eyes darting away.

“Nothing is wrong. I just wasn’t-,” You stumble, before taking a breath - finding your words, “You looked busy.”

They come out a little firmer, a little more pointed that you were expecting. He looks at you, eyebrows raised.

Your words, expression, too transparent because he gets it, and there’s a short bark of laughter as you turn to leave. As he’s stepping closer, and you find yourself tucked further into the nook.

“Sweetheart.” The nickname would normally make you melt, but you’re too busy trying to be brave, “Honestly, It was a line dance. I would’ve taught your grandmother how to do it.”

His exasperated look turns thoughtful, “You know, I think I actually did? Last summer, at your cousin’s-”

You shake your head, annoyed and enamored and hurt, your hands spreading wide, “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It could be nice, you know?”

Ben’s smile fades, as your back presses against the the wall, your eyes darting away as you clarify, “For you to dance with someone you actually want to be with.”

There’s a beat of silence. Stretching out, agonizing.

And then he laughs again, and it embarrasses you further - his fingers coming to catch your chin and tilt it upwards as he steps closer.

“Is that what you think, darling?” He breathes, as his words draw your eyes back. Meeting his heavy-lidded gaze, as his head dips level with yours.

“That I haven’t wanted this?”

He presses against you then, eyes still on yours as his hips roll. Guiding your hands up to lock around his neck as his forehead bumps against yours, a low sigh when you start to sway with him.

To dance, with him - again.

Tucked away in this little corner, just the two of you. And when your fingers wrap into his hair and tug - he groans. Unable to help himself as his head dips.

As his lips finally press against yours.

A hand cupping your jaw, warm and strong as his body follows, pulling you to him. Your own moan soft in your throat as it feels like weeks, months, years, of want is released, pushing yourself onto tip-toe in an attempt to get closer.

Your body seeming to move on instinct, rolling against his, until the soft fabric of your dress is crushing against his chest. A hand gripping your hip as your body shifts against his, until he’s gasping into your mouth.

The kiss deepening and you’re clinging to him as he traps you between his body and the wall. Soft against him and sweet on his tongue when he’s brushing against your lips and you’re opening for him.

Pulling away, letting your hands wander from his hair, to his strong shoulders, to his chest again. His own mouth hot as he kisses your jaw, feeling the moan in your throat as his lips move to just under your ear.

He always said he could feel the love in the room. You wonder if he can feel you - the sharp ache of desire and pent up longing.

You think maybe - he just might - from the way he groans against your neck, lips pressing against a spot where your pulse thuds.

A hand is resting against the small of your back, and now it pushes - angling your hips until they’re flush with him. Where you can feel the press of something hard, as his mouth hovers just next to your ear.

“That I haven’t wanted you?” He rasps, making you shiver, “That I haven’t been yours, only yours, this entire time?”

It making you moan, the ache between your thighs deepening, a clenching in your abdomen. The admission making you feel reckless, making you want even more.

“Can we get out of here?” You ask him, breathless - and you can hear his sharp exhale, the scrape of his beard against your cheek.

“Yes, darling.” He says against your mouth, pressing a quick kiss before he steps back from the wall - bringing you with him, “Your room or mine?”

Your eyes are shining as you move with him, smiling as you shake your head, “I don’t care. Anywhere. As long as it’s with you.”

His hand finding yours, bringing your knuckles up to us mouth, pressing his lips against the first two.

“I think I can manage that, darling.”

Feeling infinitely lighter, your own laugh bubbling up, as he tugs you toward the exit.

———

Your stomach is full of butterflies as he lays you down on the bed - his room, though it doesn’t really matter.

He follows, his weight pressing into you, mouth finding yours again as his fingers pluck at the layers of your dress, making room for himself between your thighs.

Soft, gasping breaths as you cling to him, a hand pressed against the back of his neck as you inhale a breath before tugging him back down again.

Those nerves twisting into something much more pleasurable as he finds the slit in your dress, fingers tracing along skin to hook a hand under your knee - draw your thigh around his hip.

Realizing with a start that it doesn’t feel that far from before, the same sort of fluttering when he dipped you. From excitement - the thrill of it. Knowing you could trust him, and he had shown you he could.

You could trust him here, too.

Let him lead, like you always did.

His hips drop, grinding himself against you - the thick length of his in his trousers pressing in the against your inner thigh as you groan into his mouth.

Tugging on the strands of hair again, parting your lips so his tongue can stroke yours, just as your own hips roll up to meet his.

It’s not long before your make-out turns sloppy, the scratch of his beard against your neck as his teeth just press against the hollow under your ear.

An ache that blooms into pleasure as his teeth pinch, lip suck. The swipe of his tongue afterwards, leaving a pretty mark for later.

All while you tear at those last two buttons that hold together his white, wrinkled dress shirt - greedily mapping the warm, freckled skin beneath with eager fingers.

“I’ve thought about this,” His breath is warm against your throat, a soft sigh as he searches blindly for the closure of your dress.“Endlessly. Hoping every time that we might end the night together.”

“Me too.” You echo the relief in his voice, helping him with the zipper, his body only lifting for the few moment it takes for you to rid the fabric from your body.

The ache of want thuds between your thighs, his leg sliding back into place as you tug him back down on top of you. Your sigh then - feeling the strong muscles press against you, as his nose brushes your cheek, his lips pressing against your jaw.

Fingers that trace from your shoulder, to a breast. A gentle squeeze, marveling in the way you feel in his hand. The brush of a thumb against against a taut nipple before it ghosts further down.

The welcome weight of him shifting as he lifts himself off you, just enough for his fingers to slide and press against your center. Feeling where the fabric dampens for him, his breath warm against your skin as his mouth opens in a groans.

“So wet, darling.” He says it like it’s a gift, something special just for him. And tonight - it is.

Your hips rock on their own, until he’s pressing, circling his fingers. Smearing your arousal against the soft silk, your own fingers biting into the muscles of his biceps.

“Only you.” The answer comes breathy, needy. Reaching with one hand to catch the waistband, pushing them down to your thighs.

“Mmm. Impatient, are we?” He coos, pleased, and you make a low sound in your throat - drawn out and sharp.

As if you haven’t waited ages. Days and weeks and months.

“Please.” You beg, and mercifully - he listens.

Lips pressing open-mouthed against your neck before they seal against the skin again. Fingers that cup you, feeling the heat, before one teases at your slit. Sliding easily over your slick folds, before the tip of a finger presses into you.

It’s bliss, after the wait. Your head tilts back with a groan, baring more of your neck for him to mark. His hips rolling against yours in time with the way he fucks you with his finger. A steady pump, a curl. His panting breath growing just as loud as yours in the quiet hotel room.

“Ben.” You groan, and he treasures the way it sounds on your lips, the way they part for him while he’s buried in you.

It’s affects him, his name on your lips - his fingers still moving as he shifts, easing himself down the bed. Until he’s level with your hips, nudging your thighs apart with a shoulder.

Touching you like he did on your first wedding date together. Fingers that began with the barest ghost, tease - now firm and sure. Finding what you like, what makes your hands curl into fists as his mouth lowers.

The peek of his tongue as it presses against you, warm and soft against your clit. You’re choking on your breath as he hums, the sound turning into a low, needy groan as he tastes you.

Eyes fluttering shut for a moment before they’re fixing on you, ensnaring. As he encourages you to move, pressing yourself against his tongue, his mouth. Watching you, like he does when you dance.

With eyes had only ever been on yours.

It’s too much - his attention, his touch - after all the waiting. Overwhelming you with the steady plunge of his fingers and the pointed flick of his tongue - it’s not long at all before you’re crying out, his hand pinning down one of your thighs as they threaten to close around him.

As he feels your release, how you gush for him. Tongue dipping down to taste you, fingers withdrawing to press and circle against your clit. Relishing in the sound of your moan, the sound drawn out in the darkened room, one he’s thought often about hearing.

It’s as lovely as he imagined, a tightness in his trousers that borders on uncomfortable, now.

You tremble against him, rocking into the press of his fingers and swipe of his tongue, as the last waves of pleasure wash over you, leaving you breathless, eyes half-lidded.

Loose-limbed now, fingers uncurling from where your nails bit into your palms, leaving little marks. Lazily pushing yourself up as you reach for him, your hand searching clumsily for his belt as his mouth meets yours.

It’s a heady feeling, tasting yourself on Ben as his tongue sweeps against your lip. Feeling him, your palm pressing against the front of his trousers, before you’re working open his belt.

Shoving the fabric down with you, and then off - leaving his cock to hang heavy between his thighs, swollen and thick. A smiling flash of teeth as he catches you looking, your own mental confirmation that every inch of him is pretty.

His skin velvet-soft when you reach out, fingertips sliding along his shaft. As he hovers over you, lowering you down to the mattress once more, as you open eagerly for him.

Kneeling between your thighs as his fingers press against your center, coming back slick. Wrapping his hand around his cock, a rough, low sigh as his fist jerks.

You’re imagining what it would be like to taste him, to hold him in your mouth, against your tongue. Seeing if the the sounds he’d make would be as beautiful as his voice, his laugh.

He brings you back with a touch, his palm cupping your face, drawing your gaze to his soft, blue eyes, “Do you still want this, darling?”

The this sliding hot and hard against your center, a low moan that comes from your chest as your thighs nudge wider, as your body arches into his. Close enough that your chin can lift, that your mouth can press against his in the seconds after your answer.

“God, yes.”

There’s a groan in his throat as his hips shift forward, as he finally sinks into you - where you’re soaked from his mouth and your release. The stretch pleasurable as he eases in with a slow thrust, burying himself in your heat.

“Oh, darling. I should have made you jealous ages ago,” He sighs, as you clutch as his shoulders, as he fills you, “You feel incredible.”

Your laugh turns into a sharp inhale of breath when he find himself pressed deep, your thighs clamping against his hips unconsciously.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut with your gasp, opening again just in time to see him smile.

Fingers cup the back of his neck, like before. His lips on yours, sharing the same breath as he eases out, before snapping back in. A gasp that begins in your throat and ends in his as he does it again, the ridges of his cock stroking inside you so perfectly.

Holding himself above you, so he can watch your face, before you’re both watching the way his cock disappears into you. You’re already feeling the coiling in your belly, the sated ache returning - fueled by receiving the thing you’ve been wanting for so long.

Him.

Because tonight, he is yours. All yours. You can see it now, how he looks at you with half-lidded eyes. The scrape of teeth against his lip before they’re parting, panting when he feels you clench around him.

As he lowers himself, the heavy thrust of his hips turning into a rough grind, his chest pressed to yours. Your face buried in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around another until you’re not sure where he ends, and you begin.

The tip of his cock nudging against a spot that steals your breath, until you’re clutching at him, your hips rolling in time with his.

“Will you give me another, love?” He coos in your ear, a kiss pressed to the skin just beneath, “Can you come for me again?”

You’re nodding, eyes closed tight as you focus on the narrowed point of pleasure, swiftly building, “Yes. Ben, please-”

“Show me then, darling. Let me feel you.”

Everything winding up tight, as he shift just a bit. Fitting a hand between you, fingers curling over your mound to press at your clit, as your mouth searches for his.

Moving together, like you have been, all this time. The circle of his fingers and grind of his cock have your head tilting back, his name on your lips, then, “Oh my god, I’m so close-”

His breath short and harsh as you tremble, then come undone for him. Your cunt pulsing around him, as you moan - your cheek pressed against the coarse stubble of his beard.

Ben’s moan echoing yours, as if he can feel the tight throb in your core, the way your vision goes soft and hazy. His own release on the cusp of yours, his thrusts going sloppy, rutting into your heat.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m going to come.” He rasps, voice tight with a sharp inhale of breath, “Will you take me?”

Still coming down from your own high, your heart pounding in your ears as you gasp out your agreement, “Yes, I want all of you.”

There’s a shudder of breath, a blinking, widening of his eyes. His fingers press into your flesh, hitching your thigh around his hip as groans, thrusts going quick and shallow. The sound from his throat drawing out long and low as his cock throbs, his release spilling inside you.

It’s prettier than you’ve imagined. His sounds, the pinch of his brow, his parted lips as he comes. Chest flexing with the effort, your fingers pressing flat against it again as he hovers over you, now spent.

The dance ends with his forehead brushing yours, before finding your mouth with his. Sighs and smiling and wandering fingers, leisurely mapping over skin.

Making up for all the lost time.

Later - his voice is a rumble beneath your ear, as your head rests on his chest. The sound soothing, as fingers brush the back of your head, down the column of your neck, then your bare shoulder.

“I received an invitation, last week. The RSVP isn’t due yet, but the wedding is in March.”

Your head tilts, chin scraping over the skin before you rest it on a bent arm, “Sounds good. I don’t have anything for March yet.”

His lips twitch, a soft smile, “Well, I wanted to ask if you’d go with me.”

A crease forms between your brow, an eye closing so you can see him better in the dim light, “You don’t have to ask, you know I’d come.”

The smile deepens, a dimple forming just below the little mark on his cheek that you long to press your lips against.

“I want to ask you, darling.” Ben tells you, the hand curling around, thumb brushing against your cheek, “Come with me. Not as part of our agreement.”

A pause, before he clarifies, “As my date.”

It makes your stomach flip, your teeth sinking into your lower lip, “Yeah?”

He nods, and then you’re bracing against him, pushing up. Your mouth pressing to his, stealing a kiss before you answer.

“Then, yes. Always, yes.”

[dilfcember masterlist]

(Tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto)

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starlady66 · 1 year

Text

Acceptance

Summary: It’s your wedding night, so why are you knocking on Aemond’s door?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW. Virgin reader. Virginity loss. Friends to lovers. Consummation proof. Fingering.

A/N: You can most definitely read this as a stand-alone, but I do recommend reading part I, II, and III for some context. For those who have read each part, this is the final one. Hope you enjoy it!

Word count: 2.5k

To say you were nervous would be an understatement. You were absolutely terrified. But no amount of fear could deter you from the decision you had made.

You stood outside his bedchamber, the pit of your belly tightening in anticipation. Even thiugh there was still a tiny part of you that urged you to walk away, you didn’t.

Because you didn’t want to.

Your knuckles tapped the door twice and your heart lurched into a frantic pace as you bit your lower lip, attempting to keep your nervousness at bay.

It didn’t take long before you were met with Aemond.

He gripped the doorknob while his eye fell to your face first and then to your forearm.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, clenching his jaw.

Realising the conclusion he had drawn from the bruise that tinted your skin, you immediately shook your head with a chuckle. “No. I… tripped on my way here…”

He wasn’t convinced.

“Aemond… he did not touch me.”

Gradually, the tension on his face faded away, but he remained unmoving.

“May I?”

He stepped to the side at once, eye still fixed on you as you walked in. Closing the door shut, he paced until he was in front of you, bringing your feet to a halt.

You swallowed hard as you glared at the beautiful man with whom you had shared so much of your life. Lines were crossed and blurred beyond recognition. The friendship you had once share had morphed into something you had craved and yearned for.

Until tonight.

Until another man took you as his wife and severed that bond.

“What are you doing here?” he asked seriously.

You stared at him dazedly, feeling a jab at your heart. “He won’t bed me. He’s too drunk to bed me,” you said in a low voice, wishing to match his level of deadpan.

Aemond stood in silence for a long while before he crossed both arms over his chest, the linen undershirt underneath wrinkling.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated in a final tone.

Your jaw quirked angrily. “You do not know what I’m here to ask.”

Aemond heaved a deep sigh. “I already know,” he said simply. “You are not mine to take.”

“So you’d have me bed him?”

“He’s your lord husband.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock. In truth, you had considered the idea that he’d be reluctant in having you. He had done so many times before, but you had hoped this time things would go differently.

“I’m willingly giving myself to you,” you said, struggling to keep your voice steady. “My father will demand proof of consummation and…”

He held up a finger. “So that is why you’re here.”

“To give you my maidenhead? Yes.”

But Aemond saw deeper than that. “And proof of consummation.”

You stared at him long and hard. “This is the one thing I have control over as of right now. I was forced into a loveless marriage…” your voice faltered momentarily. “I’m married to a drunken fool who is too out of it to perform his duty.”

Duty.

The very thing that shaped Aemond’s being and one not easily broken.

“I will not take what’s not mine.”

“Please…” you said, realising how pathetic your plea sounded.

An empty silence weaved around both of you, only disrupted by the crackling flames dancing in the fireplace nearby. A warm hand touched your shoulder and you flinched away from his touch.

“I thought… you wanted this…” you said quietly.

His eye narrowed. “What I desire matters not.”

“It does,” you said, letting your robe slide off your shoulders and down your body. “You know I’m yours to take.”

You expected more resistance from him, but you could understand why he didn’t. After all, it was a feeling you knew all too well. Craving what is given to others.

He took a step towards you, eye roaming down the length of your body as you undid your nightgown. Aemond held out his hand to touch it before tugging softly until the sheer fabric came sliding down and pooling at your feet.

The exposure and cooler air had your nipples harden and you shivered as his hand traveled down your shoulder and arm.

“Please, Aemond…” you said, fighting back the urge to cry at how desperate you were. “Please…”

It was already appalling enough to be stuck in this situation, but you refused giving yourself to a man who meant nothing to you. Even if tradition called for it and had people marry each other out of pure convenience, you deserved better than that.

Especially when you had Aemond.

His hand came to rest under your breast and you felt his thumb caressed it slowly.

“You’re tempting,” he said as if talking to himself. “Too tempting.”

“Then take me,” you offered, bringing your own hands to rest on his chest, allowing yourself to feel his firm muscles heave underneath your palms. “I don’t give a fuck about my husband and I’m certain you feel the same way.”

He gritted his teeth. “Not even Vhagar’s fire would match the one flaring inside me when I saw you with him.”

Your fingers gripped the hem of his undershirt and he quickly got rid of it, exposing his torso to you.

“You should have killed him.”

Aemond’s lips turned into a smile. “A very alluring prospect, indeed.”

His hands were suddenly on your breasts and you bit back a moan as he caressed you. You couldn’t help but to have your own eyes travel down his torso, admiring how his muscles rippled under his skin.

“I’m sure Larys Strong will find a way.”

Aemond snickered. “Please do not mention him… it’s a sure way to ruin this.”

By ‘this’ he meant his restrained cock that had your nervousness turn into desire. Trembling fingers gripped the hem of his breeches, but before you could slip one hand inside he gripping your wrist.

“Tonight isn’t about me,” he whispered.

He ducked forward taking your lips in his and your eyes immediately slid shut with a soft sigh of pleasure. You could get lost in his touch for hours. A simple kiss shouldn’t be able to have wetness drip from you, but it couldn’t be helped. When you felt a nibble on your lower lip and his tongue lightly tapping it, you promptly parted your lips and deepened the kiss.

Without tearing himself from you, he took you in his arms, lifting you off your feet effortlessly as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Aemond only broke the kiss once he reached the edge of the bed. He placed you on top of the soft bedsheets, bringing one knee to press down for support.

You suddenly felt very exposed and staring into his eye had a wave of embarrassment wash over you, breaking eye contact.

“Look at me.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, you did as you were told, pressing your thighs together to hide your desire for him.

Suddenly, he moved away from the bed and came back carrying your nightgown.

Confusion splattered across your face as dropped to his knees on the mattress and slid closer to you. He gripped both your knees and parted your legs slowly to reveal yourself fully to his gaze.

Without uttering a word be brought your nightgown to rest just below your entrance, tucking it slightly under your backside.

“You’ll need your proof of consummation.”

Oh.

Aemond then settled in between your legs, leaning into you to press a tender kiss to the corner of your lips, causing you to shift restlessly underneath him, very much aware of the weight of his body on yours.

Your back instantly arched your back as you felt his hard cock pressed flat against your folds, causing your clit to swell and throb in anticipation.

Aemond lowered his face to your neck, planting several open-mouthed kisses across your sensitive skin. Your eyes fluttered shut and a moan escaped your lips. His tongue slid over your pulse point, sending your hips to lift from the bed, further increasing the pressure his cock applied to your clit.

“Aemond… please…” you groaned, deciding you were too tired of waiting for him to finally deflower you.

But what you lacked in patience, Aemond made up for in incredible self-restraint.

With one hand he stilled your rolling hips. “You’re not ready.”

You huffed in annoyance, dragging your fingernails along his chest teasingly. But he was right. He was well-endowed and you needed all the preparation he was willing to provide — and you willing to go through.

After ensuring you remained still, he snaked his hand between your legs, raising his own hips to make room for his prying fingers.

He pressed a kiss to your lips before sliding one finger inside.

But you could take more than that.

And you were aware he knew once a second finger joined the other.

You gasped into his lips, breath shaking and wet sounds filling his bedchamber. The head of his cock would occasionally hit your clit each time he shifted on top of you, making your entire body shudder in pleasure.

He gave you one final peck. “Can you take another one?”

It was possible you could, but you didn’t want another finger. You wanted his cock to push through your maidenhead and have you be bound to him.

You immediately shook your head. “I need more than that… please…”

Instead, he curled his fingers inside while pressing your clit with his thumb, causing you to cry out, nails digging into his shoulders.

Aemond held himself above you, watching you intently as more head flooded your body and wetness spilled from you. You drew your eye open and realised his gaze was as a fire that burned down on your face

Your mind drew a blank and you felt your lower abdomen begin to twist into a familiar knot. It never failed to amaze you how easily Aemond could get your over the edge.

Knowing your body far too well by now, Aemond was quick to withdraw both fingers from inside just as your walls were starting to clench down frantically around him.

“Aemond!” you cried out in despair at the overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

He brought his fingers to your lips, smearing your wetness across them before tasting it in a searing and scorching kiss.

You moaned, rolling your hips into him once you felt him lower himself onto you once more.

He cradled your face in his hand. “Are you ready?”

You nodded right away in between gasps as he slid his cock along your slick folds.

Aemond heaved a deep sigh as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

You nodded, your heart nearly bursting out of your chest.

With a slight roll of his hips, Aemond managed to get the head of his cock through the barrier. You gasped loudly you felt a sting of pain followed by the uncomfortable sensation of something rolling down.

Tears gathered in your eyes and you felt Aemond kiss each of the away with his lips. He wasn’t moving inside you and you were wholeheartedly thankful for his thoughtfulness.

The pain wasn’t unbearable by any means, but it was enough to have you sobbing lightly.

“We can stop here,” he said lovingly, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

You took a deep breath, mustering all the strength within you. “Keep going…”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

No.

But it didn’t matter. You had been waiting for this for far too long to back down now.

“Try your best to relax.”

Aemond kissed you again, but you understood it was mainly to muffle your cries as he sank deeper inside you. You tried to ease the grip around him, but it was proving itself to be harder than expected.

He broke the kiss with a growl, breath coming out in hot pants. “You’re too tight… I won’t… last long…”

Even through the pain, you managed to feel the weight of his words as your clit pulsed once again.

By the time he had buried himself deeply inside, you didn’t dare breathe for a few seconds, your body still trying to adjust to his size.

Your hands clawed at his back as you tried to ease some of the tension.

“Are you well?” he asked in between gritted teeth.

“Thought it would hurt more,” you breathed out, noticing he was struggling to keep himself steady. “Are you?”

He let out a breathy growl. “You’re squeezing too hard…”

It was clear that he wasn’t going to last long, so you squeezed one hand in between your bodies, applying a faint pressure to your clit.

“Move,” you urged him.

You needed to feel more of him and when the young prince slid out slowly and back inside, you felt the air in your lungs rush out rapidly. Your clit demanded attention and you didn’t mind to provide it, but Aemond would have none of that.

He pushed your hand away at once replacing it with his own, setting a slow and steady pace as your walls finally began to ease down around his cock.

The overwhelming heat and size of him filling the aching emptiness was something you never thought you needed. In no time, your muscles were clamping down around him urgently and the bedchamber whirled away into a blur as orgasm crept upon you, catapulting you straight into the middle of a storm.

“Aemond… Aemond…” you gasped repeatedly, feeling the muscles on his back flex languidly with each slow thrust.

Once more, you arched your back and your vision went dark. Spasms and contractions of pleasure washed down your body, centered around where where his body was connected to yours. Aemond had buried his face in the crook of your neck, no longer bothering to silence your cries of pleasure.

It took you a long time to realise he had pulled out of you and was coating your belly with hot streaks of cum, letting out the most alluring growls you had ever heard from him.

He slumped to the side, removing the blanket of warmth he had enveloped you in with his body.

You felt incapable of stringing words together for the longest time, merely trying to get your breathing to steady while feeling the rolls of his seed streaming down your sides.

Aemond was the first to move, gathering your nightgown in his hand, displaying a few drops of blood that had stained the fabric.

“I think I may have to kill your husband.”

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starlady66 · 1 year

Text

Gilded Lily

Summary: You were born to die and unlike the others around you, you have accepted that truth long ago. But then, things change. Your father is killed, the Atreides are made royal and you are captured.

Warning (s): Detailed death scene, sick characters, eventual smut, eventual major character death, talks of killing and murder, blah blah blah.

Notes: this is part one bc the doc was getting out of hand 😭 This is 4.8k words. Don't tell me if this is bad, imma burst into tears.

Twelve years of planning, scheming, and rebellion was lost in a single night. Twelve years of anger, unrest, and injustice were destroyed because a father loved his daughter too much.

In years time, when you are long dead and your family's legacy is nothing but a story told to warn others, you hope they offer your father grace. That for all his twisted and cruel ways, for all his betrayal plotting— they see that he is, was, a father. One who loved fiercely, who wanted to protect the only family he had left.

His execution is a slow process, The Duke stands dressed in a mix of blacks, greens, and gold behind his kneeling figure. His face set in a grim frown, he speaks of your father's betrayal; he details multiple attacks, and coups set upon the Atreides family and their supporters. He lists the dead, the people your father had killed, and the deaths he played a part in. The Duke talks and talks, and his people listen, they cheer and shout for blood to be spilled. They chant his name, they call him King.

Your father does not take his eyes off of you. He does not cry, he does not beg for mercy. He simply stares straight ahead, his lips pulled into a humorless smile. He may not cry but his eyes shine with unshed tears and his gazes waivers ever so slightly to the chains around your wrists and ankles, to the guards that are pinned to your sides. His grin wobbles and he blinks. But he does not cry. Not in front of you, in front of the Duke soon to be crowned King, and not for the supporters who linger in the crowd.

The executioner's blade rises, the crowd's cheers are near deafening, and the Duke looks away; he looks at you. There is a pity in his gaze but there is also fierce determination. The rebellion ends here.

The blade drops. You see it all in slow motion, the Duke turning his son away, his mistress watching on. The crowd jumping— cheering, mothers shielding the eyes of their children. Your father, he lets his smile drop, his mouth opens—

I love–

The sentence is never finished. His head falls, rolling into the crowd. The guards hold you up as you collapse, screaming.

The rebellion ends here.

➫➫➫

“I refuse.”

There's a hiss of annoyance from the servant. She holds your meal and your medicine on a golden tray, balancing them with the prior doses. It's been three days since the death of your father, two weeks since you last heard from your brother and nearly four days since you've eaten or taken your medicine.

It's starting to take a toll on you, the grief, and your sickness. Your mouth is constantly dry, and no amount of water is enough to sate your thirst. Your hands are constantly shaking, aching with an ancient pain, and most times you are confined to your bed because the ache in your bones is too much to bear.

When your bones don't ache, the pain in your chest takes the stage— making each breath feel like it's pinching its way out of your lungs. Your existence is miserable.

You had begged your captors for death, and they had denied.

The servant shuffles in her place, her face pinched. “The King insisted, Lady.” The title leaves her mouth sour as if she dreads to address you as such. “He wishes to remind you that you are not a prisoner here. That you are free to leave your room with a guard as long as you take your medicine.”

You aren't a prisoner, are you? With a room plated in gold and a constant stream of food and water, how could you be considered as such? You even had a servant— a maid who despised your very existence but was eager to listen to your every command if you so much as said it. You had tried to ignore it, to throw a sheet over the truth. You were more a spoil of war than a prisoner of it.

Still, you hold strong. “Tell the King, I refuse. Tell him the only thing I wish for is death.”

The maid takes a breath, you think she'll slam the try down and storm off. She had done so before, only to shuffle back hours later to do the same song and dance all over again, but she didn't. She places the tray down by the door and stalks further into the room, you watch with wary eyes as she sits to the left of you. In a plush green chair, her hazel eye stare is piercing. “You are being childish.”

You scoff and though the action is painful, you sink further into the bed and look away from her. She only sneers at you, continuing. “You are childish, selfish and ignorant of all those that surround you. The King offers a branch and you refuse to take it?”

“Your King killed my father.” You wheeze, your lungs giving a painful squeeze. “I think I'm allowed to be all those things and more.”

“He is not my King.” She spits, her voice a deadly whisper. “And you are not the only one who's lost people. My mother, my brother and my nephews are dead. Leto Atreides refused to do anything about the sickness sweeping across his settlements and my people paid for it.” She takes a deep breath, cooling the anger that dances across her face. “The rebellion is not lost. We still have a fighting chance.”

You give the servant a tired look. “My father is dead. Your leader is gone and even if he wasn't, he was a monster, he killed hundreds.”

“And what is that compared to this King's thousands?” She retorts. “Your father was not a monster, he was a commander. A voice for the scorned and your brother the sword to his cause. You can pick up where they left off, you can fix this.”

A laugh spills past your lips, it's damn near hysteric and it jolts the servant in her seat. “Fix what, exactly? I can not raise the dead, my brother is lost and my sickness threatens to claim my life. Preach your hymns to another light, Lady. Preferably not a pyre.”

She doesn't appreciate your joke, she stands abruptly, her lips tight and her brows furrowed. “Your father would not want this for you. Neither would your brother. They talked of you, constantly. Endlessly. They told us you knew nothing of their plans, that they kept you in the dark because they thought you'd risk everything to join them despite your sickness.” She looks to you, searching your face for the girl they spoke of. She looks away when all that stares back at her is a person rotting away. “It seems they were wrong.”

She doesn't let you get another word in before she leaves. The door slams behind her and your eyes struggle to find the movement. To think he would have supporters hid right under the King's nose— it was probably a backup plan; to have the very girl who dotes on you now, saddle up to the King. For her to get close enough to where his guard drops and she could sneak in the finishing blow, or maybe,it was insurance. Maybe, just maybe, your father knew he'd fail in the long run and to have people inside the castle was another way to protect you when he was gone.

Your eyes flutter shut with a huff, who was she to preach to you? To try to convince you to shove the very thing that cripples you to the side to take up the pipedream that was your father's legacy?

You loved your father, you love your brother. But you are no fool, they did not tell you in fear that you'd join them. They didn't tell you because you'd refuse to do so. You were not blind to the sins of Duke— King Leto, but they were things he could not prevent. The very sickness the servant speaks of was something incurable, something unstoppable and yet when the King tried to close borders to limit its reach, every trader rich and poor had complained. They snuck past guards and bribed their way into areas closed off and so, the sickness continued till all that caught it died and the only ones left were those who were immune.

Thousands died but their deaths were something not even the most talented healer could prevent. Thousands died and their King mourned with them, sending out provisions; medicines, food and clean water. He had offered to cut the land tax and offered the family of the dead a hefty amount of silver to help them in trying times. The King, then Duke, mourned his people and yet, some of them blamed him.

The King has his sins and he atones for them. He has to live with them. But your father? Your father had killed people in cold blood for not supporting his cause, he had robbed the sick and poor to fund his rebellion. Your father had cried; retribution! His people answered in blood.

Your father was not a commander, he was a monster and your brother his teeth.

Still, a part of you clings to the image of them they showed you. It clings to the father who'd greet you every morning with your medicine and a smile, it clings to the brother who treated you as if you've never fallen sick— who snuck you out for your planets first snowfall and showed you how to pet the serpents that laid in your riverbeds. It clings to the family, no matter how small and broken it was. Two truths could exist at once.

Your family were monsters. True. Your family was the only peace and safety you'd ever know. The truth.

You don't want to fall asleep but your body works against you, deciding that your pain will be more bearable if you aren't awake to feel every ache in your bones and stab in your chest. You can't fight, you don't really try to— but, as your consciousness fades, you hear your door open with a click. You can't force your eyes open but you hope it's the King, you hope he's granting your wish.

➫➫➫

Paul tries his best to understand his father. He studies his actions, his words and listens to whatever thoughts he chooses to share. He retraces his steps starting from the very moment Leto Atreides was named Duke and ending when he was crowned a King.

His father has suffered tragedy after tragedy, from the death of his own father to the death of his first wife and son.

Paul Atreides likes to think he gets his father, understands him on a level only a son could. But no matter how hard he tries, he can not, for the life of him, understand why his father spares the children of that traitorous Balliol man. Kings before him would have made examples of them— the death of their father wouldn't have been enough, they would have cut the hands off the son and forced him to fight in coliseums. They would have stripped his daughter bare, cut her hair to her scalp and parade her around their kingdoms till the elements took her. There would have been songs, plays made about the fall of the great Balliol family and the rise of the Golden King. His father, who has always told him to look to the past; to learn the stories of his grandfather and all before him, does not do the same.

He turns Paul away from the sight of his death. He sends his son, a man nicknamed The Butcher, away to a planet whose inhabitants were known to never anger or raise a hand in violence. He rids the Butcher of his weapons and collars him so any violence is punished with a painful zap. He keeps his daughter, a sickly girl, locked away somewhere deep in the castle with servants waiting on her hand and foot. He thinks it's a waste of resources— you were dying anyway, so why not cast you aside and let you rot instead of trying to cure you? He doesn't get it. He doesn't understand.

His father tells him it's because he's not thinking like a ruler. His father looks disappointed, horribly so, when he voices his thoughts and tells him, in a kinder way, to grow up. That he is no longer a future Duke, but a future King. With the defeat of Balliol and all his supporters, came a responsibility much bigger than the planets they left behind.

“It is a cycle, Paul.” His father rasps, his voice thick as he nurses a cup of liquor and a cigar to dull his migraine. His mother, ever diligent, ever loyal, is at his side. Her hands rubbed soothing circles into his skin. “A pattern, even. Of endless hurt. I cut the head off the Hydra. That should be enough.”

“No,” Paul protests, his voice hard. “When you cut off one head, two more grow in its place–”

“A cycle,” Leto says again, his eyes distant. “What shall I do when I cut those two heads and four sprouts in its place? Should I respond with violence every time? When does it end, Paul? Why must my hands be stained with blood endlessly when I can allow the two living heads to learn from the priors’ mistakes?”

For a moment, Paul is speechless. He looks to his mother for some type of support only to wilt when she has her head bowed away from him. She agrees with his father. Paul doesn't get it, endless possibilities run through his mind— his dreams do not hold solid answers, nor does Duncan when he turns to him. He doesn't get it and wants to desperately. So, he tries a different angle.

“Balliol was a monster.”

His father hums, he doesn't disagree. “He was a friend, once.”

“And because he was a friend, you pardon his children? His son?”

Leto takes a sip from his cup, chuckling humorlessly. Jessica sighs. Both sounds make him bristle. He watches as his father places his cup to the side, and his cigar in a tray before looking at him. Truly looking at him. “Would you kill for me, Paul?”

Paul blinks, chest tightening. “What?”

“If I asked it of you, would you?” Leto asks again, “If I told you it was the right thing to do, that if it'd save your mother, that you would never have to hurt again, would you kill for me?”

Jessica makes a noise of protest, her eyes flickering between the two of them but Leto holds up a hand, his gaze never wavering. Paul hesitates, only for a second before swallowing. “Of course, I would.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Paul answers, slowly. He looks at his father unsurely, “I don't–”

“Why would it matter that I asked, Paul? Would you have answered differently if someone else asked?” Leto presses.

“Of course, I would–”

"Why?”

“Because you're my father!” Paul snaps. Jessica lets her eyes fall shut, taking a shuddering breath. Leto slumps into his chair, Paul continues unsteadily, “I would do it because you're my father. I would do anything you asked of me.”

Leto picks up his glass, his hands shake almost unnoticeably but the ice rattles like a snake in his cup. “ Exactly. So, why should I punish another son for doing what my own would do? Why would I punish a girl whose only sin was being her father's daughter?”

Paul doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, Leto's words sit heavy in his chest, on his soul. He squirms in his seat, under his father's gaze then—

“Paul–”

He's on his feet before he can think, storming away like a petulant child. His father grabs his mother by her arm before she can follow him, and he tells her to let him go. It is something he's never done before. But, it is something he is thankful for. He needs to think, he needs time.

He needs to think like a future King and not a boy.

➫➫➫

The air is cool when you wake. The ceiling is a glittering, sparkling silver, and the blankets that cover you are not blankets at all— instead, a thin gray sheet spills over you messily, bunched in some areas and dips to the floor in others. You turn your head just slightly, squinting as a glow orb floats over your head, it pulses at you almost curiously before floating off deeper into the room.

You blink. Your mind is trying its best to shake off the fog that clings to it. This is not your room. Well, not the room you were in before. This room is silver and white, its floor carpeted instead of marbled and every possible sharp edge of the room is rounded. Your eyes fall to your body, taking in the thick white nightgown that now covers your body to the IV embedded in the crook of your arm. Your lips part and your body shivers, for the first time in a long time, your constant thirst is bearable, the ache in your bones is nothing but a memory and your chest doesn't pinch painfully.

You take a breath, a deep one, and let it go. You stir under the sheets, trying to sit up but you struggle— days without food have made your body weak and most unwilling to respond.

“Here,” A voice starts and suddenly gentle hands are helping you upright. You blink at him, in shock, staring at his face wide-eyed and Paul avoids your stare, fluffing the pillow behind you. Though, when you don't look away, his eyes meet yours with a frown. “What?”

Yours snap away instantly and you flinch away from his grasp immediately, “Sorry. I'm–” Your heart pounds, you dare to peek at him again but he's staring above you at a monitor that displays your vitals. He watches the jump in your pulse with the same frown, if not deeper than before. Your hands grip weakly at the sheets, should you bow? Could you bow? There was a prince in your presence, towering over your bed. It was something of romance novels, of fantasy long lost and, it makes you sicker than you are. You wish for space, you wish for the room before and where they left you to rot. “Where–”

Paul steps away as if he was never close in the first place, his gaze trailing away from you and to a tray. It's smaller than any of the other ones, it only has a small bowl of oatmeal, paired with diced berries and a small cup of juice. Your medicine is nowhere to be seen but the sight of the IV in your arms tells you they resorted to other methods to get you to take it. Methods that were always out of reach for you when your father was alive. He waves a hand and the bot holding the tray rises with a whirring noise and wheels till it's near your bed and slowly, lowers the tray into your lap. You look at the tray, the food, and the bot, which lets out a delightful little beep then at Paul who is watching you with a careful look of indifference.

“You are still in the castle.” He answers your unfinished question from before. “We had you transferred to a smaller, safer room when you refused to wake. It has only been a day, you are lucky. They were considering a feeding tube.” He pauses, smiling listlessly. “They still are. Eat.”

You give the oatmeal a look. It's bland, even with the berries and juice. It smells of wet paper and paste and it makes your stomach turn on itself. “I’m not hungry.”

“And I'm not the son of a King.” He refutes. “You will get better food in time, when you prove you can handle this type first. We can't give you big portions or season it– it will only cause more pain.” When you make no move to grab the spoon, Paul considers you for a moment. His eyes search your face, fluttering in thought, “Can you move your arms?”

“Barely.” You admit, you can barely muster the energy to unclench your fist let alone raise your arms to eat. It is utterly embarrassing.

Paul sighs, “I shall fetch your maid and–”

Your pulse spikes, fast enough to make the silent monitor beep in warning. You do not want to deal with that woman again, she'll only rant about your father again or perhaps she'd refuse to feed you till you agreed to help her. She seems like the type. “No.” You hiss. Paul watches you shift in your bed, your face twisting in pain, “I can– I can do it myself, there is no need to get her.”

“You are being stubborn.” He says, his voice softening when you flinch again. His lips seel shut for only a moment, considering his words before he speaks. “She is meant to help you, my father assigned her, himself. She will not hurt you–” Your pulse spikes, and the monitor beeps in warning again. Paul falls silent, his face taunt. His mouth opens but the words catch in his throat, like he doesn't truly want to ask, he does so anyways. “Has she hurt you?”

“No.” You answer but his eyes aren't on you, it's on your pulse.

“You are lying.” He says, not accusing but shocked that you are doing so. He looks away from the monitor and back to you. “Why are you lying for her if she hurt you?”

“Because she hasn't hurt me, not physically. It doesn't matter. You don't need to get her, I can feed myself.” You respond, you urge your arms to lift, your fist to unclench and they're slow to listen. It feels as if you are lifting blocks of concrete but you push through it till your hands rest on the tray, your fingers only inches away from the spoon. “Thank you for the meal, my… my Prince. But I am sure I am keeping you from other duties, you are free to leave.”

Paul doesn't budge, he watches you disbelieving. “Eat.”

“I will–”

“No. Show me that you can bring the spoon to your mouth and I shall leave.” He takes a step towards you, his hair falling into his face. “Eat.”

How stubborn your new prince is. You swallow your annoyance and inch your fingers closer to the spoon, it's a snail's pace but you are moving and that's enough. Your fingers are slow to wrap around the handle of the spoon, even slower to lift— your arm shakes furiously, your wrist nearly gives out, it takes longer than you like to get the spoon in the bowl and when you try to lift it again, your body protests. You clear your throat, and narrow your eyes on your hand and try again, it doesn't move.

Paul sucks in a breath and walks towards you once more, he pulls a chair close to your bed and plops down gracelessly. Your eyes slide to him, ready to question him but he leans forward, snatching the spoon from your hand and pulls the try closer to him with his free one. “What are you–” He doesn't let you finish the sentence before placing a spoonful of oatmeal in your mouth.

You blink rapidly and swallow, opening your mouth again whilst leaning back, away from him. “Your majesty–?” Paul leans forward again and gives you another spoonful. He does this everytime you try to speak, looking faintly pleased to shut you up and most annoyed when you try to talk with your mouth full. So, you give up and let the Prince feed you,he makes quick work of it once he realizes you are no longer trying to talk and the bowl is quickly emptied and is placed to the side as he stands and grabs the cup and gently brings it to your lips. Your nose crinkles as you stare through the clear glass of the cup at him and he only raises his brows.

“You are very persistent.” You murmur, taking a small sip of juice. The taste of berries and hibiscus is sweet enough to make your stomach turn upon swallowing. Weakly, you turn and lean away from the cup, allowing yourself to fall back on your pillows. Paul lets you do so, grabbing the tray and handing it back to the small robot who beeps again. He places the bowl and cup on the tray and dismisses the bot.

He watches it roll out the room with his lips pressed together, then turns back to you. “You’re… sick.”

You blink tiredly at him, “Obviously.”

He lets out a huff, the corners of his lips pulling up into a smile before he smothers it. Shaking his head and tucking the messy strands of his hair behind his ear, he tries again. “I mean– How long have you been sick? There was no mention of it on any medical records.”

“I’ve been sick since I was a child.” Longer, if you were being honest. You were a sick baby, a sick newborn, sick in your mother's womb. “My father thought it would be best if we kept it a secret. We were a powerful warehouse and a sick daughter is a weakness that can not be fixed. Cured.”

Paul's hands drop, folding behind his back as he tilts his head. “Interesting choice of words. Do you truly believe you can't be cured or is that something your father drilled in your head?”

Your eye twitches, just slightly and you try to pull the sheets higher up your body. Eating food has made you drowsy, you can feel your body urging you to sleep once again. When the sheet doesn't budge, Paul pulls it up your body without much thought, waiting for your answer. You take a small breath, eyes closing, “It's something that I know. My sickness is incurable, I am dying and my medicine only pushes the date further and further out. It is a waste of resources to keep me alive. Something I told my father, something I tried to tell the King.”

Paul hums, considering, then, “Nothing is incurable, Lady.”

A tired snort leaves you. “Do you know how my father was caught?” Paul doesn't answer, your eyes crack open and there's a thin smile on your lips, “He believed he had found it, a cure for me. He wanted me to live, he had already lost his wife, he could not bear to lose a daughter. So he willingly covered his eyes with wool and ignoring the pleas of me and my brother, he went out to secure it. Do you know what he found? He found your father's men.” You sigh, “And now we are here.”

Paul shakes his head. “There is a cure for you, Lady Balliol. We will find one and when we do, I ask a favor from you.” You let out a questioning hum, your eyes falling shut. Paul ignores the way his heart thunders at the sight of you. Truly, you are sickly, horribly so. “Your father left behind files… we can not open them without active DNA from his bloodline. You are his closest living relative with your brother being light years away, will you open them for us?”

You murmur tiredly and Paul shifts, calling your name again. You stir sluggishly, your words slow, “And if you don't cure me? What do I get in return?”

“Well, you'll be dead if we don't cure you.” He snorts, smothering another smile when you chuckle in agreement, “But…but I give you full permission, with the void as my witness to haunt me endlessly. There will never be a day where my thoughts stray from you. Is that good enough for you?”

You can only muster a nod, your chest rising and falling steadily as you fall into an easy sleep. Paul doesn't leave right away, he lingers at your doorway, his eyes trailing over your face. Over the slope of your nose and the hollowness in your cheeks, he pictures you healthy, cured. Plump with fattening foods and with the very existence of life, you were already pretty but that image of you makes a much prettier sight. The robot rolls back in, beeping to itself in a sweet little tune and stops right before Paul, its mismatched eyes flickering up at him.

“Do send me a message when she wakes, Cricket.”

Cricket beeps in understanding and Paul lets him in, watching for only one more moment before shaking his head. He has things to do.

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Hi! Do you have any dark academia inspired dividers?

Hope you like these!

Please like and reblog if you use or save

Dividers List

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Forest painting dividers (browns)

By Adolf Chwala, Daniel Ridgway, Ivan Shishkin.

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Hiya

I really loved your love and romantic themed stuff that I requested before.

Could you do angelcore themed gifs and dividers

Thanks

hey @ayrusss 😊 tysm 🙏🙏 i'm glad you liked it 💜💜

have a good day 😘

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starlady66 · 1 year

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Galaxy Dividers

Please like and reblog if you use or save.

Requested by @themidgardiansongstress

Dividers List

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Do you have more romantic date dialogue prompts? Thanks a lot!

Here are some Anniversary Dinner Prompts and 100 Cute Date Ideas (1) + (2).

Romantic Date Dialogue Prompts

"Thank you for agreeing to come to this book shop. I really needed that book and it's so fun to talk about books with you."

"I'm glad I gave us a chance. We work so well together."

"This is actually really romantic." "I hoped it was."

"You have planned all of this? Just for me?" "Of course."

"I'm so happy that you said yes."

"You look really beautiful today." "You do too."

"A toast to us." "And many more dates like this."

"This was really fun. I would love to see you again."

"You're incredible. I can't believe you actually said yes to dating me."

"So, what do you think about the movie?" "We have much more chemistry than these Hollywood actors."

"I was really nervous before our date, but now I'm feeling so much better."

"Wow... you actually remembered how I told you that I would love a date in a museum." "Of course I did. I started planning right away."

Hope you like them!

- Jana

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Helloooo, what's up?

can you please write some dialogue prompts about having dinner out for anniversary with your husband/wife? Thank you so much

Hi :)

They are anniversary dialogue prompts in general, but also includes some dinner.

Anniversary Dinner Dialogue

"Sometimes I can't believe that you actually chose me." "I have great taste."

"This place is beautiful." "So are you." "All these years and you still got it."

"We just have get through this week and then we will celebrate ourselves. I cannot wait."

"Please tell me you picked a restaurant where we do not run into anyone we know."

"I'm even more in love with you now." "Love does grow."

"Do you know what day tomorrow is?" "Let me think about it... kidding, how could I forget about us."

"What do you want to do for our anniversary?" "Honestly? Staying in." "That's fine, let's cook something together and just spend time together."

"This is delicious. You chose really well." "Well, I also chose you, so I'm really great at this."

"We actually made it." "Not a lot of people believed in us."

"All these years and you still smile when I come home." "Well, it will always make me happy to see you."

"I'm so happy to have this dinner with you. Just the two of us."

I hope you like them!

- Jana

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starlady66 · 1 year

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𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝟶𝟶' ⌕ 𓂈 𓂉 ˖ 𔓘₀₀◦────────────────◦ ₃․₁₅

ᵐⁱⁿ ────────────○─⇝ㅤ‹𝟹

♡⠀⠀⠀≡⠀⠀⠀➭⠀⠀⠀⌂

𔐬𔐬𔐬𔐬☁︎꥟☁︎𔐬𔐬𔐬𔐬𔐬

𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 ⠀

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡' ｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡'

ﾟ ـﮩﮩ٨꥟ ᥣ᥆ꪚᥱ᥉ ❍ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

ﾟ･｡･ﾟ･｡･

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Floral painting dividers

The first two are by anonymous, called 'Bouquet of Flowers', 1680 (found at Rijksmuseum Amsterdam).

Third is by Willem van Leen, 'Boeket van tulpen, viooltjes, blauwe druifjes en dotters' (Rijksmuseum Amsterdam).

Fifth (the lilacs) is 'Tak met paarse seringen' by Maria Geertruida Barbiers-Snabilié (Rijksmuseum Amsterdam).

Fourth and sixth are 'Oval Flowerwreath' by anonymous, 1688 - 1698 (Rijksmuseum Amsterdam).

Last two are by Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

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starlady66 · 1 year

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starlady66 · 1 year

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no one suffers more than girls who are a bit like their fathers

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Anakin Skywalker

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starlady66 · 1 year

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Aemond and the trope "Reluctantly has a crush on his favourite weirdo and hates that he's soft about it but damn they're cute" gives me life

"I hate that I'm in love with you, what no I didn't say love, shut up" vibes

'Y/N, try to act like you're enjoying this."

"Bite me, Aemond."

haha this was the perfect ask for my newest enemies to lovers oneshot.

Aemond x fem!reader | enemies to lovers | light smut at end

“In public, we’re in love. In private, we are in a civil war. Remember that, or we’re fucked.”

Aemond stifled a snort of derision at your terse whisper, turning it into a polite cough as he nodded at a group of huddled onlookers. You shot him a sidelong look, quickly looking away to smile at a pair of elderly women who were clapping for you. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Hush, we can air our grievances once we get someplace with less listening ears.” Aemond’s arm around your waist tightened, almost painfully, as he steered you through the crowded hallways. “Besides, I am madly in love with my betrothed.”

“Oh, you’re going to have to work on that.”

“Hmm.”

The stone corridors Aemond and you now walked through were empty, he led you to a set of great oaken doors that swung open on silent hinges. A darkened arched space and smell of many old books greeted you beyond them. “The library, how romantic.”

“Private is more what I was going for.” Aemond pushed the small of your back and you stumbled into the room, shooting him a withering glare over your shoulder.

“You know, I’m not pleased about this either.” You snapped, smoothing your skirts haughtily.

Aemond quickly closed the doors and scanned the room with his violet eye, making sure you two were alone. A fireplace flickered in the hearth, the only source of light in the spacious library. “You are from a house that openly declared for Rhaenyra.”

“Yet…” You had walked over to the mantlepiece by the hearth, running a finger along it and looking in distaste at the dust you gathered. “I find myself suddenly betrothed to Aemond Targaryen who, if I remember correctly, is not on her side.” You let your gaze wander to where he stood stiffly, eyeing his leather jerkin tied at his trim waist with two buckles and sporting intricate dragon fasteners. His sword was at his hip, a small sapphire gemstone inlaid upon the pommel. “Your mother, or rather her father, stole me and are now forcing us to get married so as to ensure my house’s allegiance.”

“They hardly stole you.” Aemond defended, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “You were handmaid to my sister.”

“Am I allowed to go home?” You asked, eyes widening in mock surprise.

“No.”

“Then I am a prisoner here.” You turned your back to him, looking into the flames.

“With our union, we gain a key asset to our side.” Aemond said bluntly, his footsteps muffled on the stone floor as he approached you slowly. “The support of your house is instrumental in winning the coming war.”

“Will you stoop so low?” You whirled on him, anger pulsing in your veins, jabbing a finger at his chest. “First your family declares Aegon king against Viserys’ wishes, now you take political hostages!”

Aemond caught your wrist, holding it firmly and jerking you closer. “King Viserys’ last wish was for Aegon to be named his heir.”

“You cannot believe that.” You looked aghast at him. “Surely you’re cleverer than that, Aemond.”

“It matters little what I believe.” The prince released you, shaking his silver head. “I serve my family. A member of which you are soon to become.” A rueful smile pulled at his curved lips. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmm.” Aemond rolled his eye, running a hand through his long hair. “Perhaps in time you will learn to.” He turned from you, walking crisply to the door. “Don’t stray too far, Y/N. At my behest, you are to be treated with the dignity of a guest. Yet you are not free to leave the Keep.”

“A prisoner.” You muttered again, watching Aemond leave the library, closing the door behind himself.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“Don’t you think you’re holding me a bit too tight?”

“Well, do you want this to be convincing or not?”

“I do, but a little looser than this would still be convincing.”

Aemond acquiesced. Loosening his grip on your waist as you both slowly swayed on the dance floor. The two of you were having a terrible time. You were barely managing to keep a convincing smile on your face, feeling much more like you were about to begin crying.

“Try to look less like you’re about to vomit, Y/N.”

“Maybe the soup was off.” You smiled sweetly up at him. “Why does it matter whether I appear happy or not? Surely the commonfolk don’t care…maybe they’d like it more if I were wailing and thrashing.”

“There are houses allied with your own who would not be so pleased.” Aemond murmured, bringing his mouth to your ear under the pretense of wishing to hold you closer. “If they saw you were…so unwilling they’d declare against us, and we would be forced to take drastic measures.”

Your stomach clenched. “I’d rather not know what that means.”

“Indeed.”

A ringing of metal on a crystal goblet halted the lilting music, you dropped your hands immediately from Aemond’s shoulders, but he tactfully kept hold of your waist.

“A toast!” It was one of the nobles, his face flush from many cups of wine. “To the two lovebirds! May your wedding day be festive!” Cheers rose up around the room. “And may your wedding night be productive!”

You ducked your head into Aemond’s shoulder, hiding the grimace you couldn’t keep off your face. Clapping and laughter echoed all around you followed by the scrape of goblets against the wooden tables as people toasted your happy union.

“Kiss!” Shouted one drunken reveler. “Give your love a kiss!” Cried another in agreement.

“Oh no.” You murmured into the leather of Aemond’s tunic.

As the crowd took up the chant of “kiss”, clapping their hands in encouragement, you felt Aemond’s finger slip under your chin. He pulled your face up to look at him, his lilac eye sparkling with something akin to mischievous mirth. The sound in the hall grew louder as the two of you hesitated, inches apart. You bit your lower lip, drawing Aemond’s gaze to the movement.

He looked back into your eyes. “May I kiss you, my lady?”

You couldn’t speak, settling for a curt nod. Aemond smirked, bringing his lips to yours with a smooth duck of his head.

A pulse of electricity shot to your core as Aemond’s warm mouth moved against your own. A small, pleased sound escaped your throat, despite your attempts to regain full capacity of your faculties. You had not expected your body to react like this, and it was with surprise you found yourself tangling your fingers in Aemond’s silken hair as he bent you backwards. The crowd laughed, pleased at the show you’d given them, as Aemond pulled away. You avoided his eye as it roved your features, very sure your red cheeks shone like beacons.

You spoke very little the rest of the evening, the feeling of Aemond’s lips on yours thoroughly distracting you; to the point you almost poured gravy into your cup instead of wine. Thankfully, Aemond saved you from that embarrassment, looking at you with mild concern as he poured your wine. You looked away from him quickly, hating yourself for the burning in your cheeks and erratic beating of your heart.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“The boat awaits, my lady.”

“Thank you.” You gathered your skirts, moving to collect the few bags you’d managed to pack for your escape from King’s Landing.

Your waiting maid curtsied, a small frown upon her face. You looked at her, briefly wondering the reason for her mood before a rapping knock at the door sent your adrenaline spiking.

Your maid hurried to the door, opening it a crack, before curtsying low as Aemond pushed his way into your room. He was fully dressed despite the late hour, his coat and gloves of deepest green, contrasting with his silvery hair. His violet eye snapped to focus on you with dangerous intent. “Leave us.”

The maid curtsied again, looking terrified at the ground.

“See my mother in the morning for your coin.” Aemond dismissed her, not breaking his gaze from your face.

You watched the traitorous girl scurry from the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

“My brother may be incompetent and unaware…” Aemond took measured steps toward you. “I am not.”

Tears welled behind your eyes, anger and frustration mixing in your chest. You moved to stride passed the prince, but he caught your arms, spinning you to face him. You fought against him, useless as it was, the tears falling freely down your cheeks as he held you firm, unflinching as your fists met his chest.

“Y/N.”

“Let me go, Aemond!”

“Y/N-”

“I cannot be kept here like some prize animal!”

Aemond moved with you until your back hit the wall. Your fists on his chest flattened as you pressed your palms against his coat, your eyes puffy as sobs racked your body. Aemond made a soft noise in the back of his throat, his hand cupping the nape of your neck as you leaned your forehead against his chest, beneath his chin. His other hand rubbed the small of your back soothingly.

“There is little I can say to make this easier, Y/N.” Aemond took your shoulders, encouraging you to look at him. “I am truly sorry for your distress. I do not wish for you to suffer.”

“What do you wish for, Aemond?” You sniffled, feeling his fingers lightly brush your tear-stained cheeks.

“A great many things.” Aemond’s gaze, so cold with anger a moment ago, had softened as you looked up at him with watery eyes. “War not being among them. Nor wedding a woman who despises me.”

“I don’t despise you, Aemond.” He stilled at your words looking at you with a guarded expression as you continued. “You’re a pawn in this as much as I am.”

“I don’t know how to take that.” A wry smile curved his lips as Aemond continued watching you.

“Will I ever be able to see my family again?”

“After the war is over, and the threat to Aegon’s rule is removed.” Aemond smoothed your hair, tucking a strand of it behind your ear. “It won’t be long, Y/N.”

“How do you know?”

Aemond sighed, unable to answer, his eye searching your own. Silence stretched between the two of you, heavy with unspoken words.

“Don’t try leaving again. I might not be the one to catch you next time.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“Aemond?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m observing.”

You rolled your eyes, quickly schooling your fond smile into a more neutral expression. “What do you see?”

Aemond didn’t answer, a small smirk curling his lips as he continued to observe you over his book.

“What?” You snapped your own book shut, rising to your feet, your brow arched.

Aemond methodically marked his place, shutting his volume of philosophy and setting it aside before standing to meet you. “An infuriating woman, is what I see.” His reached out to knead the fabric of your skirts with his fingers, his gaze lilac intent on your face.

“I’m flattered.”

“You are something, Y/N, that much is certain.”

“You’re a royal pain in my-” Your words were cut off in a gasp as Aemond swiftly pulled you to him, capturing your mouth with his own, drinking down the gasping moan that escaped your throat.

You felt his hot breath fill your lungs, your hands wandering the planes of his back, curling in his hair, tugging the silver locks to make him hum in pleasure like that again. You felt his knee part your thighs, his touch tracing lines of fire along the exposed skin of your throat and chest. You lost yourself in the feel and taste and smell of the prince as he deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue into your mouth. You arched into his hand, pressing into where he palmed your breast through the velvety bodice you wore.

“Aemond.” You breathed, your lips brushing his as he made to pull away from you. “Don’t you dare leave me here like this.” Your hands tugged at his trim waist, urging his body to press back against you.

“You want this?” He asked, his eye hooded as he looked down into your flushed face, his own cheeks faintly pink.

“I want this.” You sucked in a breath as he nipped at your throat. “I need-”

Your words cut off in another heady moan as you felt him mark your skin, sucking trailing kisses down to the swell of your breast straining above your corsage.

“Hmm?” He murmured against your flesh. “What do you need, my love?”

You felt his hands bunching the fabric of your skirts, the heat of his fingers finding the inside of your thighs.

“Aemond-” You gasped, his exploratory hands dipping beneath your smallclothes.

“Ah.” He chuckled low, kissing the corner of your panting mouth. “I see.” He looked at your wanton expression with a dilated eye. “In that case, let me give him to you.”

You ground yourself against his hand, your lust taking full control as you kissed Aemond roughly, pulling his hair so that his head tipped back, exposing his throat to your own bruising kisses.

“If it is within my power, I will give you all that you desire.” Aemond promised, his voice husky with want. He lifted you into his arms, you wrapped your legs around his torso as he backed you against the wall, his lips descending hard upon your own once more.

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